The look he gave her branded itself upon her mind and stayed with her the entire journey back to Portman Square and farther—to her bed and, ultimately, her dreams.
Wednesday 8 July 1812, Hertfordshire
It seemed every man and his dog had decided to call at Longbourn and had subsequently been trapped there on account of the imminent thunderstorm threatening to drench anybody who ventured to leave. Mr Bennet would not have been the least bit troubled if they all got wet, but his wife was adamant they should stay, browbeating them all with reminders of Jane’s fever the previous autumn. Still, not one to miss an opportunity for sport, he observed the simmering discontent in his parlour with some amusement.
Mr Collins stood as far away from Elizabeth and Darcy as the walls would allow, regaling anyone who would listen with the pitiful tale of having been chased all the way here from Kent by his patroness’ wrath. Miss Darcy sat with her hands in her lap and her shoulders folded in, as though trying to make herself small enough to be invisible. Lydia and Mr Hurst wore divertingly similar expressions of ennui. Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst looked as they always did—pained. Mrs Bennet seemed to be attempting to manoeuvre Kitty into Colonel Fitzwilliam’s field of view—or possibly his lap—it was difficult to discern from where he was sitting. Jane was glancing suspiciously at Bingley, Bingley was stealing furtive glances at Elizabeth,and Elizabeth was directing frequent apologetic grimaces at Darcy. Darcy stood glowering from the window, possibly attempting to scare away the encroaching clouds that they might all be allowed to escape their hellish captivity. Mary very kindly set the entire scene to music as she banged out a discordant lament from the adjoining room.
“Are all your parties this successful?” Mrs Sinclair enquired.
“Sadly, no. I might be tempted to entertain more often if they were,” Mr Bennet replied.
“Be sure to give me warning next time. I shall endeavour to have a previous engagement.”
Bingley ran a hand around the back of his neck, cursing the insufferable midsummer heat. He would be perfectly glad of a ride in the rain if only he were allowed. Indeed, he fancied he was not alone, for there was nary a person in the room who did not look overheated and irritable—except Elizabeth. She sat calm, composed and lovely in the midst of the hurly-burly: the very eye of the storm. Mrs Bennet’s flapping and fretting was not relieving the general malaise in the slightest, and Jane’s strenuous efforts to mitigate her mother’s improprieties were having little to no effect.
At last, a sudden and stupendous clap of thunder, which rattled the windows and made Mrs Bennet wail, heralded the arrival of the storm.
“Oh! My book!” Elizabeth cried. She rose hastily from the sofa, declaring her intention to retrieve it from the garden before the heavens opened.
“Sit down, Lizzy,” her mother said impatiently. “We have plenty of other books if you wish to read. There is no need for you to be running about in the rain. Send Sarah to fetch it if you must.”
Elizabeth only laughed. “Mama, it would take me longer to explain where I left it than it would to fetch it myself. I will be but a moment.” With a quick smile to Darcy that sent shards of envy slicing through Bingley’s gut, she left the room.
The parlour returned to its previous state of tedium. Jane drifted to sit with Caroline and Louisa, Darcy glared at Fitzwilliam as he flirted with Miss Catherine, and Hurst looked to have fallen asleep. With a loud sigh, Bingley crossed his legs at the ankle and stared at hisfeet, listening as the patter of raindrops began pinging off the windows. The pall was fractured when Darcy, quite without warning, reared up to the window and braced the frame with both hands, his nose almost pressed to the pane. In a blink, he had slammed his palm violently against the jamb, pivoted on his heel and flown wordlessly from the room, leaving it in brittle, stunned silence.
Bingley leapt to the window, as did Fitzwilliam. The scene unfolding in the garden was all too familiar: Elizabeth, being manhandled, yet too far away for him to save.
“Come!” Fitzwilliam ordered, charging from the room.
Nauseated by the remembrance of Elizabeth lying broken on the ground, Bingley turned and ran after him.
The air outside was scarcely cooler than within; nonetheless, Elizabeth was relieved to have escaped the crowded parlour. She tipped her head back and breathed deeply of air redolent with the promise of rain before crossing the lawn to the hermitage. She pitied poor Darcy his continued captivity. After their blissful week in London, the confines of Hertfordshire society were testing his patience, and today’s unfortunate entrapment with half the neighbourhood was evidently vexing him greatly. It was for his sake as much as the imminent rain that she did not dally longer.
She had just recovered her book from beneath the stone bench when a familiar voice wished her good day, bringing her spinning around in surprise. “Mr Greyson!”
“Forgive me for startling you,” he said, bowing. “I am just arrived and saw you enter here from the stables. I could not pass up the opportunity of speaking to you privately.” He took several steps towards her. “I have missed you.”
Elizabeth started. He had left on business above a month ago, and so much had transpired in the meantime that she had quite forgotten him—and his unwelcome attentions. Another rumble of thunder rolled over the garden, smothering her sigh and providing her with an excellent reason to hear none of what he wished to say. She set out for the stone archway, taking a wide path around him.
“I fear this rain is almost upon us. Let us return indoors and speak there.”
“No, wait! I would speak to you alone about a matter of some delicacy.”
Her stomach sank. He meant to propose! “Mr Greyson, please, there is nothing to be said between us that requires privacy.”
His brow contracted, and his air became more cautious. “You are angry with me for being gone so long.”
“No, not at all?—”
“Forgive me. It took longer than anticipated to set my affairs in order. I ought to have written, but I dared not risk your reputation.”
A few spots of rain hit her face. “I must insist we go in.” She turned and walked determinedly away.
“Why will you not hear me?”
“I would get out of the rain!” she called over her shoulder.
“Then I shall speak hastily!” he insisted. “I love you!”
