But their admiration was short-lived. The sound of a scuffle in the passage heralded the approach of Lydia and Kitty. In a flurry, Elizabeth and Jane tucked the shawl back into the press, Maryclosing the doors with a swift, decisive snap just as the younger girls burst in.
“I want to stand up with Jane,” Kitty said at once. “I shall look best next to her.”
“No,Ishall,“ Lydia interjected, pushing past her sister. “Everyone says I am the prettiest of us all.”
Jane, gentle and composed, spoke with firm grace. “Lizzy will stand up with me.”
Lydia pouted, then turned to Mary with a smirk. “Well then, I get to stand up with you if Sanderson ever comes to the point!”
Mary’s face colored. “That is hardly appropriate,” she muttered, discomposed.
“Do not look so prim, Mary; it is but a jest.”
Elizabeth stepped between them, her tone light but firm. “If you will leave me in peace for the next hour, I promise to walk into Meryton with you later. You may flutter your lashes at every officer you see.”
That seemed to satisfy them. With promises and a stream of chatter, Lydia and Kitty quitted the room. Mary followed more slowly, still flustered but curious enough to peer once more at the wardrobe as she passed.
As the door finally shut behind them, Elizabeth leaned against it and released a long breath.
Jane touched her arm. “You are very patient with them.”
“I do love them, Jane. Even when they are at their most exasperating.”
Jane nodded. “It is a gift to have sisters. I am grateful each day.”
Elizabeth looked toward the window, the sun glinting off frost-laced branches. “So am I, especially now.”
Her thoughts strayed once more to where nine precious shawls lay concealed, and a mingling of warmth and anticipation rose within her.
What will the morrow bring? And more pressing still—what will I feel when it comes?
Later that day, after fulfilling her promise to Lydia and Kitty with a stroll through Meryton, marked by giggles, glances, and endless talk of officers, Elizabeth was eager to escape. The streets, sodden with slush and rife with gossip, soon wore on her patience, and the call of solitude pressed upon her with familiar insistence.
Once returned to Longbourn, she quietly retreated to her chamber and readied herself for a longer walk. Donning her sturdy pelisse, she then wrapped herself in her warmest cloak and, with a breathless sort of anticipation, reached for one of her new shawls—the Merino wool, deep blue with simple yet elegant stitching. Of all the nine, it was the most sensible, suited to a walk rather than a drawing room. She concealed it beneath her cloak, unwilling to endure her mother’s inquiries or her sisters’ teasing glances. Only when she had passed beyond the hedgerow did she draw it about her shoulders. The weight of it, close and enveloping, was like the touch of an unseen hand. His hand. She clasped it closer.
The road to Oakham Mount was muddy, the melting frost sinking into the earth, but she pressed on, lifting her skirts and keeping to the firmer edges of the path. Her boots were soon damp, and her cheeks tingled with cold, but she did not mind. There was purpose in her step, a steady thrum of expectation beating beneath her layers.
As she began the ascent, her legs burned from the effort, but she welcomed the ache. It distracted her from the racing of her thoughts. She had walked this hill many times before—alone, with Jane, even with Charlotte—but never with such longing. Never with the possibility that her destination might hold more than a view.
When did I fall in love with Mr. Darcy?
The question rose within her, though she had already confessed the truth to herself. It had hovered in the background of her mind for days, perhaps weeks, yet she had resisted it—or perhaps she had not dared to give it name. But here, in the stillness of winter, with nothing but the wind and her breath for company, she allowed herself to examine it.
She had once believed him proud—no, worse than proud—cold, dismissive, arrogant. She had condemned him swiftly and thoroughly, taking pride in her judgment. How blind she had been! How easily deceived by wounded vanity and Wickham’s false charm. It was not the poetry of his letters nor the grandeur of his gifts that had begun to alter her affections. Those only confirmed what her heart had already suspected.
No, it was his kindness toward her aunt and uncle. His eagerness to welcome them to Pemberley, to receive them with warmth rather than hauteur. And his defense of his sister—not with injured pride, but with honest vulnerability. It was the way he listened when she spoke. The way he challenged her, and allowed himself to be challenged in return. It was every conversation in the past several weeks, every shared glance at the evening soirees. It was the look he had given her when they danced, as though she were the only woman in the world.
When had it begun?She could not say. She was in the midst of it before she had known she had even started. Somewhere between the Meryton Assembly and Christmastide, her heart had changed its allegiance. It no longer beat against him, but towards him. Darcy, with his proud mien and unreadable eyes. Darcy, with his reserved manner and hidden soul—the soul she longed to know more deeply.
He had changed, yes, but more truly, it was she who had changed. She had seen clearly at last, and what she saw had undone her entirely.
Her pace slowed as she neared the summit. Her heart thudded, not from the climb, but from the sheer weight of her feelings. A word, a look, even a moment’s carelessness, and she might have lost him forever. If it were not he—if she had misjudged the source of the gifts—what then? She would be made a fool, yes, but more grievously, her heart would break.
Do not presume.Do not indulge such expectation.
But it was too late. Anticipation had taken root.
She reached the crest; the wind tugged at the ends of her shawl, and she paused to catch her breath. The view stretched out before her: bare trees against a pale sky, frost glinting across the meadows, the village rooflines beyond the fields. It was beautiful in its wintry hush, and for a moment, it quieted her turmoil.
