As evening approached, the household assembled for dinner. Elizabeth noted three empty chairs with curiosity. Her husband’s, the Viscount’s, and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s. “Are we expecting the gentlemen to arrive late?”
“They have ventured to Snowhill village on some business or other,” Lord Matlock explained. “I believe they intended to visit the bookshop and stop at the White Hart for refreshment. They may return quite late. You know how these excursions extend themselves once good conversation and decent ale enter the equation.”
Mrs Bennet’s interest was immediately piqued. “The White Hart? Is that a tavern? I do hope they return safely. The roads can be so treacherous after dark.”
“The village is barely twenty minutes’ ride,” Lady Matlock assured her. “And the road is well-maintained.”
Despite the absences of the gentlemen and Lady Catherine, conversation flowed more easily than it had the previous evening. Elizabeth participated when addressed but found her attention wandering repeatedly to Darcy’s empty chair. What business had taken him to the village? And why did his absence create a hollow feeling beneath her ribs that had no business existing?
She barely tasted her food, consuming it in a practised manner as her mind circled questions that would not be answered until he returned.
After dinner, the ladies withdrew to the drawing room. Georgiana claimed her for further discussion, leading her to a quieter corner where they might speak without interruption. Their conversation ranged across topics both serious and trivial, such as books they had read and wished to read and places they hoped to see.
A short while later, more people began drifting in the direction of their chambers. Georgiana embraced Elizabeth before departing, extracting a promise that they would walk together again tomorrow if the weather permitted.
Elizabeth made her way upstairs, her steps slowing as she approached the chamber she shared with Fitzwilliam. She pushed open the door and paused on the threshold, taking in the space with fresh awareness.
She had registered the beauty of the room peripherally before but had been too anxious to truly appreciate it. Now, in the lamplight, she noted the quality of the furnishings. Cream walls complemented by silk hangings and a thick carpet that muffled footsteps.
But without Fitzwilliam’s presence, the space felt incomplete. Lonely, despite its comfort. It was as if the room were waiting, suspended, for its proper occupants to return and animate it with their presence.
She moved to the dressing room behind the lacquered screen, changing into her nightgown. She selected one of her prettier nightdresses, made of white cotton with delicate embroidery at the neckline, and left her hair loose about her shoulders rather than braiding it for sleep.
Georgiana’s words had further improved her image of Fitzwilliam as someone capable of devotion and putting others’ needs before his own comfort. And his defence of her that morning had been borne from an authentic conviction that she deserved respect and protection.
She would thank him for that and initiate the meaningful conversation. She would take the first step towards building the partnership they both needed for their marriage to bloom into a joyous union.
Resolved, Elizabeth sat in the chair near the fire. The flames crackled pleasantly, casting dancing shadows across the walls and ceiling.
The clock on the mantel marked time with steady precision. He would return soon, surely.
She waited, rehearsing words in her mind.Thank you for defending me before Lady Catherine. Thank you for making it clear that I matter to you.
The fire burned steadily. Elizabeth shifted position, her back beginning to protest the chair’s elegant but not entirely comfortable design.
Perhaps they had been delayed. She fought against drooping eyelids, determined to remain awake. This conversation mattered too much to postpone. She would wait however long necessary.
More time passed with no sound of arrival. Elizabeth’s eyes had grown heavy, her body relaxing into the chair’s embrace even as her mind insisted on remaining alert.
The fire burned lower. Exhaustion pulled at her with inexorable force and sleep crept over her in waves, pulling her under despite her desperate attempts at resistance.
Chapter Fifteen
Darcy
When Darcy returned that night and opened their chamber door, he smiled. Elizabeth sat in the chair near the hearth, her head tilted at an angle that would undoubtedly produce a crick in her neck come morning. One hand rested in her lap, the other dangled over the chair arm.
She had waited for him.
Whether from concern or courtesy, he could not determine. But she had waited, and the gesture mattered more than he could adequately articulate.
He moved closer, studying her sleeping face in the firelight. The tension that had at times marked her features during waking hours had smoothed away, leaving her looking younger and softer. Her lips were slightly parted and the firelight painted gold across her cheekbone.
She looked stunning like this, unguarded and peaceful.
He ought to wake her and allow her to move to the bed under her own power. But watching her sleep in that chair, uncomfortable despite her apparent oblivion, he could not bring himself to disturb her rest simply to preserve some unspoken notion of propriety.
Surely, carrying her a few feet from chair to mattress did not constitute unforgivable presumption.
