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And she is there.

She is walking slowly along the path ahead of me, alone, under the willows. She is looking at the water. She does not see me yet. There is mud on the hem of her gown, and her bonnet is in her hand, swinging by its ribbons, and a curl has come loose at her left temple and is lying against her cheek.

She has come a hundred and fifty miles.

She is already here.

Chapter Twenty-Five — Elizabeth

"You came to Pemberley," he says.

He is out of breath.

That is the first thing I notice, before anything else, before I have even properly understood that it is him. Mr. Darcy, who never hurries, who walks into ballrooms as though the floor were laid down especially to receive his boots, is standing on the path under the willows with his chest heaving and his hair wild and his hat in his hand. Not on his head. In his hand.

He has been running.

I stop dead.

I have been walking along this path for a quarter of an hour, alone, while my aunt and uncle go on ahead to the stream, where my uncle has been promised a sight of the trout. I have been looking at the water and trying not to look at the house. I have not been successful. It stands on the far side of the lake, gold in the afternoon sun, and in the water beneath it stands another house, upside down, shivering a little where the swans go by.

It had better light.

I have been thinking about him lying on the bank as a boy, trying to decide which house was real. I have been thinking that I left my letter with a man at the lodge who told me his master was out riding, and that he was very likely lying, kindly, the way servants lie when they have been told the master is not at home to anyone. I have been thinking that I came a hundred and fifty miles to put it into his hand, and could not even do that.

And now here he is.

"I came to Pemberley," I say.

My voice does not sound like mine at all.

He takes a step toward me. Then he stops, as though he is not sure he is allowed.

"Wragby said you were riding," I say. Stupidly. It is the only thing I can think of.

"I meant to. I had the black saddled. And then I sent it back." He draws a breath. "I have not been out in ten days. I have been sitting in my father's library looking at the lake."

"Oh."

"Georgiana brought me your letter. Twenty minutes ago." Another breath. "I have read it."

I cannot speak.

"All eleven pages," he says. "And the twelfth. And the postscript." Something moves at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not yet. "Anne is right, you know. I am a great proud idiot. I have been told so by my cousin, my valet, my sister, Mr. Bingley in his slippers, and a swan. You are only the most recent."

"I did not say it. Anne said it."

"You wrote it down. In ink. You might have left it out."

"I promised Jane I would not leave anything out."

He looks at me. And then he does smile, at last, very slightly, and something in my chest that has been clenched tight for ten days lets go so suddenly that I put my hand out to the willow trunk to steady myself.

***

"I owe you an apology," he says.

"No—"