“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Darcy,” she said politely.
He nodded, his expression once again reserved, and they parted in the hall.
As she climbed the stairs, she found herself puzzling over his unexpected solicitude. Perhaps it was merely the reflexive courtesy of a gentleman toward a lady caught in inclementweather. Yet something in his manner had suggested a more personal concern. Could he be remembering her? Caught in another storm?
After changing into a dry dress and arranging her damp hair as neatly as circumstances allowed, Elizabeth descended to the drawing room. The storm had intensified further, lashing the windows with sheets of rain while thunder crashed overhead. The cozy room, with its cheerful fire and warm lamplight, provided a welcome contrast to the tempest outside.
Lady Eleanor and Mary were already seated by the fire, engaged in quiet conversation. William played with his wooden blocks while Georgiana sat nearby, occasionally assisting him in his architectural endeavors.
“Ah, Elizabeth,” Lady Eleanor greeted her. “I see Fitzwilliam found you before the worst of the storm hit.”
“He did,” Elizabeth confirmed, taking a seat beside Mary. “Though not before we both received a thorough dampening.”
“He insisted on going himself,” Lady Eleanor remarked with an arch of her elegant brow. “Quite adamant about it, in fact.”
Elizabeth chose not to engage with the implication, turning her attention instead to William. “Mary, has he been good for you this afternoon?”
“Remarkably tractable,” Mary replied. “Though I cannot claim credit for his improved behavior. Miss Georgiana has been most attentive to his entertainment.”
Georgiana blushed slightly at this acknowledgment. “He is a delightful child. So curious about everything.”
Elizabeth watched as her son carefully balanced one block atop another, his small face a study in concentration. In moments like these, his resemblance to Darcy was particularly striking—the same focused intensity, the same determination to achieve perfection in even the simplest task.
The door opened, admitting Darcy himself, now dry and impeccably attired. His gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on Elizabeth before settlingon William.
“I see we are all gathered,” he observed, moving to take a seat near his aunt. “The storm appears to have increased in severity.”
“Indeed,” Lady Eleanor agreed. “Mr. Graham reports it may continue well into the night.”
The conversation turned to general topics as tea was served. Elizabeth found herself without words, her usual wit dulled by fatigue. She sipped her tea and allowed the others’ voices to wash over her, content for once to observe rather than participate.
Her attention drifted to Darcy, who appeared similarly withdrawn. He sat somewhat stiffly in his chair, occasionally rubbing his temple in a gesture she had come to recognize as a sign of pain. The headaches that plagued him seemed particularly troublesome in inclement weather, according to Georgiana.
“Miss Bennet,” he said suddenly, addressing her directly. “Might I have a word?”
The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward them with varying degrees of curiosity. Elizabeth’s heart stuttered in her chest, but she managed a composed nod.
“Of course, Mr. Darcy.”
He rose and moved toward the far end of the room, where a small seating arrangement offered a measure of privacy while remaining within proper sight of the others. Elizabeth followed, intensely aware of Lady Eleanor’s speculative gaze.
Once seated, Darcy seemed to struggle with how to begin. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his leg, betraying an uncharacteristic nervousness.
“I wish to apologize,” he said finally, his voice low enough to prevent the others from overhearing. “For my behavior in the library. And subsequently, at the sheep pens and other locations.”
Indeed, his behavior since arriving had been unbecoming for a gentleman, but Elizabeth bit her tongue. The man was suffering, cast adrift, as Mary noted.
“Your apology is unexpected.”
“But necessary,” he insisted. “My comments were inappropriate.I made assumptions about your position here that were not merely incorrect but ungenerously expressed.”
Elizabeth studied him, searching for the motivation behind this sudden contrition. “You believed me a servant,” she said, unable to keep a hint of challenge from her voice. “An assumption many would make, given my circumstances.”
“Perhaps,” Darcy conceded. “But a gentleman does not express such assumptions aloud, nor does he… that is, I should not have implied…” He paused, visibly struggling with his words. “Your circumstances, whatever they may be, do not diminish your evident refinement. I was wrong to suggest otherwise.”
The admission clearly cost him considerable effort. Elizabeth felt her carefully nurtured resentment begin to crack, revealing a dangerous softness beneath.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “Your apology is accepted.”
