Not warmth this time—movement.The dry bark softened under her touch, supple as fresh growth, and a pale green point forced its way through a crack in the wood.
Elizabeth jerked back so quickly she scraped her glove. “Oh, absolutely not!”
The twig hung motionless. Lifeless. A dead thing, just like all branches in autumn ought to be.
She stared at it, pulse thudding in her throat. “You were grey a moment ago,” she told the branch, as if accusing it of mischief. “I refuse to believe otherwise.”
But the image of that tiny, impossible bud hovered before her eyes, undeniable.
She folded her hands against her shawl. “This is what comes of going out without my plum jam at breakfast,” she muttered. “Next, I shall imagine the rocks reciting poetry.”
Elizabeth straightened and stepped back from the outcrop. She refused to indulge a fancy about thorns or scratches or spoons tapping themselves. She had too much sense for that.
She turned her face toward the fields again. The hunt had moved farther west; the figures were smaller now, merging with hedgerows and shadow. The wolfhound—if it was a wolfhound—could no longer be distinguished from the darker patches of brush.
She let out a breath and sagged, just a little.
Enough. She had walked long enough to quiet her thoughts, if not her wrist.
Chapter Seven
Bingley declared, shortly afterthe early dinner hour, that the weather was “too fair to waste indoors” and that a call upon Longbourn that afternoon would be the very thing. Darcy had hoped the morning’s sport might excuse him from further society, but he knew the obligations of a neighbour as well as Bingley did. Refusal would only excite remark. He therefore submitted to changing coat and cravat once more, as if outward order might secure inward composure.
Miss Bingley elected to accompany them—ostensibly to offer her civilities, though Darcy had observed too often where her attention truly inclined to be deceived on that point. Mrs Hurst joined her, as she always did, and thus the party set out in Bingley’s carriage a little after two.
Darcy took his place opposite the sisters and turned his gaze to the fields beyond the window. The sky lay clear and pale, the light keen upon the hedgerows and stubbled fields. Within the carriage, the air seemed thicker than the season warranted. He attributed it to the closeness of company rather than any defect of ventilation.
His thoughts slid, whenever they were not forcibly engaged, back to Derbyshire—to the steward’s letter folded in his desk, to the second ash along the boundary line whose crown had thinned so notably, to the unpleasant knowledge that no degree of reluctance would excuse him from examining the matter in person when he returned.
Nor, it seemed, from this call.
When Longbourn’s chimneys rose beyond the last turn in the lane, he schooled his features into the neutrality expected of a guest and braced himself for half an hour of noise, colour, and Mrs Bennet’s unchecked satisfaction.
The housekeeper admitted themwithout delay, and the Bennet parlour rose at once to receive them—warmth and bright upholstery, the flutter of ribbons, the clatter of chairs, and Mrs Bennet advancing with such earnest welcome that Darcy instinctively set his shoulders before she quite reached them.
“You are all so very kind to call,” she cried, hands clasped as if greeting old friends rather than near strangers. “Pray be seated, do. Mr Bingley, you must sit here—yes, by my Jane. And Mr Darcy, I insist upon your taking the chair nearest the fire. Lizzy, move half a place for Mr Darcy. Miss Bingley, if you please, there by Mary. Mrs Hurst, you will be quite comfortable opposite the fire.”
There was no graceful way to object without drawing more attention than the arrangement deserved. Darcy took the place indicated. Miss Elizabeth shifted just enough to allow it, the soft rustle of muslin marking the narrow space between them. He caught the faintest hint of lavender as her gown moved—a mere impression, and gone.
“Such a pleasure to receive you,” Mrs Bennet continued, already reaching for the teapot. “We are quite delighted. Kitty, do not stand gaping. Sit, child, sit.”
Miss Kitty dropped into the nearest chair with a hurried curtsy. Miss Lydia perched at once upon its arm until Mrs Bennet snapped, “On the seat, Miss Lydia Bennet, if you please. We are not in the orchard now.”
Bingley appeared only more gratified by the bustle. “Your house has a very cheerful aspect, Mrs Bennet,” he said. “I cannot conceive a warmer welcome.”
“I always say there is no use in keeping one’s comfort to oneself,” Mrs Bennet replied, glowing at the compliment. “If a house cannot be cheerful, what is it for? Lizzy, pour for Mr Darcy. Jane, give Mr Bingley a slice of cake. Hill, bring the other plate. Mr Darcy, I trust you do not object to country cake?”
“I do not, madam.”
Miss Elizabeth reached for the teapot. Her hand was steady, her manner unhurried. “Sugar, sir?”
“None, I thank you.”
She passed him the cup. Their fingers did not meet. Yet as porcelain crossed the narrow distance between them, the air near his sleeve warmed, as if the fire had shifted its breath in that direction alone. He was no nearer to the grate than before; there was no sensible alteration in the room. He dismissed the notion, took a cautious sip, and set the cup upon the small table at his elbow.
Bingley accepted his own tea with delight. “Miss Bennet, you must allow me to say how much I enjoyed the Assembly. I can scarce recollect when I last danced so often.”
“I am glad you were pleased, Mr Bingley,” Miss Bennet answered, her voice as gentle as her countenance. “The neighbourhood was very curious to meet you.”
