Place cards were set that evening, and Elizabeth found herself seated at the far end of the table, opposite Mr. Darcy and Miss de Bourgh. Her companions were Maria and Colonel Fitzwilliam—Maria said little and the colonel kept her engaged with his cheerful banter through the first course. For a time, Elizabeth allowed herself to forget Mr. Darcy, so lively was the colonel’s conversation.
“When will you marry Anne, Darcy?” Lady Catherine’s words rang down the table. Without waiting for a reply, she turned to Sir William, seated on her left. “It is a perfect match, you know. They both have fortunes. Besides that, neither shall do better, given the…unfortunate appearance they possess.” The lady slurred her words slightly, and Elizabeth wondered how many glasses of wine she had consumed.
Sir William spluttered, his face turning scarlet. Neither Mr. Darcy nor Miss de Bourgh acknowledged the insult. He sat rigidly, spooning soup into his mouth with a neutral expression, while his cousin hunched her shoulders and lowered her head.
“I say, Aunt, must we discuss personal matters at table?” Colonel Fitzwilliam inquired sharply. Though it was hardly polite, Elizabeth was grateful for the interruption. Her heart ached for the individuals so cruelly slighted. “I dare say I can offer more pleasant entertainment for your guests. Sir William, I must tell you about my brother’s first experience at Almack’s.”
For the remainder of the meal, the good colonel regaled the party with wildly exaggerated tales, including amusing anecdotes from town and his time on the Continent. By the time the ladies withdrew from the table, the company was muchmore at ease. As they moved to the drawing room, Elizabeth drew alongside Miss de Bourgh, offering silent reassurance with a gentle touch to her arm.
Never had Elizabeth imagined she would leave Rosings with a softer heart towards Mr. Darcy. He still owed her an explanation, but at last she felt prepared to hear him. At the close of the evening, he and the colonel escorted the party to the door. She leaned close as he helped her with her wrap. “Do you know the bluebell grove?” she whispered.
“Yes.” His reply was just as quiet.
“Meet me there in the morning—eight o’clock.” There was no time to say anything more. The parsonage guests left the manor house and boarded one of her ladyship’s carriages for the short journey home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
March 9, 1812
Kent
Darcy
Hewasmorenervousthan he could ever recall. There remained every possibility that Elizabeth would listen—and then walk away. The thought made his heart ache, and he once more cursed the pride and wounded sensibility that had driven him from Netherfield. With considerable impatience, he forced himself to hold still while his valet shaved him and assisted him with his attire. At last, he quitted his chambers and hastened from the house.
He knew the path to the bluebell wood. Indeed, it had been a favorite place to play when he was young. Though it was only March, the first blossoms would be emerging; April brought its true splendor.
Darcy walked at speed. The familiar route took him through Rosings’ gardens and into the woods that bordered the estate. He had trodden this trail often as a boy, roaming the grounds whenever he and his parents visited Lady Catherine and Cousin Anne. This day, he scarcely registered the beauty about him, nor the song of birds dancing on the air, as he strode briskly down the dirt path.
When the trees opened into a clearing, he froze in place—his breath caught at the loveliest sight he had ever beheld. Elizabeth strolled leisurely among the early blooms, a small posy of white and purple crocuses gently clutched in her hand. Her blush-pink gown flattered her light and pleasing figure, and she wore neither bonnet nor spencer. He espied both lying upon a nearby log. Though the air was warm for March, he wondered if she might be cold.
Stepping forward, a twig cracked beneath his boot. Elizabeth turned sharply, her body tense and gaze wary.
“Miss Elizabeth.” He bowed, hoping he did not appear as rigid as he felt. “Good day to you.” Straightening, he smiled, hoping the depth of his sentiment was plain to see his eyes. Stepping nearer, he asked, “May I walk with you?”
She nodded, the posy of flowers still clasped in her hand. Darcy offered his arm, and she took it. They walked in silence for some time, until at last he cleared his throat.
“I owe you a most profound apology,” he began. “I-I overheard your conversation with Miss Lucas at the ball. Richard—my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam—eventually persuaded me that I misunderstood, that I had acted on false assumptions. He pointed to the possible errors in my reasoning and understanding of what I had heard. Even if your words had concernedme, I ought to have met the matter with honor and ended our acquaintance respectfully—not vanished without explanation.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “My honor was engaged—of that there can be no doubt. Yet at the first trial of affection, I failed you. Rather than trust in the lady I had come to know, I allowed shadows of the past to haunt me. Doubt prevailed, fed by long-held humiliations I had never fully cast off—and I fled. It was the gravest mistake of my life, and I fear I have forfeited my happiness—perhaps forever.” He halted and turned to face her. “You are superior to me in every way—in spirit, in wit, in heart. Pray tell me I have not lost you. I would spend a lifetime atoning for the wrong I have done you.”
Elizabeth’s gaze searched his face, yet she said nothing. With each passing moment, his unease deepened. Finally, she spoke.
“That was a very pretty speech, sir. I confess, I do not yet feel entirely confident in your words. Will there always be some question—on your part or mine? One cannot simply withdraw when life proves difficult.” She slipped her arm free, turning away from him. “Neither of us is blameless in this. But I would have welcomed the chance to explain myself—whatever I had done—before you vanished without so much as a word.”
She whirled to face him then, her inflection rising, anger flashing in her eyes. “You left me! Without a word! My hopes and dreams…shattered! I questioned everything: what I had done to deserve such treatment, whether I had misunderstood you, whether I had misjudged our understanding. I wept, sir, and I fumed—yet for all my anguish and indignation, I could not bring myself to hate you.”
Her words struck deep, and his remorse grew sharper with every syllable.What pain he had caused her!
“You do not speak too harshly—I have earned your censure. Every word you speak is justified, and I cannot defend my behavior, nor would I try. You have every right to be angry with me.”
He rubbed the marred side of his face, as if hoping to erase it. “Any account I offer must sound like an excuse. But the truth is, I have long been subjected to cruel remarks and empty flatteries—ladies feigning admiration while privately recoiling from my…affliction.”
“Do not call it that!” Elizabeth snapped, whirling to face him. “I never saw it as anything more than a mother’s mark. Yes, I am aware of what people say about those marked in such a way. Mr. Darcy, I believe I once mentioned that my father taught me to look on the heart, and that is what I have always endeavored to do—though I failed, on the very occasion of which we speak. I-I made certain to apologize to Charlotte for my words regarding Mr. Collins—”
“Mr. Collins?” Darcy’s brow furrowed, then his eyes widened. “Him. Itwashim you spoke of. Oh.”
It all fell into place. He replayed the conversation, now engraved upon his memory. With a long sigh, he sank down on a nearby log. Elizabeth’s bonnet and spencer sat beside him.
