Darcy’s breath caught. She had a forthrightness that was so unlike what he was accustomed to—most said little about themselves but asked questions designed to probe the worth of his estate or his fortune. All of this was thinly veiled under the guise of polite conversation. Elizabeth’s memory was simple, warm, and real, leaving him feeling exposed and yearning for something he could not yet name.
“That is a fine memory, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice lower, almost reverent. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
She turned her head back towards him, studying him with a discerning gaze. “And you, sir? Do you have a favourite memory from your childhood?”
No lady had ever asked him that. For a moment, he was silent, searching for a memory that was not overshadowed by duty, expectation, or loss.
“When I was ten, my father took me riding at dawn across the Pemberley grounds,” he said, his voice distant with recollection. “It was cold enough to bite, and the mist clung to the fields. We raced across the hills, and I remember feeling free in a way I did not often allow myself, even then.” His lips curved, softened by the warmth in her gaze. “My father laughed as we rode. It was one of the few times I heard him do so.”
Elizabeth’s smile was soft, tinged with an understanding that reached places in him that had remained untouched for years. “Your father sounds as though he was a very good man.”
“He was,” Darcy agreed quietly, glancing at Bingley and Jane, who were still speaking in low voices by the fire. He turned back to Elizabeth. “I hope one day to be half the man he was.”
“You are kind to share such a memory with me,” she said, her voice gentle. “I am glad you did.”
The moment hung between them, unspoken yet acknowledged, the intimacy of shared memory weaving an invisible thread between two souls who, until recently, might have thought themselves very different. Darcy felt the pull towards her grow stronger, something that might one day become the foundation for a new memory, warm and green as spring.
Bingley’s laughter broke the moment, and Elizabeth turned away, cheeks pink but eyes alight, leaving Darcy with the unmistakable conviction that his path forwards, though still unclear, would always lead him back to her. His contentment was such that he could almost—almost—forget the mystery surrounding the boy upstairs.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The much-anticipated and highly dreaded arrival of Mr Collins came precisely at four o’clock, as promised. The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel, echoing through the crisp afternoon air. Mr Bennet, standing at the window, remarked on his punctuality, sarcastically stating that such promptness was to his credit. Elizabeth merely pressed her lips together and said nothing, clutching Tommy’s small, warm hand in hers.
How her father could be so flippant in the face of the man they had cheated out of his inheritance was incomprehensible to her. The weight of that unspoken reality pressed upon her chest as the clergyman descended stiffly from the carriage, adjusting his coat before smoothing back his thinning hair with a trembling hand. Elizabeth’s heart beat wildly, a discordant rhythm of guilt, resentment, and curiosity. Beside her, Tommy shifted from foot to foot, impatient to return indoors for tea and away from the cold breeze that tugged at the ends of his curls.
“Mr Bennet, I presume?” Mr Collins greeted her father solemnly, his voice higher than she had expected. His eyes darted to and fro, and Elizabeth thought she detected the unmistakable sheen of nervousness in the man.
“Welcome to Longbourn.” Mr Bennet shook his cousin’s hand with deliberate ease. “May I present my family?” He named his daughters one by one with an infuriating casualness that made Elizabeth’s cheeks burn, before reaching the final introduction. “And this is my only son and heir,Thomas David Bennet.” The pride in her father’s voice was unmistakable, and for a fleeting moment, it softened the irritation she felt towards him.
Tommy, sensing the gravity of the moment, bowed like a proper gentleman, only wavering slightly as he balanced on his toes. “How do you do, sir?” he lisped, the gap in his front teeth making his words softer and more endearing.
Mr Collins’s solemn face split into a wide, almost boyish grin. “I am very well, young sir,” he replied, crouching down so his eyes were level with Tommy’s. “I am pleased to meet you and hope we might be friends.”
Tommy’s shy smile was slow to form, but when it came, it was bright and genuine, the innocence of it piercing through the heavy tension that had settled over Elizabeth’s shoulders. She found herself letting out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
“Well, shall we go inside?” Mr Bennet gestured towards the house, his tone warm and inviting, and the ladies followed one by one. Elizabeth came last with Tommy, who refused to release her hand, his small fingers gripping hers tightly as they stepped over the threshold.
Elizabeth was surprised—pleasantly so—by Mr Collins’s warm greeting. In truth, she had expected bitterness or condescension, perhaps the general impatience of a man encountering a child who was the embodiment of a lost inheritance. Instead, there was something eager, even vulnerable, in his demeanor that unsettled her careful expectations.
“My, what a marvelous room.” Mr Collins entered the parlour last, pausing in the doorway to take in the high ceilings, the cleanly swept hearth, and the warm glow of the afternoon sun slanting across the worn but well-kept carpets. His eyes lingered on the small floral arrangements Mary had set out that morning, and Elizabeth could not help but notice the beads of perspiration already forming at his temple.
She settled into a chair with Tommy, who promptly pulled a book from the side table and began flipping through the illustrations, humming softly to himself.
Mr Collins clasped his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels as he surveyed the room with wide-eyed wonder. “I have never seen such a superbly appointed room,” he declared, clearing his throat loudly. “That is, outside of Rosings Park.” He winced slightly as he realised the slip. “My humble parsonage could not compare.”
Elizabeth’s irritation softened into curiosity as she observed the way he shifted from foot to foot, clearing his throat as if to fill the silence he seemed so afraid of.
Mary, with her gentle composure, must have sensed it too. She beckoned him over, inviting him to join her on the settee with a kind smile. “I am sure your parsonage is lovely,” she said, smoothing her skirts with a calmness that Elizabeth envied. “Now, you must tell us more about your parish. Hunsford, is it not?”
“Why, yes, Cousin Mary.” Mr Collins’s face brightened, and a spark of genuine pleasure appeared in his eyes. “I am exceedingly fortunate to have secured a valuable family living so soon after ordination. My patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is a generous, charitable woman. She founded a school and has contributed to many noble causes.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat once more, the flush on his cheeks deepening. “Forgive me,” he stuttered, lowering his gaze. “I am rambling.”
“On the contrary, sir, your words are fascinating.” Mr Bennet’s voice held no hint of mockery, though Elizabeth could see the glint of amusement in his eyes. “I am pleased you have found such a comfortable position. As a father, I hope to see my own daughters well settled someday.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flamed. Jane’s gentle countenance remained serene, whilst Mary lowered her gaze demurely. Lydia’s lips parted as if to protestbeing included with the children, but Miss Lane’s subtle hand on her arm kept her silent.
Elizabeth’s thoughts churned. Her father’s aims were so blatant, and she bristled with indignation, even as she recognised the reality of their situation. The entailment, his desire to secure their future, the necessity of securing advantageous matches—these were the unyielding truths that shadowed their daily lives. Yet, even as she felt the weight of it, an image of Mr Darcy rose unbidden in her mind, his dark eyes softening when they met hers, his carefully chosen words hinting at genuine curiosity about who she was.
Mr Collins, for his part, seemed oblivious to her father’s unsubtle hints. His gaze, when it lifted, passed over Jane with polite appreciation and slid past Elizabeth without recognition, before coming to rest on Mary with unmistakable interest. Elizabeth’s tension eased as she realised she would not be the object of his attentions, and she cast a sideways glance at Mary, who was pink-cheeked but calm under Mr Collins’s shy regard.
