And then, as though conjured by her very longing, he was there.
At first, she thought it a trick of the light, an outline among the trees. But no; there he stood, not twenty paces ahead, set against the slate sky. Darcy.
Elizabeth halted, her breath suspended. He wore a great coat and leather gloves, hat in hand, the wind tousling his dark curls. His tall frame held rigid with surprise as he looked at her. But to Elizabeth, it was longing itself, laid bare in the stillness.
Chapter Twenty
January 2, 1812
Oakham Mount
Darcy
Sheworeoneofthe shawls.
He knew it at once: the fine Merino wool, light yet warm, its simple weave a contrast to the more elaborate patterns he had ordered from London. Its pattern he recalled from a shopping excursion with Georgiana, and he had recalled it when he began his task. It clung about her shoulders and shifted with the breeze like a second skin. She looked both elegant and steadfast, a figure of grace and resolute strength.
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind their only companion.
Then he spoke and bowed, his voice low and roughened by the cold. “Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth dipped into a graceful curtsy. “Mr. Darcy.”
Their greeting was formal, almost absurd in its familiarity, and yet it comforted him.
“I had not expected—” He faltered, then smiled, truly smiled, not the reserved curl of formality but something unguarded. “I longed for it, but I did not expect to see you here.”
“And I…wished to see you as well.”
The wind continued to whirl around them, tugging at the edge of her shawl. His gaze fell to it.
“You are wearing a lovely shawl.” His fingers brushed the wool at her shoulder.
“Yes. I chose it for practicality…and comfort. But I suppose beauty and sentiment factored in.”
“You look very well in it. It suits you.”
“I thank you, sir. It was a gift.”
A pause.
There was a promise in her look that emboldened him to step nearer. His heart beat so fiercely he fancied it echoed in his ears.
“I worried I had left you discomposed or offended; the thought returned to me with unease all the evening, and even in sleep I was haunted with visions of your reproof.”
Elizabeth met his gaze, steady and clear. “Only a trifle. But I did not object; you take too much upon yourself in supposing me so easily displeased.”
The words warmed him more than the sun could manage as his breath misted in the air between them.
Some stubborn yearning had urged him to Oakham Mount that afternoon. When he espied her figure ascending the hill, shawl drawn close and bonnet tied snug against the wind, a rush of relief and awe filled his chest. He had pictured their meeting, but this—this unlooked-for moment—surpassed any expectation he had dared to indulge.
There was something in her eyes—encouragement, even yearning—that pulled him closer, though he did not move.
“I wonder if I might tell you more,” he said. “About my sister.”
Her head lifted. “Of course.”
“She reminds me very much of your sister Jane.”
