For Darcy’s part, he was clinging to logic—seeking explanation. She knew too much. And yet her sorrow, her sincerity, even her confusion seemed real. Too real for games. He could not reconcile her knowledge with artifice.
At last, he spoke, though his voice had cooled.
“I am glad to hear your sister is well.”
Elizabeth offered a soft smile, sensing something had shifted, though she did not know what.
“Yes,” she said gently, “she was much heartened by the encounter. Thank you, again, for telling me.”
He inclined his head but said no more. The walk concluded with an awkwardness neither could dispel.
As they reached the lane that led back to the parsonage, Elizabeth looked at him once more, searching his face for a clue to the change she had not meant to cause.
He bid her good day with his usual courtesy, but it was the distance in his voice that lingered.
She remained where she was, watching him walk away, a strange ache blooming in her chest.
What did I say?she wondered. But the question echoed into silence, and no answer came.
Chapter 34
Elizabeth had risen that morning with hope fluttering in her chest. The walks of the past few days had drawn her nearer to Fitzwilliam Darcy than she had dared to imagine. Their conversations—sometimes light, sometimes taut with unspoken thought—had rekindled in her a feeling both familiar and dearly missed. Foolish though it may be, she had begun to hope that he, too, felt the same.
If yesterday’s walk had not ended as warmly as she had wished, she told herself it must be due to some passing concern—some momentary shadow across his otherwise attentive manner. She had replayed their final exchange in her mind again and again,searching for the misstep that might explain the subtle but unmistakable shift in his demeanor. Something had changed. And though she could not name it, she feared it might be her fault.
Still, she longed to see him again. Perhaps today, she thought, would offer another chance to mend the invisible thread between them. With that silent hope nestled beneath her heart, she took once more to the path that had become her own—the winding trail through Rosings Park, shaded and still glistening with spring’s early dew.
But it was not Fitzwilliam Darcy who appeared at the bend beneath the tall elms.
Colonel Fitzwilliam approached with his usual easy stride and ready smile, and Elizabeth was quick to conceal her disappointment.
“I did not know before that you ever walked this way,” she said, recovering her composure with practiced ease.
“I have been making my usual tour of the park,” he replied, “as I do every spring, and thought to end it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”
“No, I had meant to turn back just here,” she said, offering a polite smile though her thoughts were elsewhere. A thousand half-formed reflections swirled in her mind—on Darcy, on yesterday, and on what unguarded word or glance might have led him to retreat from her.
They walked on a few paces in companionable silence, until the Colonel glanced at her, his tone still light but laced with something more deliberate.
You know, Miss Bennet,” he said, “I’ve always thought you a woman of uncommon insight.”
She tilted her head with a faint laugh. “Is that so? I daresay my sisters would disagree.”
“Ah, but I mean it seriously,” he said, his gaze sharpening with interest. “You seem to read people exceedingly well. Even my cousin—who is not, I must say, the easiest man to understand.”
Her heart gave a small lurch. She tucked it away behind another smile. “Mr. Darcy does not hide his thoughts quite so well as he believes. With a little patience, one might come to understand him.”
He made a small, thoughtful noise, and for a moment, they walked in silence again—though Elizabeth sensed the pause was purposeful, not idle.
Then: “You know, Miss Bennet,” he said again, almost as if continuing a thread only he could see, “I hope you’ll forgive a cousin’s partiality when I speak well of Darcy. But I’ve always admired how deeply he cares for those he considers his own.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, her composure intact—but something in her chest tensed. The turn in his tone was too subtle to accuse, but not so faint as to ignore.
“Yes,” he continued, “he is a most steadfast guardian to Georgiana, and as dear to me as any brother. I should not hesitate to defend either of them against any threat—real or imagined.” His voice held a genial note, but his eyes searched hers.
Elizabeth met his gaze evenly, the corners of her mouth lifting in a composed smile. “You need not fear on their account, Colonel. I assure you, I mean no harm to Mr. Darcy or Miss Darcy.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam did not smile. His brow furrowed with a soldier’s intent—not brusque, but deliberate, as though she had drawn his focus to a particular ridge he now meant to inspect for weakness.
