Elizabeth considered. “Partly. But it was Jane's that occupied me most. Her hand is as affectionate as ever, yet I cannot help feeling there is something behind her cheerfulness.Every page assures me she is well, yet I finish it less easy than when I began.”
Madeline's needle moved steadily through the cloth. “She has always been anxious to spare others concern.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth drew her thread through the linen. “That is precisely it. If she were unhappy, she would be the last to confess it.” She paused. “I told myself it was only fancy, but this morning it pressed upon me again. I almost wish I could ask her plainly what troubles her, though I know she would deny it. I even spoke of it this morning upon the beach.”
Madeline lifted her eyes from her work. “Upon the beach?”
Elizabeth drew her needle through the cloth. “It was nothing. I happened to meet Mr. Darcy by chance, and our talk fell upon letters. He spoke a little further of your cousin the Colonel and of their long attachment. It seemed only fair that I should say Jane's letter had left me uneasy.”
“Fortunate, then, that your walks coincided this morning.”
“Yes. Fortunate.”
For several moments neither spoke.
“And was this the first time you spoke to him upon the beach?”
Elizabeth's hand paused.
“No. We spoke once before. It was after our first dinner. Only a few words. Nothing of consequence. We mentioned the water. I said the shore was very fine at dawn. He answered that he had been invited to tea and would be glad of it.”
“So this is the second morning you have come upon him.”
“The second time that we spoke.”
Madeline set aside her sewing. “I remember him as an early riser. He rode at daybreak whenever he could. Aunt Deborah said he kept the habit. Yet there is no riding here. Yesterday I asked whether you had seen Mr. Darcy before the night of our dinner, and you told me only of the theatre.”
Elizabeth's hand trembled. She could not lie; she could only hold back what she was not ready to yield. “I did not mean to be secret,” she said in a low voice. “I was not ready to speak. When I speak of what pleases me, it often changes. I do not know why. It has always been so.”
“Lizzy, pray be at ease,” said Madeline. “I only wish to understand you. Tell me what you can, and nothing more.”
Elizabeth drew a breath. “The first time I saw him by the sea, I was surprised beyond sense. I had gone out very early. You know my foolish habit. I climbed to a flat rock and looked out. It was so peaceful that, on impulse, I untied my bonnet and set it beside me.”
“Your bonnet,” said Madeline.
“Yes.” A distant recollection crossed her face. “A breeze came and carried it away. I reached for it too late. It fell to the sand, and before I could descend, Mr. Darcy had taken it up. He stood below with it in his hand.”
“Did you know him then?” asked Madeline.
“I did not. I had seen him only across the theatre and could not be certain. We did not exchange more than civility. I thanked him. He bowed. It was all perfectly proper. James was near.”
“And the next morning?”
“I was coming away as he arrived. We did not speak; we only bowed. That evening you introduced us at dinner. The following morning we met again and exchanged a few courtesies. He saidhe would be glad to wait upon us at tea. This morning we spoke more at length.”
Madeline was silent for a moment.
“You are saying that you have seen him every morning since we arrived.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Lizzy.” Madeline reached across and touched her hand. “What is it that you fear?”
Elizabeth looked down at the linen in her lap. “I do not know. Only that if I speak of it, I shall spoil it. I am sorry, Aunt. I ought to have told you when you asked, but I could not bring myself to do it.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” said Madeline. “The rules of society exist for our good; your uncle and I wish only what is best for you. We do ask for frankness between us. You need not fear to speak your mind, my dear.”
“I want to believe that.”
