“I should be glad to walk with you,” he heard himself say.
The fingers loosened on the crutch.
“Tomorrow?” she said.
“Tomorrow, if the weather holds. Mrs Hadley will give her opinion of the sky at breakfast and we may be guided by her.”
“You are very obliging, Mr Darcy.”
“I am, occasionally, useful.”
“Only occasionally?”
“I economise my usefulness. It lasts longer that way.”
She laughed—the short, low laugh he had heard at intervals over the past six weeks and never grown used to, the laugh that belonged to a woman who had been at ease in drawing rooms before his and would be at ease in drawing rooms after. It went through him exactly as it had always gone through him. He permitted himself to name it—once, coldly, as one names a recurring symptom—and moved on.
She began to rise.
She did it awkwardly. The crutch caught on the footstool and threatened to twist under her, and she made a small sound of vexation, and his hand was at her elbow before he had decided his hand should be anywhere. He took her weight for the second it took her to find the crutch, and she leaned against his arm in that second and the second after it, which was longer than she needed to.
She did not mean anything by the second extra second. He knew she did not. Her balance was not yet what it was. She was simply taking help where it was offered.
“Thank you,” she said, placing the crutch under her properly and stepping back.
Chapter Thirty
Theweatherheld.Itwas cold. It was dry. It was as mild as late February in Derbyshire was ever likely to give them, and if any of them meant to improve upon it by waiting, they would wait until April and serve no one.
Darcy had already resolved that they would go.
He had resolved it yesterday in the study after she left his room. He had resolved it again at five o’clock this morning on the settee, lying with the fire gone down and the unlit lamp on the desk at his feet, and that resolving had been less a decision than a line he had drawn beyond which he would not retreat. He would walk with her. He would hear whatever she offered. He would not give her the letter in the drawer.
By nine she was at the parlour door in Mrs Marsden’s grey cloak and her own darker shawl under it and a bonnet he suspected was also Mrs Marsden’s, with the crutch angled under her right arm and her left hand gloved.
She was not looking at him when he came to the passage. She was looking at the door.
“If the ground is wet,” he said, “we return at the first turning.”
“You have my word, sir”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
The yard was paved, swept of leaves, colder in the shadow of the north wall than the sun had yet had time to warm. She set the crutch on the paving and stepped onto the yard-stones carefully—good foot first, crutch braced, wounded leg following. She drew breath once as her weight came onto it and let the breath out and went on.
He walked at her pace.
The stones of the yard gave way to the packed earth of the path that ran behind the lower wall, and her pace adjusted to the new surface—a little slower, the crutch set with more care. He had offered her his arm as they cleared the yard. She had taken it. He held his arm at the angle that made the contact easiest for her. He held his face at the angle that made it possible for him to look at the path and not at her.
“Is the leg holding?” he asked.
“The leg is holding. Though I note with interest that Mrs Hadley provisioned you against its failure and not me. I am to faint. You are to deliver me home with the oilcloth and the cordial. It is a very efficient division of labour.”
“She has given me the cordial because she has satisfied herself that I shall not drink it myself.”
“That is a serious slander on the cordial, Mr Darcy.”
“It is an accurate assessment of Mrs Hadley’s kitchen.”
