If he had the privilege to speak plainly, then so did I. “That you have handsome fingers.” That sounded a little silly, but it was honest.
He made an exasperated sound. “But is it the hand of an equal?”
I had gathered my courage for… I was not sure what, but not forthat. In fact, his tone was very over-satisfied. I looked up at his dark-lashed eyes and found he was scowling, and my courage, which had leaped toward mortification, landed somewhere hotter.
“It is the hand of a musician,” I said. “I certainly do not care that it is black, if that is your point. Do you wish to pretend that England treats everyone equally regardless of wealth? That is not my experience. I also see the hand of a man. Shall we pretend that a woman, forbidden from conducting business or holding property, isyourequal? That would be a tremendous relief. That is, until my jailor brother-in-law starves me so I must marry some gentleman and surrender my wealth, my home, and my body.”
He did not take back his hand, but his posture withdrew. “I am sorry my profession offends you. Aside from that, you have misunderstood my point.”
“I certainly understand that I hurt Harriet, and I regret it with all my heart. But I have heard enoughpointsfor one day. Are you not supposed to be rushing to your death? Perhaps you should write your points down so I may study.”
There was a stir of activity in the hall. Mr. Darcy and Lizzy had arrived. Lizzy was smiling, flushed and dark-eyed. Mr. Darcy, though, was more severe than I had ever seen him, taut and tall at her side, staring over his guests as if the room were a wasteland.
His eyes met mine, and in an instant, he left Lizzy to stride toward us. He fairly burst onto the terrace and bowed deeply. “Miss Woodhouse.”
“Mr. Darcy,” I replied hesitantly. His mood was peculiar and intense.
Mr. Knightley murmured a greeting. Mr. Darcy gave him a fleeting glance, then returned his attention to me. “I wish greatly to speak with you.”
Suddenly, I did not wish my conversation with Mr. Knightley to end. “We had not yet—”
“I have said too much already,” Mr. Knightley interposed roughly. He bowed and pulled the terrace doors closed as he left, leaving me with Mr. Darcy.
The instant the doors shut, Mr. Darcy said, “My wyfe is dying. You must heal her.”
He spoke with profound clarity, but it took me seconds to cast off my last conversation and understand. Even then, his meaning was impossible. “She is walking in the hall behind you!”
“She has a most rapid and deadly form of consumption. You are her sole hope. And mine.” His eyes were brimming, his brow furrowed, his hands clenched. That, and his absolute integrity, drove the truth of his words, and my heart broke. Lizzy was so vibrant with life.
“That is horrible. I cannot say how sorry I am.” His eyes beseeched me, and I stammered, “You cannot expect me tohelp? You know I cannot heal anyone. All this time, I have tried with Nessy, and she…” I could not finish that sentence.
He grabbed my hands in his, so violently that I shied back but was prevented by his grip. “You must embrace your destiny. You are a great wyfe. If you bind, you can heal her!”
Through his grasp, the power of Yuánchi’s binding climbed my arms. The touch from yesterday’s dinner had barely faded, and the added potency was distressing.
But this was madness. “You said even your mother could not cure consumption.”
“You will exceed her!” he cried. I had never seen him so impassioned. His face was lit. The rushing scarlet binding made my heart stutter. In the hall, a head turned to peer through the glass.
“I cannot bind,” I gasped. The admission was like a snare tightening around me, squeezing the air from my lungs. I had thought I was done with secrets.
“You will bind if there is passion and love. Why do you wait when you can save Elizabeth, and Nessy too?” He pulled me closer, fervid. “A life without love is a husk. Throw aside the foolish procrastination of courtship. Are you blind to the worthiness of your admirer?”
Confused feelings rushed in from my conversation with Mr. Knightley, but sense, cold and cruel, triumphed. “I would fail to bind. I shall never marry.” I tugged futilely at my trapped hands. “You have no right to speak of this. You are hurting me.”
His intensity jammed to an appalled stop. He flung my hands away. “Forgive me. To advise you on this personal matter was reprehensible.” He gave a rigid half bow. “I must return to my wyfe.” He swung the door wide and strode into the hall’s crowd.
I stood impaled by my own words. It was one thing to accept that marriage was closed to me, but it was unbearable that my loneliness harmed others.
I fumbled my gloves from my reticule. They were Chantilly lace sewn so each hand mirrored the other’s pattern of openwork. I drew them on and spread my fingers flat on the terrace railing, tugging and tightening until the shapes matched perfectly.
The north gardens of Pemberley were spread below me. The ivory alcove was farthest, the old yew at its northern point a tousled torrent of dark green. Beneath that, hidden, was the twin to the statue at the physic garden. Beyond that, a path led north.To the north…
I turned to the hall and stopped short, almost colliding with Mr. Knightley at the terrace door. He had waited.
He backed a step, his hand half-extended in entreaty.
I said, “The north path—” but bit away the rest and dashed around him, hurrying toward the sweeping stairs.
