Darcy did not move. He remained standing beside her, his gaze distant, his expression thoughtful.
“That piece was one of Georgiana’s favourite. She would play it for hours. Before...” he paused, and a trace of deep pain crossed his features, so slight Elizabeth might have doubted it it if not for the sudden softness in his voice. “She used to practise in the old music room, the one overlooking the rose garden. She insisted the roses bloomed more brightly with music, and would open the windows wide before she played, even on the cooler days, claiming the sound needed to reach the flowers properly.”
He gave a slight shake of his head, a wisp of a tender smile gracing his lips. “She had such a belief in the connection between music and the life of growing things. I confess I occasionally lent the roses a little magical persuasion when she played, simply to preserve that innocence for her a while longer.”
The alcohol, Elizabeth realised, had not made him boisterous or maudlin, but had instead loosened his tongue. The image he painted of a young Darcy secretly employing his formidable magic, not for power or dominion, but to gently coax roses into bloom for his little sister, struck Elizabeth deeply. It was a detail so unexpectedly at odds with the man he outwardly presented that it disarmed her utterly.
“You are a man of surprising subtleties, Mr Darcy,” she said quietly.
And she was left reeling. Her unfair accusation that he was a man devoid of affection, a stranger to the true bonds of family, shattered like glass. How could she have ever thought him incapable of loving his sister, when the air around him now seemed to shimmer with the tender, sorrowful echo of that love? He had loved his sister deeply. He loved her still.
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. How wrong, how terribly, blindly wrong, she had been.
To think he had once offered her a love of such depth. His was not the artful flattery of a seasoned flirt, nor the casual regard so freely given and just as freely forgotten. No. His was the rare and precious offering of a reserved man and an honourable heart.
He had offered her a difficult, earnest confession — the hard-won esteem of a man who did not bestow his affections lightly. And she had foolishly spurned it, mistaking the treasure for an insult, repaying the honour with scorn, and throwing his sincerity back in his face.
She understood now the true worth of Darcy’s heart, with its loyalty, its integrity, and its astonishing capacity for a love as deep as the power he commanded. She knew what his heart was worth now, understanding its value precisely because it was gone.
The wrenching feeling in her chest was no longer just remorse, but a keen sense of his absence, made all the more acute by the fact that he stood mere inches away.
A ludicrous urge rose in her to reach out, to smooth the lines of pain from his brow, to offer some inadequate comfort. What a ridiculous fool she was! To wish to soothe a wound she herself had so viciously inflicted. Had there ever been a sillier creature?
She must have betrayed something of her thoughts, for his gaze, which had been lost in memory, suddenly sharpened on her. Darcy tensed almost imperceptibly, stepping back from the pianoforte and clearing his throat as if to physically dislodge the emotion that had settled there. “Pray, excuse me,” he said, “I have kept you too long with my recollections, and I shall not keep you further. I have some pressing estate matters to attend to before I retire.”
Before Elizabeth could form a reply, before she could find the words to keep him from becoming a stranger to her once more, he offered a formal bow, turned, and strode from the room.
For some moments thereafter, perhaps even for some hours, Elizabeth sat frozen on the bench, her mind lost in the painful unraveling of her thoughts and memories.
How quick she had been to condemn! To judge him as unfeeling, as incapable of tender sentiment, when all along he had carried such grief, such love, so carefully shielded from the world. Her wounded vanity had painted him with arrogance and disdain, and she had believed her own artistry without question.
Eventually, after taking a few slow breaths that did little to calm her, she made a decision, a decision that felt both terrifyingly bold and absolutely necessary. She would go to him.
She did not know precisely what she would say, what words could possibly mend the hurt that lay between them, but she knew, with absolute conviction, that the silence between them could not be allowed to stand another moment.
Elizabeth allowed no room for the chorus of hesitations that immediately rose in her mind. The potential for his rejection or the sheer, mortifying awkwardness of the encounter was rendered irrelevant by the overriding need to speak with him.
Tonight. Now.
He had said he had estate matters to attend to. How much time had passed since then?
She rose from the pianoforte bench, the music and the colonel forgotten, her thoughts entirely on the confrontation ahead. The walk from the drawing room to his study felt like the longest of her life.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she finally reached the heavy door. It presented an intimidating barrier, but Elizabeth, her courage rallied by challenge, knocked, first softly, then after receiving no response, again, a little louder.
Still there was silence.
Taking a breath that helped not one bit to steady her nerves, Elizabeth tentatively pushed the door inward. It yielded without a noise.
The room was shrouded in gloom. A single, sputtering candle on the massive desk did little to dispel the darkness. Thestone hearth, which usually radiated a comforting warmth, now held only the dying embers, their ruddy glow almost entirely extinguished.
Elizabeth paused in the doorway. Perhaps he had already retired for the night, overcome by exhaustion and brandy.
But as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw him. He was seated behind the desk, yet an uncharacteristic stillness enveloped him. He was not reading, not writing. He was merely staring, his gaze unfocused. He appeared so lost in the labyrinth of his anxieties and responsibilities that he had evidently not even registered the fire’s demise, nor the encroaching chill of the late hour.
It did not appear he had heard her enter. She took a hesitant step further into the room. “Mr Darcy?”
Darcy started sharply, the sudden movement betraying the depth of his preoccupation. As he turned, and his gaze fell upon her, Elizabeth registered with a small, internal lurch that he was in his shirtsleeves, both his waistcoat and his jacket discarded over the back of a nearby chair. The fine linen of his shirt did little to conceal the powerful lines of his shoulders and the strength of his arms. She found herself instantly discomfited, a strange warmth rising to her cheeks and her mouth dry.
