“Miss Bennet!” He straightened, his dark eyes fixed on her. “What are you doing here?”
“I… I came to obtain a book,” she stammered. “I am sorry if I disturbed you.”
For a moment he only stared, his brow still furrowed. Then, with visible effort, he became less taut. “No, not at all. Forgive me. It is I who should apologize for my ungracious welcome.”
Elizabeth shifted uneasily. “I think I had better return to my chambers.”
He walked towards her. Her heartbeat hammered inside her chest as the space between them narrowed.
“I hope the events of these past two days have not ruined your opinion of Rosings,” he said, his voice lower, more controlled. “Mrs. Collins will surely miss your company if you choose not to visit her again.”
Elizabeth replied with caution, her every sense alert. “And I shall miss her, should that happen. I do hope Mr. Collins finds a new living closer to her family.”
“I suppose that is proof of your attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond Longbourn would appear too far for you.” He took another step forward. A smile ghosted across his lips, yet it still seemed edged with menace.
“Excuse me, sir, it is quite late, and I should like to retire.” She retreated, eager to create distance.
The crease between Mr. Darcy’s brows deepened. “Of course, forgive me. Allow me to accompany you. The halls are dark.”
“No!” She blurted out the word, unable to mask her alarm. Catching herself at once, she added in a more generous tone, “Pray, do not trouble yourself. I know the way.”
His face shifted, first to confusion, then to something unreadable. “You seem uneasy. Have I done something to offend you?”
“Not at all, sir.” She attempted a smile, though her pulse thudded painfully. “I am merely unsettled by all that has happened.”
“Of course. As we all are.” A new intensity was in his tone. “And yet, you seem frightened of me in particular. Why? Do you believe I had some part in my aunt’s death?”
“Why should I think that?” She gulped. The speed of his suspicion, the ease with which he leaned towards guilt made her even more distrustful.
He scoffed bitterly. “Fitzwilliam accused me outright. Was ityourdoing? Did you tell him you saw me in the gallery that night?”
“No!” Her throat tightened. “Pray. . . let me go, and I shall not speak of this conversation. I—”
“You do!” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “You truly believe I killed her.”
All she could do was shake her head, but his gaze held her fast, demanding more than denial.
He took a step back, a bitter laugh escaping him. “I see. It does not matter what I say, does it? Your judgement has already passed.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, forcing herself to hold his gaze. For the first time since Lady Catherine’s death, doubt gnawed at the edges of her certainty. Had she been too hasty? Perhaps. And yet, her instincts warned her not to be easily swayed. “I am sorry if I have offended you, sir. That was not my intention. But these past few days have been so strange—this terrible storm, your aunt’s death—and I am not accustomed to such events. I fear they may have clouded my discernment.”
She turned to go, but Mr. Darcy’s voice stopped her.
“What you saw is not what you think.”
Elizabeth froze, though she did not turn back. “I saw nothing of consequence.”
“Then why are you so affected by my presence?” His voice was almost pleading. “I believe I have earned the right to know, having been judged so unfairly.”
Her fingers curled at her sides. He was entreating her, urging her towards a confrontation she was not ready to face. Slowly, Elizabeth turned around. She took a steadying breath, then spoke, each word deliberate, her gaze never leaving his. “Your aunt. . . I know she was pressing you to marry Miss de Bourgh. I overheard your quarrel with her the night she died. She threatened to expose damaging information about your sister, letters I believe, if you did not yield to her demands.”
Mr. Darcy went still.
She had expected immediate protest—denial, perhaps even outrage. But instead, he was silent. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet, restrained.
“Although it still pains me, I understand now where your suspicions lie. That might have been reason enough for anyone, but not for me. I am not a criminal. I did not kill my aunt.”
Elizabeth’s lips pressed into a thin line. In truth, to believe him innocent was her secret desire. This unnerved her. But his words alone were not enough.
