“I see,” I said humbly.
I was very far out of my depth if I did not know that a woman does not want a reasonable answer to anything when she is crying. And if I had not been deeply engaged in the enacting of this drama, I might have even laughed. But Elizabeth was still raging at me, so I focused on her despairing little face.
“You donotsee!” she said on an angry sob. “I have fallen in love with Pemberley, with your sister, and with Auntie a-and—”
“And?”
“Oh, who have I not come to care for? There is Ruth and Sam and Penny and Maggie…”
I could not help it. I felt moved to press her, because her list had become ridiculous, and I thought I might coax her to confess.
“Is there no one else?” I asked in a near whisper ripe with the passion I felt for her.
I may as well have slapped her to her senses. She sat up, briskly wiped away her tears, and spoke with extreme vexation at my stupidity.
“Oh, how can you be so wicked as to press me for what you know I cannot say? How can you not know it? How can you not know who else I love?
Then, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she uttered a little cry that bespoke her feelings most clearly. “It is hopeless, sir. Hopeless! I wish you would go away!”
It is a dangerous thing to interpret such a command from a weeping woman. I did not know whether I should honor her wish or ignore it. Perhaps if I could have moved, I would have left her alone. But there was one final service I could provide in that moment of her extreme despair and that was to warn her that Parker would find her in such a state—and very soon if I were not mistaken.
She almost leapt out of the chair in which I had put her, and I, too, rose to my feet. With a few swift, nervous movements, she brushed back her hair, pressed her swollen eyes with her fingertips, reclaimed her bonnet from the floor, and held it by the ribbons. She was on the verge of flying away again, so I quickly grasped her hand and took it to my lips.
“Do you trust me, Elizabeth?” I asked.
She looked at me with heartbreaking sincerity and sorrowfully declined to partake of any hope I offered.
“I can ask no more of you, Mr. Darcy. I have had the most marvelous tramp, and now, as Marcus Aurelius suggests, I shall know I have‘lived my life, and I must now take what is left—’”
I loved her too much to let her leave without trying to raise her spirits. “He has also said,” I told her softly, “to dwell on the beauty of life.‘Watch the stars and see yourself running with them.’”
“God bless you, sir,” she replied on a sob, and then she was gone.
Chapter Forty
If I had been asked before that moment what my feelings would be upon standing in the gallery looking outherwindow at the coach as it retreated through the valley, up the hill, and out of my sight around the bend, I would have said my despair would have matched hers equally.
But in that silent space, I felt the greatest peace of my life. It fell over me in waves of blessed silence, and from within I felt the oddest stirring—that of a nascent, causeless joy. Our story was as good as written, and we were already running with the stars. I knew in no uncertain terms what I would next do.
After indulging in five minutes of this transcendent state, I went to my sister’s room. She had passed through the worst of her grief and was nursing a few stray tears and sniffing back the rest.
“Come out for an airing with me,” I said. “We have not ridden in an age, and though it is muddy, wet, and cold, I think it would be pleasant.”
She looked up sharply, surprised. “Mrs. Reynolds does not like it when I ride in winter.”
“She need not know until we are in our saddles and trotting away from her. You can endure a little scold, surely.”
This was the medicine that was needed—an adventure and a naughty one at that. I sent a surreptitious note to the stable master, Georgiana called for her maid and changed into her riding habit, and we slipped down the steps at the far end of the hall. When we came out by the steward’s office, we dashed across the hall like truants and escaped out the side door.
My sister was giggling almost uncontrollably as I tossed her up in her saddle, and we cantered away into a misting rain that was sweeping over the lake. I followed Georgiana, who whipped back her curls and tightened her muffler, and we broke into a gallop. The freezing air and cold rain blew through us, ridding us of the memory of those airless and confining hours we had just survived. The noise of a gallop in a mist was strikingly loud, and as we thundered through puddles, our horses took in enormous gulps of air and huffed out plumes of fog.
She let out a whoop of exhilaration, and I broke into a shout of laughter. We rode nearly to the chalk hills, slowed to a canter, and then to a trot.
“You are covered in mud!” she said, looking over at me with ruddy cheeks and brilliant, laughing eyes.
“So are you, miss,” I replied with playful stiffness.
“No! Am I?” Georgiana’s eyes swept downward. “Goodness, I shall be in such trouble!”
