If there was even the smallest chance that he might encounter her—
He would take it.
And this time, he thought, his hand resting lightly against the back of a chair as his resolve steadied,
He would not be misunderstood.
Chapter Fifteen
Darcy did not wait for the house to stir before he rose the following morning. Sleep had come to him only in fragments, interrupted at irregular intervals by thoughts that refused to settle into any kind of rest. Each time he closed his eyes, he found himself returned to the same moment—the same strained look in Elizabeth Bennet’s countenance, the same sharp insistence in her voice as she rejected what she believed his regard to be. The words she had spoken had not been excessive, nor had they been unmeasured, but they had carried a conviction that left no room for easy dismissal.
I do not want your pity.
The accusation lingered with uncomfortable directness. He had not intended to give her cause to think it. Indeed, the very notion ran counter to everything he felt. Yet intention, he had learned, was not always sufficient to prevent misinterpretation. He had spoken of her endurance, her strength, her ability to meet circumstance without surrender, believing that in doingso he acknowledged what was most worthy in her. Instead, he had revealed precisely the ground upon which her defenses were built.
He had not offended her by cruelty. He had offended her by misunderstanding.
Darcy stood for some moments beside the window of his chamber, the faint gray of morning stretching across the lawns below. The rain had passed in the night, leaving the world washed and still, the air holding that particular freshness that followed a storm. The sky remained overcast, though there was light enough to mark the shape of the day.
He did not hesitate long.
There are moments, he thought, when hesitation becomes its own form of failure. To leave matters as they stood—to allow her to continue in the belief that his regard was founded upon pity—would be to confirm the very thing he most wished to refute.
He prepared himself meticulously yet without undue haste, foregoing the assistance of his valet, and departed his residence prior to the full commencement of the household staff's morning duties. The corridors were still, the quiet of the early hour unbroken by movement or conversation. When he stepped outside, the cool air met him at once, and he drew it in deeply, welcoming its clarity.
The path toward Longbourn had become familiar in recent weeks, though he had seldom walked it alone. The fields stretched before him, softened by the rain, though not so much as to hinder his progress. Each step carried him further from the ordered comfort of Netherfield and nearer to something far less certain.
He did not question where he was going. Not truly.
There was a place she favored and had spoken of in passing. A rise of ground not far from Longbourn, marked by a lowstone wall and open enough to catch the fullest measure of the morning light when it appeared.
Oakham Mount. It was a reasonable supposition. It proved a correct one. She stood near the crest, just beyond the low stone wall, her figure turned toward the pale brightness that filtered through the clouded sky.
Darcy slowed as he approached, not wishing to startle her, though something in her stillness suggested she was already aware of her surroundings in a way that required no abrupt movement to disturb.
For a moment, he did not speak.
He allowed himself the brief indulgence of observing her as she stood, the light falling unevenly across her features, softening the contrast he had once found difficult to reconcile and now scarcely noticed as anything other than part of her. There was a sort of composure in her posture, though it did not possess the ease he had seen in her on other mornings. One of her hands rested lightly at her side. The other held a handkerchief, the fabric drawn slightly taut between her fingers.
She had not come merely to enjoy the air, that much was evident.
Darcy stepped forward. “Miss Bennet.”
She turned then, not abruptly, but with the measured awareness he had come to recognize. Her head inclined just enough to bring him into clearer view, her expression composed, though not entirely at ease.
“Mr. Darcy.” Her voice held its usual steadiness, though he thought he detected something beneath it—something guarded, not unkind, but cautious.
He inclined his head in return, then moved closer, coming to rest beside the low stone wall. After a moment’s hesitation, he seated himself upon it, leaving a small space between them,sufficient for propriety, though not so much as to suggest distance.
The stone retained a faint chill from the night, though it would warm quickly once the sun broke through.
Neither spoke at once.
The silence that settled between them was not empty. It carried the weight of the previous day, of words spoken in haste and those left unsaid, of an understanding that had faltered at the very moment it might have begun to form.
Darcy drew a breath. “I was wrong.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened slightly upon the handkerchief. “In what respect?” she asked.
