That made her blink. Elizabeth turned her face slightly away, looking toward the hedge where a late bee bumbled among the ragged marigolds.
Farther behind them, Jane and Bingley were still on the bench, heads tilted toward one another in obvious comfort, Bingley gesturing with enthusiasm while Jane’s hand rested lightly over her skirts in her patient, serene way.
Elizabeth smiled at the sight.
“They are very easy together,” she murmured.
“They suit,” Darcy agreed.
She nodded. “Jane is very dear. She deserves to be understood.”
Darcy’s eyes remained on Elizabeth. “I hope Bingley will do so. He means well in all things.”
“I believe he will,” she said with quiet confidence. “He makes her happy simply by trying.”
Darcy’s expression shifted—subtle, thoughtful, even a little unguarded. He glanced away at the hedge, cleared his throat.
“And you?”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Me, Mr. Darcy?”
His gaze returned, unflinching now. “Would you want someone to try to make you happy?”
She paused. The wind lifted a lock of her hair from her bonnet ribbons. She studied his face, saw that he was not mocking.
Elizabeth let out a careful breath. “Yes. I think everyone hopes for that. But I would never demand it. It would have to be freely given.”
He inclined his head gravely. “It is the only way it means anything.”
Their eyes met for a long moment. Elizabeth felt her pulse beat at her throat. She could not look away.
Finally, she let a smile break the tension. “Come now, sir, we shall make ourselves melancholy with too much seriousness. Tell me—do you also walk so solemnly at Pemberley?”
A tiny huff of amusement escaped him. “I dare say the hills require more effort than conversation.”
She gave a delighted laugh at that, a sound so light it seemed to lift the chill from the air.
Darcy’s answering smile was small but entirely genuine.
They continued along the path, steps falling into an unspoken rhythm, the world around them hushed except for the gentle rasp of gravel and the whisper of late autumn leaves.
And in that quiet, Elizabeth found—for the first time in many days—she did not mind the silence at all.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bingley turned toward them with his usual easy warmth. “Darcy! Miss Elizabeth! Do come along.” As they came closer, he added with cheerful tact, “I think we ought to return before our absence seems inadequate or impolite.”
Mr. Darcy stepped forward just enough to satisfy Bingley’s summons, but when he spoke it was only to Elizabeth, his voice low and careful.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “I had thought to offer my leave-taking today in the drawing room. But I find I prefer to do so here.”
She looked up, startled by the seriousness in his tone.
“Your leave-taking, sir?”
He nodded once, gravely. “I depart for Pemberley in the morning. Bingley and his sister will travel on to London. But I hope...” He paused, choosing his words with the utmost care. “I hope you will not consider this visit my last.”
Elizabeth’s heart did a small, unexpected skip. She found her fingers tightening on his arm before she could stop herself.
Recovering, she replied lightly, “If you mean to flatter me with further visits, sir, I shall do my best to remain at home to receive them.”
