Page 21

"Mr. Darcy," she says. "There is something I—"

She stops. Her eyes go past me, to the door.

I turn my head, carefully. Pettigrew is in the doorway, returned from his campaign. He is mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, and he is looking at Miss Bennet with an expression of the most dreadful anxiety. He gives a very small shake of the head.

"Pettigrew," I say. "Have you left my aunt alive?"

"In the drawing room, sir. With a great deal of tea." He tucks the handkerchief away. "She has written to London twice."

"Only twice? You have done very well." I turn back. "Forgive me, Miss Bennet. You were saying?"

She looks at me. Then at Pettigrew. Then at me again. Her mouth opens. I wait.

"I was saying," she says at last, quite slowly, "that you gave me a very great fright."

"I am sorry for it."

"You ought to be. Riding at that hour, in the wet, along a lane Hobbs had warned you about—"

"Did he? I do not remember. I expect he did. He warns me about everything." I look down at her hand in mine. Her fingers are beginning to warm. "Tell me honestly. You are not angry with me for falling off my horse?"

For a moment she does not answer at all.

Then she laughs. It is not much of a laugh. It is half a breath and half something else, and her eyes fill, and she presses her lips together hard.

"I am very angry," she says unsteadily. "With the tree."

"Then you and my aunt are in agreement for the first time. She has spent the morning abusing Hobbs over it."

"Poor Hobbs."

"Hobbs will survive. Hobbs has survived thirty years of my aunt. He is made of oak himself, I think."

This time the laugh is a real one, short and startled, as though it has escaped her without permission. I find I would very much like to hear it again. I would like to spend some considerable portion of my life hearing it.

"Miss Bennet," I say. "I have a confession."

Her fingers go still in mine.

"I cannot remember it," I say. "Last night. I remember putting on my coat. I remember walking down the lane, and my heart going like a drum, and every word I meant to say. And then it is simply gone. As if someone took a penknife to the page." I hold her hand a little tighter. "Of all the hours in my life to lose, it should be that one. The one I would have kept above all the rest."

She is looking at our hands. She does not look up.

"You must tell me about it," I say. "Not today. I can hardly keep my eyes open today, and Pettigrew is making faces at me. But one day soon. Every word."

A long pause.

"Every word," she repeats softly.

"I suspect I made a hash of it. Did I make a hash of it?"

She lifts her eyes to mine then. They are very dark, and very bright, and full of something I cannot read at all.

"Yes," she says. "Rather."

I would laugh, if my head would let me. It will not, so I only smile, and do not care in the least.

"That," I say, "I can very well believe."