He turned when she entered, and Elizabeth found herself more tongue-tied than she had ever been. To cover her sudden confusion, she pulled off her gloves and set them on the table holding the writing desk, then removed her coat and hat, hanging them on the hooks near the door. Realising that the letter she had written to him was gone, she suddenly wished she had not been so free with her pen. Why had she done it? He could not possibly return her feelings; they were too strong, having grown far beyond compassion and those of a friend. Embarrassment burned through her.
Without volition, her feet carried her to the hearth. Even when she stood beside him, Elizabeth could not think what to say. In the letter, she had admitted that she wanted his arms about her. She had depended upon on it being a few months, at least until Jane’s wedding, before she had to face him again, and by then, she would be married to someone else. Both of them would have forgotten, or at least ignored, their temporary friendship; there would have been little need to apologise for an honesty for which he might never have wished.
His expression was flat, and he showed no sign of pleasure at seeing her. Any hopes she had harboured, and her heart with them, sank.
“I owe you my deepest apologies, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his manner stiff and formal.
“Do you mean for being here? You could not know I would return.”
“As a matter of fact, I was fairly certain you would come this morning. You are owed explanations.”
“I only need one. Why were you at Haye-Park last evening?”
He sighed. “If you would like to sit, I have a rather lengthy story to offer.”
She nodded and crossed to the chair; he pulled the banquette closer to her, seating himself on it.
Scrubbing his face with both hands, he took his time making a beginning. “I suppose I should start by telling you how I have wished I could retract my words, spoken so hastily at that assembly. Never has a man spoken so foolishly. Hardly a week passed from that moment before I thought you the handsomest woman of my acquaintance.”
She looked up at him sharply. “I-I did not realise…”
His expression was wry. “My conscience was still reasonably clear, however. I had no intentions, and although I was attracted to you, my long habit of selfishness withstood any correction to my manners. It was not, in fact, until the night of the ball at Netherfield that I experienced the beginnings of true remorse. I had been determined to indulge my fancy for you by claiming a set, and when I spotted you escaping the ballroom shortly after appearing—for I was watching for your arrival every minute—I followed you out of doors immediately. You know what I then learnt. I told myself it did not matter for my sake. I had not considered you in any way eligible. Yet I felt the most bitter recriminations towards your father and fate, a terrible fury that you were subjected to this distress, that such beauty and wit would go to some undeserving ancient wretch who could never appreciate his good fortune.”
Elizabeth raised her brow, unsure whether insult or flattery was uppermost in his revelations. “Um. Thank you?”
He sighed. “I usually ride most mornings. Instead of doing so, the day after the ball I began walking a path I had noticed you on once before, one leading between Longbourn and Netherfield, although I had not acknowledged to myself that I was searching for you. My unreasonable happiness when I discovered you upon it on the second day was clue enough to dispel any excuses I might have entertained. For the first time, I admitted my great danger. By the end of that first walk, most of my pretensions were in tatters. I conceded that while the inferiority of your connexions was a hindrance to any intentions I might have harboured, they could not be to Bingley. In fact, I was envious that his station in life was such that he might pursue a match which I could not.”
“Fortunately for you, I was at that time practically engaged to another,” she said archly, regretting more than ever her honest admissions in that letter. “I would by no means upend any favoured opinion of yours.”
Mr Darcy sighed again, and did something startling—he reached over and brushed her cheek, a featherlight touch that she nevertheless felt in every part of her body. His eyes caught and held hers; she was the first to look away.
“The next day, I actively searched for you. I was beginning not to care for any of my former sentiments—the thought of you wandering the park, alone in your grief, was untenable. By the time we parted, it was all I could do not to declare my own love for you. I do not think I slept a wink that night.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but shock at his admission—and in disbelief that she had heard correctly—made it impossible to form words. Before she recovered her senses, he continued his explanations.
“I knew I had to stop meeting you, but I felt compelled to ensure you had a place of refuge and relief. I had come upon this folly once before, and the idea came to me to procure its key and stock a supply of firewood. When I brought you within, I was afraid that I would succumb to the danger of your appeal if I did not leave immediately. I was right,” he said in a low voice. “I think I might have resisted for at least another day, had you not fallen asleep on this wretched banquette. Watching over you while you slept, realising it was the first and last time I would ever have that privilege… the thought was abhorrent.”
It was her turn to reach over; she took his larger hand in hers, marvelling at the differences between them. The entire experience had become incredible; he could not possibly be confessing feelings as strong as her own. His hand became the only certainty in the room as he covered hers, squeezing it. Abruptly, with something like agony in his expression, he broke the connexion and practically leapt to his feet, going to the hearth and gripping the mantel.
“I must confess the rest of it,” he said. “I was lost, and yet, still I fought the idea of doing anything about it. I stupidly supposed it might be some sort of hopeless infatuation, something time might cure. Nevertheless, every day I thought of you endlessly. I wondered how you fared, and kept finding changes and additions that must be made in the folly for your comfort. I could not bear the thought of the fires dying, and checked them often. Twice, in fact, you nearly caught me at it. Once you appeared moments after I left. I was still on the far side of the clearing and would have been spotted had you looked in my direction. Another day, I was inside when I heard you on the step, and I dashed up the stairs and out onto the balcony, waiting there until you departed.”
“But it has been so cold! I cannot bear the thought of you shivering out of doors while I dawdled!”
He turned back towards her then, smiling, but there was something desolate in it. “You are very kind, but my coat is quite warm, and you only stayed an hour or so. You were safely enjoying a respite I had helped create for you, I was as close to you as circumstances allowed, and I quite treasured it as time well spent.”
“I had supposed you sent a trusted servant to tend the fires,” she said softly. “The only time I thought differently was Thursday morning, when I fell asleep here. For some reason, I was quite convinced it was you who had come that day.”
“ItwasI on Thursday and all but two other occasions. I went to London twice—once to fetch the chair and footstool from my Mayfair home. I knew the furniture would fit you perfectly, and Netherfield had nothing so comfortable, although it did provide the chaise longue. The second time, I went to purchase the writing desk. Both of those days, I had my man see to the fires until my return. He is both loyal and discreet, you may be assured. I admit, I resented the time away and not being able to attend to your comfort myself.”
Touched, she smiled up at him; he did not return it.
“You believed, I understood,” he continued, “that you had at least three weeks, and perhaps as long as three months or more before any betrothal was announced. I considered I had that much time to decide how I would act. By Thursday morning, I had concluded that my feelings for you were no mere infatuation. I was resolved, even anxious, to discover the details of your engagement, having no doubt that I could convince your potential bridegroom to withdraw. I asked you once to name him, and at that time, you would not.”
The look of agony was back upon his face. “In the nine days we were apart, you lost weight. There were dark circles under your eyes from sleeplessness. Even though I tried to be quiet, I could not help making some slight noise, but you did not stir. I worried you were not merely asleep, but that your health had steeply declined. While I had been dithering about unimportant, stupid, selfish considerations the effects of marriage to you might have upon my consequence, you weresuffering—suffering alone. I hated myself in that moment.”
Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears. “I was never alone. I knew, whether you or your servant executed the actions, I was surrounded by your care, your attention, and your kindness when I was here. I felt you in every morsel of food left to tempt my appetite. This place was my respite, my source of reprieve and relief, but it was all you.Youwere my comfort.Youwere my peace.”
He knelt at her feet. “Had that been all, I might be able to forgive myself. But then I read your letter.” His throat worked. “Dash it, Elizabeth, it was Mr Goulding! I could not believe it.”
