Darcy drew a chair beside her. “Mrs Fiennes, I hope you are well?”
“I am, sir. I might ask the same of you. Riding from Meryton through such rain—have you a constitution of iron, Mr Darcy? Must we fear foryour health?” Her words held playful concern, and though she checked her laughter, the curve of a smile would not be suppressed.
He straightened with exaggerated gravity. “I am as hale and hearty as any man in England, madam. Never has a trifling cold discomposed me for more than a day, and I should not suffer one now, least when I may enjoy such delightful company. To be confined above stairs when I might sit here, basking in your smiles, would be an affront indeed.”
Her grin faltered for a moment before returning, wider than before. “I am pleased to hear it, sir. I cannot abide a sickly gentleman.”
Their repartee ended with the arrival of Bingley and Hurst. A tea service followed closely behind, and Miss Bingley hastened to serve her guests and relations. Darcy accepted his cup with a politethank youand turned once more towards Elizabeth.
She looked lovely. He seldom noticed a lady’s appearance, at least not in the way most ladies imagined gentlemen did. Ordinarily, he observed little beyond the hue of a gown. Yet now he found himself observing everything.
Elizabeth’s hair was dressed to accentuate the shape of her cheekbones. Her gown, of deep plum silk, was modest but elegant, the rich hue lending warmth to her complexion. The mauve cashmere shawl across her shoulders was patterned with green leaves and violets. As she lifted her cup, the fingers of her other hand toyed with the fringe, the single betrayal of the restlessness he suspected she concealed.
With concern, he leaned forwards and asked quietly, “Mrs Fiennes, will your daughter be content without you?”
She started slightly. “Oh—yes, she will do very well,” she replied. “Miss Lane is a gem, and Elinor loves her dearly. I suspect I shall not be missed until it is time for bed. When I return to Longbourn, I must devote the day to her.”
“She is an engaging young lady.”
She met his gaze with a hint of playful challenge. “You have determined that from one brief meeting?”
He hesitated, uncertain whether she mocked him or merely jested. “She is much like you,” he answered at last. “Anyone acquainted with Miss Fiennes’s mama could perceive as much.”
“So I am to take your words as a compliment to myself?” Her teasing was unmistakable now.
“Undoubtedly. Youarean engaging lady, and your daughter speaks to your merit as a mother. I should be glad to know her better—indeed, to know you both better.”
He spoke more boldly than he had intended, unsure of how she might receive it. Elizabeth had often withdrawn from him; each time, it seemed as though some memory or thought had seized her . Good humour gave way to skittishness and fear, her confidence to uncertainty. He did not comprehend it entirely, but how he longed to do so.
He saw her draw inward; her eyes dropped to her cup, her features composed. “I thank you for your kind words, Mr Darcy.”
A silence settled between them, and he cursed himself for pressing too far. Searching for a safer topic, he seized upon the most prosaic in existence. “It has been some time since I have seen rain descend so heavily.”The weather, Darcy?he chided himself.Imbecile.
Elizabeth’s restraint softened. “Indeed. We knew it would rain when we set out, but had no notion it would be so severe. Still, the winter wheat will be glad for it.”
From there, their talk turned to crops and rotations—a subject Darcy found unexpectedly absorbing, made livelier by her knowledge. Her remarks revealed both study and practical understanding; and as they spoke, her reserve gave way to animation.
At length, glancing about the room, he observed Miss Bingley conversing with Lady Westland. Their gazes met. Her frown was faint but telling, her brows drawn in thought before she turned back to her companion. It seemed she had decided that Lady Westland’s favour was now of greater advantage than securing his own.
The party remained in the parlour until it was time to dress for dinner. Loath to forfeit Elizabeth’s company, and determined to secure a place next to her at table, he urged his valet to haste. Once properly attired, he stepped into the corridor, uncertain whether to wait and escort the ladies or to join them below.What if they have already gone down?He stood there for a moment, feeling the awkwardness of the situation.
As he turned towards the staircase, a door opened and Elizabeth emerged. She wore the same gown, but her hair was pinned and plaited in an even lovelier and more intricate arrangement. His breath caught; he bowed deeply.A vision,he thought.Perfect in every particular.
Elizabeth
Mr Darcy straightened and greeted her with a courteous smile. “Mrs Fiennes—you look lovely.”
She looked heavenward, a small laugh escaping her. “I am precisely as I was half an hour ago, sir.” She hoped the lightness of her tone masked the flutter of discomfort his words had stirred.
“Have your companions gone down to dinner?”
“No. Jane and Suzanne chose to assist one another and sent me on my way.”
Mr Darcy’s smile deepened. “Then may I have the honour of escorting you to the drawing room?” He offered his arm, which she accepted, and a warmth spread from the place where her hand rested on his sleeve, stealing through her with a strange exhilaration she could neither name nor govern. They descended together, Elizabeth lifting her gown with her free hand. He did not speak, and she, bound by habit, kept silent—the echo of Fiennes’s voice in her mind reminding her to speak only when addressed.
It was absurd to recall such moments now, or so she tried to convince herself. Yet lately her dead husband’slessonsreturned with unwelcome persistence, as though some hidden corner of her mind had grown weary of suppression. The past—her experiences—long confined, demanded to be heard.
Why can I not enjoy the compliments and company of a kind, respectable gentleman?It was no moral failing, and yet fear pricked at her all the same. The harder she strove to banish it, the more insistently it pressed on her. As they walked towards the dining room, another thought intruded—perhapsattempting to forget was never the best way to heal.
