Page 26 of Time Stands Still

The Colonel seemed to rally himself, offering his cousin a grateful, if strained, smile. Elizabeth, Darcy noted, did not press the matter further, but with a grace he was coming to recognise as characteristic of her, skilfully steered the conversation towards Anne, asking about a particular feature of the distant landscape, a lighter topic that Anne was pleased to explain.

Darcy, however, remained silent for the rest of the time they stood there, his mind consumed by his cousin’s words. “Not at all certain I shall be good at being anything else.” The sentiment, so devoid of hope, struck Darcy with a profound sense of responsibility. Richard was more than a cousin; he was the brother Darcy had been raised with at Pemberley, a constant presence in his life. The thought of him returning from the perils of war, having served his country with honour, only to face a future of aimless dependency on his family’s title, was intolerable. An idea began to form in Darcy’s mind, an echo of a thought he had entertained before, but now imbued with a new and powerful urgency. There was a small but profitable estate adjoining Pemberley to the north. Its owner, an elderly gentleman, had long since neglected its care; it might, perhaps, be possible to prevail upon him to part with it. It required a man of sense and diligence. It required a purpose. It required Richard. To see his cousin settled, and settled near to him, the thought fixed itself in Darcy’s mind as a firm, unshakeable resolution.

When it came time to depart, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Anne, with a knowing glance between them, found a pretext to ride ahead, allowing Darcy and Elizabeth a few minutes of private conversation as they gathered their horses.

“I have a confession to make,” Elizabeth said, her voice soft as she turned to him, her expression serious. “When your cousin first proposed these riding excursions, I was terrified. Not merely of the horse, but of you.”

The admission startled him, a reminder of how far they had come in such a short time. “Of me?”

She turned to him, a slow, beautiful smile spreading across her face, a smile that held both mischief and a surprising tenderness. “Yes, sir. Of you. You have become altogether too agreeable of late. You have listened, you have been kind, you have rescued me from a fall, and you have failed to utter a single condescending remark in several days. I confess myself quite put out, for I find I am in danger of losing my most formidable object of annoyance. What is a lady to do when her most stimulating adversary abandons his post?”

His breath caught in his throat. The words, so artfully framed in wit, were a confession in themselves, a laying down of arms that was more powerful than any simple declaration. He took a step closer, his hand rising as if of its own accord to cup her cheek, the warmth of her skin a startling, living thing against his palm. She did not pull away. She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing for a fraction of a second, a silent, trusting surrender.

He wanted to kiss her then, with a desperation that was a physical pain, a need that seemed to claw at his throat. But he stopped himself, his resolve a thin, sharp line against the overwhelming tide of his desire. He would not rush this. Though she had admitted her opinion of him had been revised, and had even agreed to a courtship, he knew her dislike had once been profound. To presume too much, to risk undoing the fragile trust they had begun to build, would be a folly he could not countenance. He would be patient. He would be certain.

With a reluctance that was almost unbearable, he let his hand drop. “Then I must endeavour to be more disagreeable, Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice a low murmur, a smile playing on his own lips. “Though I fear it may be a challenge I am no longer equipped to undertake.”

Her eyes fluttered open, and in their depths, he saw a dawning understanding and something more. Something that made his heart hammer against his ribs with a force that left him breathless. It was a look of profound, unguarded openness, a recognition of the truth that now lay between them. He held her gaze for a long moment, the warmth of their connection as potent as any touch, before he finally stepped back, offering her his arm.

They mounted their horses and began to ride back towards the parsonage in a silence that was more intimate than any conversation. The air between them crackled with unspoken words, with the potent, thrilling awareness of what was to come.

He left her at the edge of the parsonage grounds, with the promise of seeing her again at dinner. As he walked away, he felt a profound sense of peace, content to live in this strange, suspended present, for as long as it took to win her heart completely. The world might be repeating its lines, but he and Elizabeth were writing a new story entirely.

Chapter Nineteen

The new day dawned, and with it, a sense of soaring, unshakeable hope in Darcy’s breast. Elizabeth’s playful confession of surrender echoed in his mind, a promise of a future he was now determined to claim. He allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation on the promising turn their courtship had taken; it was proceeding, he was certain, in the right direction. Yet, a sliver of doubt remained, a ghost of past arrogance that stayed his hand and kept him from being entirely sure. It was this very caution that had prevented him from kissing her the day before. He had been so terribly mistaken in his former presumption, on that fateful day she had confronted him with her impossible tale. He had been on the verge of a proposal, confident in her acceptance, only to learn that his addresses would have been met with a most vehement refusal. How profoundly wrong he had been. Was he wrong now? He thought not. But he must be certain. He would not, could not, misjudge the workings of her heart again.

