Hewitt enjoyed the early morning air and the prospect, and Darcy enjoyed the peculiar liberty of speaking aloud to someone who could not hear him.
It was, he had discovered, remarkably liberating.
And this morning, following yesterday's encounter with Miss Elizabeth in Bath and the tempest it had unleashed within him, he found himself positively desperate to unburden his heart tosomeone—anyone—even if that someone could not hear a word of it.
"Good morning," Darcy said, settling onto the bench.
Hewitt nodded amiably and made a series of quick gestures—pointing toward the lower town, then mimicking flames with his fingers, his eyebrows raised in question.
Darcy's attempts at signing in return were abysmal at best. He made a clumsy motion meant to indicate "yes" and "safe," though he suspected Hewitt tolerated his inadequate efforts more out of kindness than comprehension.
Instead, Darcy simply nodded firmly and pointed to himself, then made a gesture he hoped conveyed "helped."
Hewitt seemed satisfied and returned his attention to his book, giving Darcy the privacy to simply sit in silence if he chose.
But today, silence would not serve. Darcy cast a quick glance about the path, ensuring no early morning strollers were near enough to witness him conversing with a gentleman who could not hear him. Satisfied they remained unobserved, he continued speaking, though a wry part of his mind acknowledged that had Hewitt possessed the faculty of hearing, the poor man would be justified in begging him to cease repeating the same wretched tale.
"I saw her yesterday," Darcy said quietly, staring out at the elegant curve of the Crescent. "Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Here. In Bath."
Hewitt turned a page, oblivious.
"I had convinced myself I would never see her again. That was the compact I made with myself when I quitted Kent—that if I could not have her regard, I would at least have distance from the reminder of my failure."
Darcy's hands tightened upon his knees. "It is the reason I did not follow Bingley back to Hertfordshire when he asked it of me. I did not wish to be anywhere near her."
A breeze rustled through the nearby trees. Hewitt looked up briefly, noted the movement of leaves, and looked down again.
"And yet there she was yesterday. Standing before a burning building, too near to danger. Her headstrong independence made her as heedless of her own safety as ever."
Darcy pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I pushed her out of the way when the roof fell. I did not think. I simply acted. And when I looked down and saw her there, covered in dust and ash, staring up at me with those eyes—Providence is playing some cruel trick upon me. It must be. What else could explain it?"
Hewitt shifted slightly, adjusting his spectacles.
"I apologise for burdening you with these details repeatedly," Darcy said. "I wish I could speak of all this with Bingley, but that good fellow has a lamentable propensity to talk excessively. Within a sennight all of Bath would know my business."
He exhaled slowly. "And Georgiana—I wish I could confide in my sister, but she is too young yet to comprehend such matters. Moreover, Miss Elizabeth's accusations against me included much about Wickham, and I will not pain Georgiana with that name. She has suffered enough from that quarter."
Hewitt turned another page, absorbed in whatever philosophical treatise occupied his morning.
"Proposing to her was impulsive," Darcy admitted. "I had not planned it. I had come to Rosings intending only to wait upon my aunt, to escape the questions at London every time someone mentioned Hertfordshire. But then she was there at the parsonage, and I could not keep away."
He paused, remembering.
"After she came to dinner at my aunt's, I could not stop myself from staring at those eyes. God, those eyes. I cannot get them out of my head even now."
He gave a short, bitter laugh.
"I went to her one late afternoon and poured out my mind. But I have had time to reflect, and I see now where I was wrong.
“I nearly insulted her family. I made it plain that I was offering myself against my better judgment, against reason, against everything that should have prevented me from even contemplating her."
"And as you know,” Darcy's voice grew quieter, “she refused me. Rightfully so. She told me I was the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to marry."
The words still stung, even now.
"I wrote her a letter the next day," Darcy continued quietly. "An explanation. Everything about Wickham. Everything about my interference with Bingley and Miss Bennet. A defense, perhaps, though I have no excuse for how I conducted myself."
He looked down at his hands. "I left it upon a stone bench and walked a few paces away, hoping she would take it. She did not. She simply walked past it and went her way. I had to return immediately to retrieve it lest a maid discover it and blow things out of proportion, or worse still, my aunt find it."
