Elizabeth, her brow arched and a knowing smile upon her lips, leaned closer. “Have you something to tell me?” she asked. “Come, you must not allow me to go to Kent without knowing all!”
They laughed together, and Mary’s eyes sparkled as she obliged her sister’s curiosity. “Mr. Finch—Marcus—has asked to approach our uncle. He is not a gentleman, but I should live quite comfortably as his wife. He owns a house in town, very near our aunt and uncle’s residence, and it is large enough to accommodate a family. Oh, Lizzy, he does not mind that I lack beauty—or that my dowry is small. He says I am beautiful to him, and that true worth lies in a woman’s mind and heart. He even calls my eyes ‘striking,’ though Mama always said they were too sharp. We share many of the same interests, too. I am very happy!”
“That is all I wished to hear. Heaven knows, I do not care if he is a tradesman. It is a man’s character that truly matters. ‘Look on the heart,’ our father always says. Mr. Finch is the best of men. You and Jane will both be deliriously content.”
Mary sobered. “What of you?” she asked. “Have you…that is, do you feel any better?”
Elizabeth fell silent. “I am unsure,” she admitted. “I cannot forget him easily, though I wish I could. And yet…” Her attention was suddenly arrested by a figure ahead; something—someone—had drawn her gaze. Mr. Darcy strolled along the path walking perpendicular to their course, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed. His hat was drawn low and his collar turned up, no doubt to obscure his features. She stopped short, her words fading. Mary followed her gaze, her expression hardening as she recognized the gentleman.
“Let us go at once,” she said, tugging on her sister’s arm. Elizabeth did not resist, and they turned and hastened down the path, away from Mr. Darcy. A twig cracked beneath her foot with sharp snap.
“Miss Elizabeth!” He called out, but she did not pause, nor did she turn. As though they had not heard, she and Mary left the park and boarded their uncle’s awaiting carriage. In a trice, they were gone. Elizabeth’s heart beat wildly and tears sprang to her eyes.Oh, how I have missed him!His image lingered as she closed her eyes, willing back the tears.
“Are you well?” Mary asked. “I suppose seeing him was bound to happen eventually—”
“I am well,” she insisted. “Perhaps I ought to have greeted him…” She shook her head. “I was a coward, Mary. I ran. What if he had meant to explain why he left?”
“He has had months to offer an explanation.” Mary folded her arms. “I suppose, now that he knows we are in town, he will rush to seek you out.”
Sighing, Elizabeth leaned back against the squabs. “I shall leave for Kent on the morrow,” she murmured. “Our meeting will be delayed, though I dare say he will not mind.” They lapsed into silence, and Mary left her sister to her thoughts for the remainder of the journey to Gracechurch Street. Before they went inside, Mary took Elizabeth’s hand.
“Will you hear him if he tries to explain?” Elizabeth struggled to keep her countenance composed, revealing neither disapproval nor encouragement.
“I hardly know,” Elizabeth replied. “I suppose I shall decide if the moment comes.”
Mary nodded, and together they entered the house. Elizabeth dismissed the incident as best she could, determined to enjoy the evening before her departure for Kent.
Chapter Nineteen
March 1812
London
Darcy
Scarcelyamomenttoolate!Darcy groaned, frustration nearly choking him as he made his way back to Darcy House. Elizabeth had been walking with another—her sister, Miss Mary, he believed. Their hurried pace suggested they had seen him and deliberately avoided any greeting. He could hardly blame them. He had wounded Elizabeth in the worst possible way.I shall set it to rights on the morrow—if she will allow me to speak—to grovel…Yet he could not deny the grim truth: his own folly might have cost him the one woman who would have completed him.
He passed the night in restless torment. Dreams—nightmares, rather—of Elizabeth refusing him haunted his sleep. He wokeseveral times, and at last, near dawn, he rose. Remaining abed would serve no purpose. One glance into the looking glass confirmed the toll the night—and the past months had taken. He looked rather dreadful. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his entire bearing reflected fatigue.Oh well,he thought, tracing the edge of the port-colored stain that still appeared on his countenance.It is not as though my appearance could be made worse.He grimaced, knowing his mother would have scolded him for such self-deprecation.
Once dressed for the day, he went to his study, and gave his attention to his correspondence. Several business matters required his decision before departing for Rosings at the end of the month. Richard’s leave would not begin until the twenty-third of March, and they intended to leave that morning.
If I can make amends with Elizabeth,Darcy vowed, he will go without me.I will not leave her again, not if she will forgive me.Aunt Catherine would be displeased, but he would not be moved. Besides, he had no desire to endure his aunt’s pronouncements that he and Anne must marry. Neither he nor his cousin had ever wished for such a union, and now that he knew love, Darcy could not settle for anything less.
The morning crept by. At last, Darcy ordered the carriage readied. Dressed for the weather, he instructed the coachman, and with the Gardiners’ direction tucked securely in his pocket, he boarded the vehicle.
The drive proved interminable, and he tapped his foot in agitation as delays mounted. It felt as though Providence itself taunted him as they were forced away from the direct route due to overturned wagons blocking various streets.I deserve this,he admitted.It is fitting punishment for my rashness and pride last autumn.Resigned, he folded his arms and waited for the journey’s end.
At long last, the carriage pulled to a stop before a handsome house on a well-kept row. Warehouses could be seen in one direction, while in the other, rows of tidy houses stretched onward. The Gardiners’ residence stood out with its red-painted door and a large pot of flowers gracing the step. Early spring blooms offered a cheerful welcome. Clearing his throat nervously, he stepped forward and knocked.
The door opened to reveal a butler with a stern expression, who gave him a cursory—and unmistakably disapproving—glance.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, to see Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” He extended his card and silently prayed the door would not be closed in his face.
“Wait here.” The doordidshut, but not with finality, and he clung to the hope that it would reopen to admit him. After what felt like the longest five minutes of his life, the butler reappeared.
“The ladies will see you.” He stepped aside, accepting Darcy’s greatcoat and hat before leading him through a short hall into the drawing room. It was bright, tastefully appointed, and furnished in a subdued, fashionable style. Darcy’s eyes quickly found its occupants: Miss Mary Bennet, seated primly, and a woman he did not know.
