Gads, how was he ever to be a brother to her? He gripped her warm hands tighter still to prevent himself dipping his head to kiss her, but she was gone to her sister before he could do more than thank her. Thus, with very startling rapidity, the affair that had given him so much suspense and vexation was finally settled, and in the most perverse manner possible. With one last rueful glance, he left the room and Elizabeth behind.
Wednesday 10 June 1812, Hertfordshire
Elizabeth crouched to lay her flowers on the grave as she did on this day every year. Mrs Lincoln had been the wife of one of Longbourn’s tenants, and she was survived by her husband and two children. Four years after her passing, Elizabeth still recalled teaching her little boy to read, his grief as he struggled to follow her instructions weighing particularly heavy on her this year, for what right had she, compared to such loss, to mourn that which she had willingly thrown away?
Endlessly, she tortured herself with thoughts of Mr Darcy—his subtle smile, burning gaze, absorbing conversation and unassuming generosity. His impassioned declaration of love. Regardless of how she told herself a person ought not to form a design on a memory, her heart would not be dissuaded. She could think of him in no other terms than of being in love, for no other sentiment came close to expressing the depth of her present feelings towards him. Observing Jane’s present happiness taught her how utterly foolish she had been to refuse him.
“Do you visit her grave often?” Bingley enquired behind her.
Elizabeth almost toppled over in surprise and stood hastily to prevent it, making her head reel as it had not done in days.
“Forgive me, I meant not to startle you.”
“You are forgiven. I thought you would be longer with the curate.”
“He is not yet here, but we found Mrs Goulding in the church. Jane is speaking to her about flowers for the wedding. Speaking of flowers…” He crouched to gather up those Elizabeth had just laid, which she only then noticed had been strewn untidily over the grave when he startled her.
She was glad of his distraction. It meant he did not witness the blush that any and all mention of his and Jane’s wedding brought to her cheeks. Arrangements for the occasion were now a source of constant deliberation at Longbourn—and constant anxiety for her as she fretted over Mr Darcy’s attendance. She dreaded feeling his enmity should he come but dared not ask after him lest she learn he meant not to, for the prospect of never seeing him again grew ever more difficult to bear—which was, perhaps, the reason that the unmistakable sound of his voice affected her so.
“Elizabeth.”
She whipped her head up—but too quickly. Her temple throbbed, and her vision swam. Nevertheless, she saw him, standing motionless beyond the wall, his eyes fixed upon her. She gasped at the familiar intensity of his stare. He was come! Pressing a hand to her thundering heart, she took a step towards him but no more, for faintness encroached, and her knees buckled.
“Lizzy!” cried Bingley, lurching to his feet to arrest her fall.
Once the wave of dizziness receded, Elizabeth thanked him for his assistance and twisted from his grip to look for Mr Darcy. She almost cried out to discover he was no longer there.
“What is going on?” Jane enquired, approaching them along the path from the church.
“Your sister is unwell,” Bingley informed her. “She almost fainted.”
“I am not unwell,” Elizabeth assured them. “I only felt a little faint. It has passed now.”
“I see. How fortunate Charles was here to catch you,” Jane replied coolly. Taking Bingley’s arm, she said to him, “The curate will see us now.”
“But your sister?—”
“Go, go, I am perfectly well,” Elizabeth insisted, though she began to wonder whether she might actually be hallucinating, for Mr Darcy was nowhere to be seen. Resolved on searching for him beyond the churchyard, she added, “Indeed, I believe I shall continue on to Oakham Mount and join you back at Longbourn.”
Jane took her at her word and turned back towards the church, pulling Bingley with her. No sooner had they disappeared inside than Elizabeth whirled about in the direction of the lane—and gasped in surprise. Mr Darcy, more striking, more imposing, more real than anymemory she had conjured in his absence, stood directly before her. The world stilled.
“You awoke,” he said gruffly, staring at her as though she were an apparition.
“I, oh, I—pardon?”
“You awoke. You are alive.” His accent had none of its usual sedateness; his voice was hoarse and urgent.
“I do not—” She shook her head in confusion.
“Bingley sent word that you never awoke.” Darcy’s eyes darted across her face and settled on her injury. “After that happened. I thought you dead.”
“Heavens, no! I suffered from a concussion for a few days, but I am recovered now. But for the odd spell of light-headedness,” she added, indicating the spot behind her where she had swooned moments before.
“Then, Bingley?—”
“Caught me.”
Elizabeth fancied she saw a greater contrariety of emotion in his look at that moment than in the whole of their previous acquaintance. His manner bemused her. He was as discomposed as she had ever seen him, with an urgency about him of which she could make no sense, but her heart yearned to understand. “Pardon me—if you thought me dead, why are you come?”
