But now, walking alone through the Bath streets with only her thoughts for company, she asked herself the same question—and found she could not answer it.
There was no denying that she was not indifferent to him anymore. That much was certain. But what she felt in place of indifference, she could not name. Admiration, perhaps, for his kindness to her family. Respect for his humility in admitting his mistakes. Curiosity about the man beneath the proud exterior.
And yet—and yet she wished, hoped even, that he would say something. Anything about the Wickham affair that might justify his actions, or at the very least explain them.
The thought that Mr. Wickham might be proven a liar terrified her. It would mean her judgment had been catastrophically flawed. It would mean she had wronged Mr. Darcy in ways she could never adequately atone for.
Elizabeth had walked for more than a quarter hour, so lost in thought that she scarcely noticed her surroundings, when movement caught her eye.
A small girl played in a garden visible through an open gate, chasing a butterfly with a stuffed doll clutched in one hand. White gauze was wrapped around her other hand, suggesting an injury not yet fully healed. She laughed as she ran—a bright, musical sound that made Elizabeth smile despite her troubled thoughts.
The girl turned, and Elizabeth's breath caught.
That face. She knew that face.
Realization struck with the force of a physical blow. This was the child from the fire. The little girl Mr. Darcy had carried down the ladder, shielded in his arms while flames raged around them.
She looked well—healthy and whole, with no apparent lasting harm from her ordeal. But there was something else about her face, something oddly familiar that had nothing to do with glimpsing her through smoke and panic. Elizabeth had seen her only briefly during the rescue, and yet—
She could not place why the child seemed so known to her.
Curiosity and sympathy both urged her forward. Before she could think better of it, Elizabeth stepped through the gate and approached the garden.
"Good afternoon," she called softly, not wishing to startle the child.
The girl looked up, her eyes wide and curious. She was perhaps five or six years old, with dark curls that escaped from beneath her small bonnet and a face that would one day be quite pretty.
"Hello," the child said, clutching her doll more tightly.
"I hope I am not intruding," Elizabeth said, coming closer. "I wanted to see how you were faring. I was present when the fire occurred. I saw you rescued."
The girl tilted her head, studying Elizabeth with the frank assessment of the young. "I don't remember seeing you, miss."
"No, you would not. It was all very frightening and confusing, I am sure." Elizabeth smiled gently. "I am new in Bath. I have been here only a short while."
"We've been here forever," the girl declared with a child's sense of time. "Well, not forever. But a long while. Mama says we shall go home soon, but I like it here."
"And how is your hand?" Elizabeth nodded toward the bandage. "Does it pain you much?"
"Not anymore. It hurt terribly at first, but the doctor gave me medicine, and Mr. Darcy brought me sweets to make me feel better."
Elizabeth's heart gave an unexpected leap at the mention of his name. "Mr. Darcy is...a friend of mine. He mentioned he had called to enquire after you."
How strange it felt to call him her friend. And yet, what else could she name him?
The girl's face brightened. "Oh, Mr. Darcy is wonderful! He comes to see us ever so often. He makes sure Mama and I have everything we need. Mama says he's been so good to us, we couldn't manage without him."
Something cold settled in Elizabeth’s stomach. “He…takes care of your needs?” she asked quietly.
She had believed Mr. Darcy’s rescue of the girl and her maid from the fire to be a mere act of passing generosity—nothing more than a gentleman’s momentary kindness toward a struggling household. Never had she imagined he had known them for years.
"Oh yes. He always visits when he can, because mama says he is very busy. And he brings me things—books and toys and sweets. Mama says he's very good to us." The child hugged her doll tighter, then added with the guileless confidence of the very young, "Papa always makes sure we have what we need."
Elizabeth's breath stopped. "Papa?"
"Yes. Papa takes care of everything. Mama says we're ever so fortunate."
The world tilted. "Your...your papa," Elizabeth repeated faintly, trying to understand. "You mean—Mr. Darcy is your—"
