Jane’s breathing still labored, though not as much as the day prior. Elizabeth moved to the window, intending to open it to let in some fresh air.
Movement in the stable yard below drew her attention.
Mr. Darcy stood beside Gracie while the groom finished checking the saddle’s girth. Even from this distance, Elizabeth saw the ease in which horse and master interacted. Mr. Darcy’s hand moved along the mare’s neck, his touch slow and deliberate. He bent to run his gloved fingers down each leg.
The groom stepped back, and Mr. Darcy reached into his pocket.
Gracie’s nose pushed against his coat with unmistakable intent. Elizabeth could not hear the man’s words from this distance, but she saw his smile—a genuine smile, unguarded—as he produced a small apple. Gracie snatched it from his palm with more enthusiasm than grace, and Mr. Darcy laughed.
Elizabeth inhaled sharply. She had never imagined he could look so handsome. The severe lines of his face softened, and he looked almost boyish, delighted by his horse’s eagerness.
He swung into the saddle, settling himself before leaning forward to speak into Gracie’s ear. Whatever he said made the mare’s ears swivel toward him. Then he gathered the reins—his gloved hands light, without tugging. Gracie moved forward toward where the groomheld the gate open, her response immediate but unhurried.
Elizabeth noted the absence of harsh commands, how his heels signaled the mare’s flanks. Mr. Darcy carried no whip. He treated the animal as a partner rather than a possession.
They started sedately enough. But once through the gate, Gracie broke into a lope, her gait smooth and ground-covering. Mr. Darcy sat easily, moving with the horse rather than against her. When they were far enough from the house that decorum no longer mattered, Gracie transitioned into a canter, then stretched into a full gallop.
Elizabeth leant closer to the window, her hand pressed against the glass. Horse and rider moved as one across the field with a speed and grace that made her pulse quicken. Gracie’s hooves barely touched the ground, her mane streaming behind, Mr. Darcy’s figure bent low over her neck. She remembered the old plough horse’s plodding trot, how she had thought they were flying. But this—this was truly soaring.
What would it be like, Elizabeth wondered, to experience that power beneath her, that freedom? To challenge Mr. Darcy to a race and win?
Behind her, Jane coughed—a wet, rattling sound that pulled Elizabeth’s attention to the present.
“Lizzy? What do you see?” Her sister’s voice was hoarse.
Elizabeth turned from the window, pushing the wistful images aside. “Blue sky and horses in the field,” she said, moving to pour Jane a glass of water. “The weather looks to be another fine autumn day.”
Only in her dreams could she ride like that. Only in her dreams could she know what it meant to gallop, to race, to be truly alive.
She helped Jane sit up to drink, and, determinedly, did not look toward the window.
That eveningat the Netherfield dining table, Mr. Bingley inquired after Jane’s health. Elizabeth assured him that her sister had improved.
“I am certain Miss Bennet will be quite ready to return to Longbourn soon,” Miss Bingley said, her smile icy. “Then you shall be free to return to your walks about the neighborhood, Miss Eliza. I understand you are quite devoted to the exercise. An excellent walker, are you not?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but movement across the table attracted her notice. The hint of a smile played at the corners of Mr. Darcy’s mouth.
Their eyes locked for the briefest moment at Miss Bingley’s error. Elizabeth lifted one shoulder with a faint shrug.
Mr. Darcy returned his attention to his plate, but the slight smile remained.
Elizabeth stared at him. He had actually listened when she spoke. And he remembered.
“Miss Eliza?” Miss Bingley’s voice cut through her thoughts. “You have not answered. Surely you must agree that walking is your preferred mode of transportation?”
“I walk a great deal,” Elizabeth said, dragging her gaze away from Mr. Darcy. “Whether it is my preference is another matter entirely.”
Mr. Hurst, the Bingleys’ brother by marriage, grunted from his end of the table and reached for his wineglass. Mrs. Hurst adjusted her napkin, paying no attention to the conversation.
“How mysterious you make it sound,” Miss Bingley said mockingly. “But then, country habits are often difficult for those of us from Town to comprehend.”
“I beg to disagree, Miss Bingley,” Mr. Darcy said. “I spend equal months in London and at Pemberley. Country habits are not difficult to understand. In London, I have observed many ladies promenading in Hyde Park and Bond Street with great pleasure. When those same ladies are at Pemberley, they equally enjoy strolling through the gardens and footpaths through the woods. Wherever we are, we each do as we must. There should be no reason for disdaining one and accepting the other.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flew to his face once more. He studied his wine glass, turning it slowly between his fingers. Yet she could have sworn that the last comment was meant for her ears alone.
Miss Bingley, oblivious, continued to prattle about the superiority of carriages and the inconvenience of muddy hems. Elizabeth barely heard her.
A smile tugged at Elizabeth’s lips before she could stop it. She ducked her head, studying her plate. Mr. Darcy was proving to be a puzzle—one she curiously wanted to solve.
