It was a sobering realization, one that would require solitude to consider; yet solitude was not to be hers for some time. So once more, she pushed the unpleasant memories aside, sealing them within a quiet corner of her mind until a more fitting hour.
Miss Bingley and the Hursts awaited them in the drawing room. Their hostess greeted them with distant politeness, her smile thin and perfunctory. Elizabeth wondered what offence she might have given but could think of nothing done intentionally.
When Mr Darcy guided her a little apart from the others, he spoke in low tones. “I fear our hostess’s cool demeanour is directed at me rather that at you.”
Elizabeth gave him a puzzled look.
“Miss Bingley has long desired my regard—or rather, my proposal. Despite my assurances to her brother that I should never offer for the lady, she persists. I hoped she would resign herself to disappointment—at least, where I am concerned.”
“Have you ever sought to dissuade the lady from her designs?” Elizabeth enquired. “Perhaps she believes it is but a matter of time before you offer for her.”
“I have treated Miss Bingley only with the respect due to the sister of a valued friend. If I have made any overtures, they were without design, and I am unaware of them.”
She tilted her head, regarding him steadily. “Then perhaps you ought to find an opportunity to tell her so. If she nourishes hope, plain speaking would end her suspense and free you both from misunderstanding. You might also come to enjoy each other’s company as friends.”
He nodded, a slight furrow forming between his brows as he pondered her counsel. “You speak with reason—not that I am surprised. ’Tis what I have come to expect from you. You are a woman of uncommon intelligence.”
“More flattery, sir? Take care, lest it turn my head.” She meant it as a tease, but he turned to look at her, the seriousness in his manner left her breathless.
“Disguise of any sort is my abhorrence,” he said solemnly. “I speak only as I find.”
Words failed her, and she drew a slow breath, willing her pulse to steady. Mr Darcy’s kindness disarmed her—far more than his boldnessever could—and that was what frightened her. No man’s regard ought to have the power to disturb her so deeply; yet, as they waited for the summons to dinner, she could not deny that it did.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
12-13 November 1811
Netherfield Park
Elizabeth
Elizabethfoundnorest.The mattress was amongst the finest she had ever lain upon, and the goose-down pillows were perfectly soft and yielding, yet whenever she closed her eyes, thoughts and images thronged her mind. They came swiftly, tumbling one over another until they were an incomprehensible blur. It had been years since she had struggled so. Worry for Elinor pressed foremost amongst them—clearer than all the rest, and therefore the only one she could name.
After an hour of fruitless turning, Elizabeth threw back the covers in frustration. Her borrowed cotton night gown was plain but serviceable; the same could be said of the dressing gown Mrs Hurst had lent her. Suzanne and Jane would by now be asleep in their own chambers. She slipped her feet into her slippers and reached for her shawl draped on a chair. The warmth it afforded was welcome in the chill of the night. Moving carefully lest she strike her toes, she crossed to the window. The nearly full moon flooded the grounds with an ethereal light, pale and still. From somewhere distant, came the low hoot of an owl, a solitary sound that stirred an ache within her breast.
Resigned to wakefulness, Elizabeth lit a candle and made a turn about the room in search of a book. She found none—she had known she would not. Netherfield had never possessed a generous library. Her husband had valued the written word only as it might serve his schemes. He had long ago removed every volume that had once offered her pleasure. With a weary sigh, she wondered whether she ought to search the library next.
Another half hour of restless pacing decided her. Perhaps Mr Bingley or one of his sisters had added to the collection during their brief tenancy. It was improbable, but it was something to do besides mere wandering. Shielding the candle’s flame with her hand, she opened the door and slipped into the passage, leaving it slightly ajar to guide her back.
The stair creaked underfoot, and she paused for a moment, listening. Hearing nothing, she continued down the stairs until the soft carpet gave way to the cold marble of the lower floor, then turned towards the southern corridor. Her slippers made little sound as she went. The library was at the end—a room that caught the morning sun and retained its warmth through the winter months. What comfort she sought there she could not have said—perhaps only the company of words to quiet the turmoil within.
Elizabeth eased the door open, grateful that its hinges made no sound. Stepping softly within, she crossed to the shelf that had once held a few volumes of merit. Holding the candle aloft, she traced the faded lettering with her gaze and murmured the titles under her breath.EvelinaandBelindawere there still. She had left them, for she already possessed copies of her own; yet these, too, bore the marks of fond usage. She pulled them from their places, slid them into the pocket of her dressing gown, and turned to leave.
Her candle cast its wavering light towards the hearth—and there she halted. A man reclined in the armchair before the fire, his feet on a stool, hishead resting against the side. Curiosity drew her closer. The flame flared a little, and its glow fell upon the features of Mr Darcy.
In repose he appeared wholly unlike himself—peaceful, unguarded, almost boyish. The dark curls that had escaped order lay across his brow, and for one unthinking instant she longed to brush them aside.
It had been years since she had seen any man, save her father, in so unstudied a state. Mr Darcy's attire, too, spoke of ease: a burgundy-coloured silk banyan fell loosely about him; no cravat at his throat, no waistcoat to confine him, and no coat to be seen. His shirt was untucked from his breeches, the open collar revealing the faintest glimpse of skin. His arms were folded loosely across his chest, his breathing deep and even.
The fire’s warmth touched her where she stood. He could not be cold, she told herself, yet she fetched a light woollen rug from the settee and laid it gently over him. He stirred and sighed, then turned his head and muttered something indistinct before speaking more clearly.
“Elizabeth.”
She stilled, every thought arrested. Though she knew him to be dreaming, the sound of her name spoken so softly—so familiarly—sent a strange tremor through her. It was not alarm; she had never truly feared Mr Darcy. His behaviour had ever been honourable, his manner grave and composed. She admired him greatly. Yet, to hear her own name upon his lips, uttered in sleep, awakened a confusion of feeling she could neither reason away nor acknowledge.
Suddenly aware he might wake and find her in the very act of studying his person, Elizabeth withdrew at once, moving with all the haste she dared towards the door, her hand cupped about the candle lest the flame be extinguished. It would never do to seek her bedchamber in darkness.
The books struck softly against her side as she climbed the stairs, but she paid them no heed, hands too occupied with the candle to steady them.Entering her chamber, she closed and secured it, then leant a moment against the panels, drawing a weary breath. The chair by the hearth beckoned, and she went to it, resolved to quiet her mind with the written word.
