“She is well, thank you,” Darcy said, forcing himself to engage in the social niceties when all he wished was to speak with Elizabeth alone. “She sends her regards to your family.”
“Most kind.” Mrs. Bennet nodded. “And when do you expect to leave Netherfield, Mr. Darcy? Surely Pemberley must require your attention after such a lengthy absence?”
The question, for all its apparent innocence, struck at the heart of Darcy’s urgency. “I hope to depart within the week, if my strength permits.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flickered to his at this news before she lowered her gaze to her embroidery. Had the informationdistressed her? Or was it merely confirmation of what she had expected?
“So soon?” Mrs. Bennet continued. “And after such a dreadful ordeal. Why, we have all been beside ourselves with worry, have we not, girls? Especially Lizzy, who has scarcely slept since returning from Netherfield. Dark circles under her eyes, though I tell her it does nothing for her complexion.”
“Mama,” Elizabeth interjected, a flush rising to her cheeks. “I’m certain Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley have no interest in my sleeping habits.”
“I merely comment that you have been most concerned, Lizzy. There is no shame in showing compassion for the ill.”
The arrival of lemonade provided a welcome interruption to this uncomfortable exchange. As Jane poured, Darcy observed Elizabeth surreptitiously. Was it true she had scarcely slept? Now that he looked more closely, the shadows beneath her eyes did suggest nights of restless thought. What had occupied her mind during those dark hours? Was it concern for his health, or something else entirely?
The lemonade provided momentary relief from the oppressive heat, though Darcy found his hands less steady than he would have liked as he raised the glass to his lips. A drop of perspiration trickled down his temple, and he saw Elizabeth’s eyes follow its path, concern flickering across her features.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said when the lemonade had been distributed, his voice lowering slightly, “might I speak with you privately? Perhaps in the garden, if the weather permits?”
“Of course, Mr. Darcy.” Her voice was gentle, although strained. “Though perhaps the shade of the oak would be preferable to the full sun.”
Mrs. Bennet appeared ready to object to this arrangement, but a meaningful glance from Jane silenced her. Instead, she turned her attention to Bingley. “Mr. Bingley, you made quitea stir with that procession of ice wagons. So generous and a testament to your friendship with Mr. Darcy…”
As Elizabeth fetched a parasol, Darcy steadied himself against the mantlepiece, gathering strength for the conversation. The room wavered slightly at the edges of his vision—a warning that he was pushing beyond his body’s limitations.
When Elizabeth returned, he offered his arm—his left, as the right remained immobilized against his chest—and she took it with a light touch that suggested concern for his injury.
“You are pale, Mr. Darcy,” she observed as they entered the hallway. “And perspiring more than the heat warrants. Perhaps this walk is unwise.”
“Some things cannot wait for perfect health,” he replied, the warmth of her hand on his arm a singular comfort amid his discomfort.
“The path is uneven here,” she said as they stepped outside into the blinding sunlight. Her hand tightened slightly on his arm. “Please, lean on me if you need to.”
The offer, made without pity or condescension, touched him. This was Elizabeth’s gift—to offer assistance in a way that preserved dignity rather than diminishing it.
The garden welcomed them with the drowsy stillness of high summer. Bees droned lazily among the remaining blooms, and the air hung heavy with the scent of warm earth and flowering herbs. A slight breeze stirred the leaves of the old oak tree, promising relief from the heat.
“The bench beneath the oak might be best,” Elizabeth suggested, nodding toward a weathered wooden seat half-hidden in the dappled shade. “You should not be in this sun. Your color is alarming.”
Darcy wanted to deny it, to maintain the fiction of strength, but the concern in her eyes made pretense seem foolish. “Yes, I am not yet as recovered as I had hoped.”
They made their way to the bench, and Darcy sank onto it with relief. Elizabeth seemed more shy than before, at a loss for words.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and Elizabeth automatically blotted it away with her handkerchief. The gesture was so reminiscent of her care during his fever that Darcy felt his heart constrict.
“I received your note,” she said, withdrawing her hand as if suddenly aware of the intimacy of her action. “It was most kind of you to express such gratitude.”
The formality in her tone troubled him. This was not the witty Elizabeth who had read to him through fevered nights, who had jested with him about stern gentlemen, and blushed at the flowers he’d presented her.
“It was not kindness that prompted my letter,” he replied softly. “But honesty.”
“Nevertheless, I appreciated your thoughtfulness.”
“I had hoped you might respond,” Darcy ventured, studying her understated beauty. The curve of her cheek, the determined set of her chin, the sweep of dark lashes against her skin—all had become precious to him during their time together, and more precious still in their separation.
“I…” She hesitated, her fingers pleating the fabric of her skirt. “I was not certain a response was expected.”
“Not expected, perhaps, but hoped for.” Darcy shifted slightly, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder to better see her face. “You promised to return when I was better.”
