It was gracious of her not to hold him accountable for Lady Catherine. He wondered if she thought about how he had judged her entire family, weighed them in the balance before deciding that he would lower himself to marry Elizabeth. Darcy managed to nod in reply as he ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. He cringed in mortification of all that he said to her two nights ago.
Her rejection had been a blow to his self-respect and, worse, to his self-belief. She cut to the core of who he was, and it was a painful lesson.A lesson that will make me a better man.
“What are you thinking about?”
He supposed she asked to not have to think about being struck in the face, or being yanked about by her hair, or being threatened with having her finger cut off. Or think about any ofthe lewd suggestions the men downstairs had made. And neither did he want to talk about his aunt.
Darcy answered her honestly. “I was thinking about what you said to me on Thursday night, particularly ‘had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.’”
Her curious expression fell. “I was wrong about your inducements behind Bingley and Jane’s separation, and I am sorry I spoke harshly.” She laid her hand on his leg, just above his ankle. “I think until yesterday I hardly knew you at all.”
She removed her hand, and the feel of her touching him faded, long after the gentle pressure had been physically removed. “Elizabeth, you should know, in case—well, no matter what, you should know that you were right about me. I certainly have a great deal of proud scorn or scornful pride or what have you in my disposition, which is no mark of a good character.” It was mortifying to admit, but he owed it to himself and to her to be honest. That was how he could change. “I have immense work ahead of me.”
Elizabeth watched him with absorbed attention. “I think,” she said slowly, “that you must have a great character—a far better one than you give yourself credit for—to recognise a fault and decide to improve it.” She looked at him steadily and then smiled. “Besides, you seem to find friends, real friends, of intellect and character to admire you. I suppose I could at least trust Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr Bingley’s good judgment. They would not be friends with such a man if he did not have some goodness.”
He felt a sort of comfort in this give and take of her teasing, so much so that he dared to ask, “And what about you?” She gave him a quizzical look. “Are you willing to call me your friend?”
“Would you want me as your friend,” she asked, looking more at his waistcoat than at him, “after how I spoke to you on Thursday?”
Darcy stretched forward and pushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. He wanted ever so much more than that. Giving her a fond smile, he said, “There is not a creature on the face of the globe who will remain more your friend than me.”
The bright smile she gave him caused a slight easing of the misery inside his heart. Maybe he ought to tell her now about Wickham’s true character. He wished he could tell Elizabeth that he still loved her and would do whatever was necessary to earn her good opinion and progress their tentative friendship to a more lasting, affectionate union, but he would not harass her with his own hopes. But he could warn her about Wickham.
Darcy was about to rise to get the letter out of his greatcoat pocket when he heard the key turn in the lock. They both started and stumbled awkwardly to their feet, Elizabeth’s face draining of all colour. When the door swung open, it was only the boy Kirby, holding a laden tray and struggling to hold the door open and balance it.
Elizabeth took the teapot off the wobbling tray, and the boy shut the door and set down the tray. Kirby stood there, staring at Elizabeth. Darcy could not understand why he stayed, standing in silence and looking as though he did not know what to do.
“Thank you for the food,” Elizabeth eventually said, sitting back down by the tray. An assortment of buns was piled on a plate along with the tea things. Again, there were no knives or forks.
Kirby shifted his feet, and from his pocket he pulled out something wrapped in oilcloth. “Here.” He thrust the bundle at Elizabeth, who unwrapped it carefully.
Darcy saw it was a chipped block of ice about the size of her fist. “The manor outside the village has an icehouse,” Kirby mumbled, before gesturing to his own cheek. Darcy wondered how often this boy had been struck by those who were supposedto care for him. The imprisoned father, the gin-drinking mother, the violent uncle might all have hit him.
Elizabeth might have thought the same, because she gave him a compassionate look. “Thank you, young man.”
It was good of her to call him “young man.” Kirby looked proud, although to Darcy he looked more like a little boy than a young man. Her sincere thanks and admiration would mean more to a boy like that than even a coin.
While Elizabeth placed the ice in a cloth from the washstand and held it to her cheek, Darcy looked at Kirby. He was avoiding their gaze, looking at the plate of buns almost as longingly as he had looked at the books yesterday. “Why do you not take one?” Darcy asked.
The boy shook his head. “I ate one on the way from the baker’s; he gave me an extra.”
He was a skinny boy, but perhaps it was the oversized mourning clothes that led to his underfed appearance. Darcy sat by Elizabeth, took a bun for himself, and tossed another to Kirby. “Eat it, if you insist on watching us.”
Kirby nodded, tearing off a piece and chewing quickly. “I am just to stay while you eat, and then take the tray. Uncle said you would not thrash me, and he does not want the door opening often.”
Darcy wondered if the boy had little love for his uncle. He had said he did not want to be a free trader, and now Darcy knew Kirby meant he did not want to be a criminal like his father and uncle. Perhaps he could get more information out of him, especially if the men’s cruel treatment of Elizabeth troubled him.
“From what great house did you get the ice?” he asked.
“You need not trick me.” The boy talked around the food in his mouth. “You are in Shoreham, but they will move you soon.”
Elizabeth turned to him. “Darcy, that is only several miles from Hunsford. Someone in the village might help—” She stopped, not wanting to say more in front of Kirby.
The boy knelt on the floor near to them. “None here shall help you,” Kirby whispered. “The small villages on the way to Gravesend on the Thames are along smugglers’ routes. Everyone looks to the wall when smugglers go by.”
“Not the constables, surely,” Darcy said.
“If you were to go into Shoreham’s High Street, if you tried to run, within five minutes, there would be a signal to the townsfolk to muster their horses.”
