Clearly, she wished to speak to me privately, to unburden herself of some thought or other.But more striking was the awareness that after the events of the previous night, she trusted me, and this was close enough to love to fill me with a strong determination to earn her affection.
“Would you care to step out for a little air?” I asked.
“I would be grateful, sir,” she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Perhaps the cold will relieve my head.”
We stepped out into a chill breeze. I helped her across the gutter, and we walked between the ruts in the road, heading away from the village and toward a vast patch of scrub bushes—thescrubberyas Richard was known to call it in our youth.
Miss Bennet was silent until we were past the hearing of my coachman and groom, who were walking the horses behind us. And then, with a delicate clearing of her throat, she stopped and turned to me.
“I have no right to ask this of you—”
“Let us settle it that between us we do not speak of rights or obligations. If I can be of service to you, I shall do so without hesitation.”
She looked downcast. “I do not deserve such kindness. I have not always been civil to—”
Again, I interrupted. “And to that list of rights and obligations, let us add the idea of deservedness. I abhor the notion, for it casts me in the role of judge. I should mention that I had a great uncle who was a judge of the high court, and I did not like him at all.”
She smiled though it was but a ghost of her normally beaming expression. “Very well. I wonder whether I might yet avail Mrs. Jennings and myself of Pemberley’s hospitality, sir.”
“Ah, but I neveroffered, did I? Iannouncedmy plan without thinking to ask and thereby guaranteed a rejection. Might I now ask whether you would like to be our guests?”
“I am afraid I never want to sleep in that house again, Mr. Darcy,” she admitted sheepishly.
“I would wager that is not the most charming house in which to sleep,” I replied lightly, and with that we began to walk at a gentle pace conducive to the rhythm of our quiet conversation.
“I believe my tramp in the wilds of Lambton has come to an inglorious end,” she said.
I could not help but smile at the lady’s forlorn pronouncement though her head was turned away and she looked impassively at the brambles now bare and sodden.
“Perhaps I should relate that not all tramps end in a triumphant return home.”
“No?”
“I was once carried home on a litter.”
“Were you? But what happened? Were you injured?”
“Nothing so interesting. I had—um, let us say, a stomach ailment. The less said the better.”
She smiled. “I suppose you were foraging for sustenance?”
“Hmm. There are some things that are indigestible.”
“And how did your family find you?”
“In a moaning heap and well after dark the dayafterI was told to be home.”
“They must have been frantic.”
“Oh, indeed. They were so afraid for me that, after the doctor declared I might just survive, I was sent to my room in disgrace.”
She chuckled and then said, “You should not make me laugh, sir. It hurts my head most abominably. Were you indeed punished? I would have thought your illness would have been sufficient consequence.”
“Do you know—I was of the same mind,” I said, swiveling to look at her directly. “Should we turn back? How is your head?”
“I expect to live. The cold is providing a bit of relief.”
“I am glad to hear it. When would you like to come to Pemberley?”