They sat close in their secluded corner at the Rosings Library, their heads bent together over a book of Kentish landscapes, their voices a low murmur as they spoke of everything and nothing. Darcy found himself watching the way the light caught in her hair, the expressive curve of her lips as she spoke, and felt a contentment so profound it was almost a physical ache. The morning had slipped by unnoticed, blurring into the cusp of noon as they conversed.

“I say, Darcy, must I send for a trumpet?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, his voice laced with amusement. He had turned from the window, his letter abandoned on the sill, a knowing glint in his eyes. “I have addressed you twice now to no avail. What subject could possibly hold such fascination as to render you deaf to the world?”

“I apologize, Richard. What were you saying?” Darcy answered, feeling a surge of private satisfaction at the blush that rose on Elizabeth’s cheeks.

“I was asking if you would join me for a ride,” the Colonel replied, his smile widening. “The ladies are included in the invitation, of course.”

“So,” a voice boomed, sharp and cold as ice, shattering the peaceful scene. “This is how you spend your mornings. In secret, huddled together, plotting your advancements.”

They all started. Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood before them, her face a mask of thunderous fury. Her gaze was fixed on Elizabeth, her eyes narrowed with a venom that made the girl flinch as if struck. Darcy silently cursed his own inattention. So captivated had he been by Elizabeth’s company, so lost in the pleasure of their discourse, that he had failed to mark his aunt’s stirring from her customary doze. He had no doubt been staring at Miss Bennet with an expression of undisguised admiration, an act of foolish, unguarded sentiment that must have been the very spark to ignite his aunt’s formidable temper.

“I had thought you merely a fool, Miss Bennet, an impertinent country girl with an unfortunate manner and no connections to speak of,” she began, her voice shaking with rage. “But I see now I was mistaken. You are artful. You are a schemer of the first order. You have insinuated yourself into my home, under the false pretence of scholarship, only to use your feminine wiles to entrap my nephew, a man so far above you in station that the very notion is a pollution to this house and to his name.”

Darcy moved at once, stepping to stand slightly in front of Elizabeth, a calm and immoveable shield. “Aunt,” he said, his voice devoid of all heat, a cold, hard thing that cut through her tirade. “You are mistaken. Your accusations are as unwelcome as they are untrue.”

“I am mistaken?” she shrieked, her gaze snapping to him, her face mottling with colour. “Look at you! Standing there as her champion! Have you lost your senses? Has this… this nobody, with her vulgar family and her want of fortune, so bewitched you that you have forgotten who you are? That you have forgotten your duty?”

“On the contrary,” Darcy replied, his voice dangerously quiet, each word deliberately placed. “I know precisely who I am. And I know what I am about. You wished for me to speak of my duty. Very well. My first duty is to my own happiness and the future of my line. As you have taken such a pointed interest in my affairs, allow me to be plain. I am courting Miss Bennet. It is my sincere and fervent intention to make her my wife.”

A strangled gasp came from Lady Catherine. Richard, by the window, had gone very still, his expression one of shock and dawning alarm.

“You will not,” Lady Catherine hissed, her voice dropping to a low, menacing growl. “I will not permit it. You are intended for my daughter! It has been the fondest wish of my heart, and your own mother’s, since you were in your cradles! You would dishonour her memory?”

“Mother, please,” Anne said, her voice a trembling whisper. She had risen to her feet, her hands clenched at her sides, her face pale. “You are distressing yourself. And you are wrong. Fitzwilliam has never been intended for me. It was your wish, not his. Not mine. We have never wished for it.”

“You foolish girl!” Lady Catherine turned her fury on her own daughter, her eyes blazing with betrayal. “You would stand there and defend this… this fortune-hunter, against your own blood? You would throw away the master of Pemberley, your own security and station, for the sake of this nobody?”

“She is not a nobody,” Anne’s voice, though it shook, was shockingly firm. “She is a kind and respectable lady, possessed of a wit and intelligence I have come to admire. And she… she seems to make my cousin happy. I will not stand by and hear her abused in this way.”

This defiance, from her own daughter, seemed to be the final, unbearable injury. Lady Catherine turned back to face him, her face a mask of incandescent rage, her eyes narrowed to cruel, glittering points. “So, the weakness comes from your mother, then. It is her blood in your veins that speaks. You are her son in this, if nothing else!” she hissed, taking a step closer, her voice barely a whisper, yet sharp as a surgeon’s blade. “Just like her, you would throw away your birthright, your duty, your name, for a pretty face and a moment of foolish passion! For a love that brings ruin and nothing more!”