“I am glad you were able to rest a little,” he said composedly and began banking the fire in unspoken agreement that it was time to leave.
“Where does the staircase lead?” she asked, as though she were a dispassionate observer instead of an embarrassed one.
“There is a little landing and a door to the stone balconies. They are very small and only show a view of the surrounding forest.” He opened the folly door, and the frigid air that flew inside was like a slap. Fortunately, the snow had stopped, and her coat was dry.
“I fear I did not pay close enough attention to my surroundings as we walked here, and I would not easily find my way home,” she said. “If you could guide me to a more familiar part of the park, I would appreciate it.”
“It would be my pleasure to escort you to the stile nearest Longbourn,” he said, his tone formal.
And that was all. The distance between them widened again, to polite and formal. It was necessary, she knew, even vital that it be encouraged. But it felt like heart-break, even so.
Elizabeth tried to watch where they were going, but at one point she stumbled on a root, and he took her arm on the narrow path. Even at the place where the trail was smoother and widened enough to admit three easily, he did not let her go, although he said nothing.
It was odd, she thought, how synchronised was their gait; while she extended hers, he shortened his, as though they had practised it for ages.
“Oh, that path leads to Longbourn,” she said. “I know where I am now.”
He nodded, but did not withdraw his arm. “Did you find your ‘one thing’ to appreciate today?”
“Yes,” she said immediately. “I am thankful for naps and the warmth of a fire on a cold day.”
“That is two things,” he pointed out.
“A very successful day, indeed,” she replied. “Perhaps my father ought to take up walking rather than complaining of the flaws and foibles of his family and neighbours. It is of great benefit in reducing discontent.”
“Heoughtto be able to acknowledge his gratitude from the comfort of Longbourn in the presence of five lovely and healthy daughters.”
She looked up at him sharply, expecting mockery, but instead seeing only his earnest, steadfast gaze, and something in it made her blush.
“I am afraid my father would argue your point.”
“You must give him a copy of your book, once it is completed.”
She found her smile again and offered it freely. While smiling was not his habit, neither could she find much soberness in his easy regard. They did not speak until they reached the stile. Once again, without warning, he lifted her over it; this time she did not shriek.
When she was on the other side, he offered her a bow.
“I hope the rest of your day is a good one, Mr Darcy,” she said. “Thank you, for everything.”
He reached into a pocket and proffered an old-fashioned key over the fence; it was the one he had used earlier. “Feel free to make use of the folly as you wish. No one goes there. Truthfully, none of Netherfield’s residents knows or cares where it is or has the inclination to discover it. You shall not be disturbed.”
She took it from him. “Thank you again.” The key was still warm from the heat of his body.
He nodded once, and it seemed like a dismissal. She faced Longbourn, not allowing herself to look back until she reached the path’s turning. He stood there still, watching her. She lifted her hand in acknowledgement or farewell; he nodded brusquely, and began his walk to Netherfield.
I have discovered three things, she thought.I am thankful for naps, for the warmth of a fire on a cold day, and for you, Mr Darcy. Counting trees and sisters, she was up to five. That left only nine-hundred and ninety-five to go.
Elizabeth threw herself into the plans of her neighbours. She accepted every invitation to join parish committees, whether assembling Christmas baskets for the poor or sewing bandages for wounded soldiers. Even her father noticed, making a somewhat cynical remark regarding her sudden plethora of charitable projects. But he kept to their bargain and held his silence on the betrothal. Thankfully, she supposed he was leashing Mr Goulding as well, for at least there was no sign of him at Longbourn.
The truth was, she was talking—talking to everyone who would listen. And be she inside the walls of Longbourn, as she was now, or at the homes of her neighbours, Elizabeth was surrounded by avid listeners. She could not fix much that was wrong in her life, but she could certainly correct this one small thing—whether Mr Darcy ever learnt of it or not.
“He did what?” Charlotte asked, astonished. Charlotte had come to help her with the bandage sewing. It was her first opportunity since before the ball at Netherfield to talk privately with her friend.
“Mr Wickham poisoned Mr Darcy’s favourite dog,” she repeated. “All because he was jealous that old Mr Darcy loved his son. He is a viper.”
It was vital that Charlotte be convinced of Mr Wickham’s villainy. Elizabeth had saved the worst story she was willing to reveal for Charlotte—it went without saying that Miss Darcy’s name and the story of her near ruin would never be mentioned. Sir William Lucas was the most notorious gossip in Hertfordshire. His eldest daughter, however, was as pious as she was practical, and while she was not inclined to indulge in the spreading of rumours, if she felt it was best for the greater community to know something, she would not hesitate to speak out.
“How did you learn of this?” Charlotte asked.
