Though she did not call out, nor make any overt display, her presence there was not to be mistaken. Bingley raised his hand slightly; she returned it with a gentleness that might have escaped notice – had anyone been less inclined to observe it.
Darcy, who had witnessed the exchange, allowed himself the faintest recollection of his former amusement. He had once thought such behaviour… imprudent. He had even smiled at it.
At that moment, however, as his own horse shifted beneath him, he found – without entirely intending it – that his gaze had turned in a similar direction.
Elizabeth was there.
Not at the window, but just beyond the entrance door, where she had paused, as though unwilling to be wholly absent from their departure.
Their eyes met. For a brief instant, he did not move. Then, with a composure that was not entirely untouched by feeling, he inclined his head – and raised his hand in acknowledgement.
Elizabeth smiled. It was not a display, nor meant for others, but he saw it.
Darcy turned away at last. They set forward.
But before they had gone far, he looked back once more.
She was still there.
Something in that quiet constancy – her remaining, when she might so easily have withdrawn – settled upon him with a force he did not attempt to examine.
This time, he did not raise his hand. He only looked. And then, at last, turned away. He shook his head, though without any real wish to amend it.
Chapter 25
The Day It Cleared
The rain began in the night and did not cease.
By Sunday morning, the roads were rendered nearly impassable, and the idea of attending church was abandoned with little ceremony, though not without disappointment in some quarters. By Monday, the steady fall had settled into a grey persistence; by Tuesday, it seemed as though the skies had resolved never to clear again.
At Netherfield, the confinement was not borne equally.
Bingley contrived to remain cheerful. He read, wrote letters, and walked from window to window with a hopeful air, as though the clouds might part out of civility if he regarded them kindly enough.
Darcy did not pretend to such patience.
He made it his object to avoid Miss Bingley and her complaints – or her pointed attentions. He played billiards when he must or retreated to his room whenever he could. He had taken up a book more than once and laid it aside again with increasingbrevity. He answered all of his correspondence – and more – but time and the weather seemed equally determined to oppose him.
He could never have imagined that he would one day wish himself under the same roof as Mrs. Bennet. Yet, so it was.
With all his heart, he wished to be with the Bennet family – and above all, with Elizabeth.Yes, Elizabeth, he thought,not Miss Elizabeth anymore.
More than once, he closed his eyes and allowed himself the indulgence of imagining her.
He saw her smiling at him – arch, playful, and unguarded. He saw her in the garden, standing her ground against Wickham with courage that had both surprised and impressed him. He saw the moment after – her composure shaken yet not lost; her turning to him, not in weakness, but in trust.
He saw her as she had stood before him only days before – her composure not quite what she intended it to be, her eyes bright, her manner at once steady and unguarded.
He recalled her words – her frankness, her refusal to soften what must be said – qualities which had first provoked him, and now… held him fast.
And then… the memory altered.
He saw her expression when he had withdrawn too soon – the faintest pout, half playful, half reproachful. She could not have known what restraint it had cost him. He would not abuse the Bennets’ hospitality – no matter how strongly he might have wished otherwise.
And then the second time…
He drew a slow breath.
