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Elizabeth
Elizabeth had not even intended to go to Oakham Mount that morning until sleep eluded her all night.
Two days of turning Caroline Bingley's words over in her mind had made the walls of Longbourn feel considerably closer than usual. Jane had noticed despite Elizabeth's best efforts to appear normal, but she had managed to convince her that her nerves were merely unsettled and that nothing was amiss. It was the only explanation she could offer. How foolish would it sound to admit that she had been vain enough to believe Mr. Darcy regarded her? That she had imagined his placing Georgiana in her company was because he thought her a suitable friend and guide rather than an object of study because of her hearing?
That morning, with sleep still refusing to come and her thoughts no quieter than they had been the night before, she decided to walk. Walking was what she did when she needed to think, and she needed very badly to think.
Elizabeth had no expectation of seeing Mr. Darcy. For the ten days before Miss Bingley's remarks at Lucas Lodge, she had walked Oakham Mount daily and been disappointed each time not to find him there. It had become obvious that he had abandoned the path entirely.
So her decision to walk that morning had nothing to do with expecting to see him and everything to do with escaping herself.
She continued until she nearly reached the summit. Elizabeth was so occupied with her thoughts that she did not notice him until she saw the horse. It was tied beside the lower path, and he was seated upon the fallen log at the crest of the rise with his back to her, looking out across the valley.
The sight of him, simply sitting there as though he had every right to occupy the one place she had come to think of as entirely her own, did something unpleasant to her chest.
The thought irritated her sufficiently that she abandoned it at once.
Elizabeth's first instinct was to turn back and walk away. Her second was to remain where she was and demand an explanation, for she had rather a great deal she wished to say.
The second prevailed.
She continued up the path and must have stepped upon a twig, for he turned at the sound. Whatever he had been expecting, her expression was apparently not it, because something in his face shifted immediately towards caution.
Good, she thought.
"Miss Elizabeth." He inclined his head. His voice was careful.
She disliked it immediately.
She did not return the courtesy. "Mr. Darcy."
She stopped a few feet from him and looked at him directly. He looked tired. Had she encountered him a few days earlier, she might have found herself concerned by the observation.
Now she merely waited.
"I have been hoping to speak with you." He rose to his feet.
Elizabeth laughed at once. Not because anything amused her.
"I find that rather difficult to believe, sir."
Something crossed his face. Not offence. It was nearer surprise, as though he had not expected resistance from her.
"I wonder, Mr. Darcy, whether this conversation concerns my hearing." She had not intended to say it so directly. Yet it was the wound she had been carrying for two days, and the words escaped before she could stop them.
For the first time since she had known him, Elizabeth saw him look genuinely stricken. Not embarrassed. Not defensive.
Stricken.
For the briefest moment she found herself wondering whether she had misunderstood something after all.
Then she remembered the ballroom at Lucas Lodge.
She remembered Caroline Bingley's smile.
The hurt returned in full.
