Georgiana let out a long breath, her tension easing with the soft sound and rhythmic sensation of the brush gliding through her hair. Her head was drawn back with each stroke, but in her maid's gentle hand, the process did not cause her any pain. She allowed her gaze to drift out through the window onto the grand square where Darcy House was situated. It was a beautiful place, though not at all like her beloved Pemberley.
As her maid began the process of pinning her curls. Georgiana's eyes fell on a patch of daffodils nestled within a small walled bed just below her window. She was captivated by the gentle ebb and flow of the yellow blooms as they swayed in the wind. The flowers of spring would be a sight to behold at Pemberley by now—rising swells of earth dotted with cowslips and bluebells, scattered among the grass and rushes. Her thoughts drifted to the vibrant scenes of her home, and she sighed.
As she looked on, a finely dressed couple approached on the pavement, pausing to admire the cheerful patch of flowers. The lady, one hand holding her bonnet against the breeze, pointed at the blooms with a smile. While she had her back turned to examine them in detail, the gentleman swiftly bent down and plucked a flower. Georgiana thought his build and movement reminded her of Mr. Bingley. When the lady turned back, he offered her the flower, bouncing merrily on the balls of his feet as he did so. She accepted it with eyes averted, the rosy glow of her cheeks visible even from afar.
Georgiana smiled down at them as they walked on, arm in arm. The lady admiring the flower she twirled between her fingers, every bit as much as the gentleman beside her seemed to admire her.
She remembered again the words that still echoed in her mind: "You are not to blame, Georgie. I want only for you to be happy. To be well. It is all I have ever wanted for you."
Despite all her self doubts, she believed him. This good and kind man who had tried to be both brother and father to her.
As the couple walked down the pavement and out of sight, Georgiana felt a sudden ache in her chest. She now wondered if she would ever experience the enduring happiness that seemed so effortless for others. This peace she had found felt so fragile. The previous days had shown her that the darkness that had once taken hold of her loomed just beyond sight, ever-present and threatening.
She found solace in the thought of gathering these small moments of pleasure, as one would cut and arrange flowers from a garden. Small moments of hope, gratitude, and love that grew in defiance of her despair. She would never again take these things for granted.
The distant sound of the case clock drew her out of her reverie. She had slept past the breakfast hour, and she was suddenly starving. She rose and pulled the bell to request her breakfast be brought up. Not long after it had been laid out on the small table, she noticed a silver salver bearing a letter lying beside her plate. She recognized the handwriting at once. It was from Elizabeth. She snatched it up, her hunger forgotten.
Tuesday, 31st March 1812
Dearest Georgiana,
Perhaps I ought to have waited to write to you until I have had word from you directly, but I am an impatient creature—a fault for which I remain unrepentant. I shall come to the point. Mr. Darcy showed me the letter you sent to him, and you have not left my thoughts since.
As I can offer you nothing else from Kent, I hope you will accept my words. Though I know not what comfort they may bring you, please know that as long as I am able to wield a pen, I shall do so in your defense.
Caroline Bingley is an odious creature. She, who professes such high regard for you, seems entirely at ease with using you so cruelly. I have long harbored a dislike for her, but now I find myself at a loss for words to adequately convey my contempt. At present, I can think of no words poisonous enough to satisfy my anger.
Her attempt to coerce you into a marriage with her brother was doomed from the start, if for no other reason than her brother is still in love with Jane. Yet, what of your brother? She, who spoke so often of her "close acquaintance" with the Darcys, should have known how Mr. Darcy would react. Her behavior is certainly borne of the bitterness that festers within that wretched organ she calls a heart. It is beyond comprehension that her dislike for my Jane would drive her to such desperate measures to avoid a connection with her. Truly, to find fault with Jane is as absurd as objecting to fine weather. I cannot make sense of it.
Thank heavens I am not of a philosophical nature, else I might be tempted to declare it all a matter of perspective or some such nonsense. Let no one accuse me of introspection! How irksome it would be to be robbed of my ire just now!
You must also find some pity in your heart for me, Georgiana. I have just recalled that Miss Bingley may one day become my sister. My only solace is that, as much as I might loathe such a connection, she would suffer far more than I. Her reward for disdaining my family will be to become one of us.
Now, let me speak my mind on another aspect of your letter: your belief that your actions bear some blame for hers.
I refuse to acknowledge any self-reproach from you. Your actions were selfless and done in the service of others. Never mistake goodness for weakness, my dear friend. And for heaven's sake, do not allow a woman as vile as Miss Bingley to make you doubt your compassionate heart! It is perhaps this quality I admire most in you. Your generous spirit compels you to berate yourself for even the thought of being a burden to others, but allow me to disabuse you of that notion at once.
You are no burden to anyone fortunate enough to call you dear to them. You make me wish to be a better and kinder person by your example, and you are far too charitable to comprehend what a miraculous thing that is.
I shall write no more of this, lest you begin to demure.
Georgiana dabbed at her eyes as the swell of gratitude within her spilled forth onto her cheeks. When she had at last finished reading, she set the letter aside, contemplating the woman she had never met.
How had her brother known what Elizabeth might mean to her? What had he perceived in this woman with whom he had professed only a slight acquaintance? A faint prickling of recollection nagged at her until, all at once, Georgiana's mind returned to a question that had plagued her since Miss Bingley's visit.
'Who was Elizabeth Bennet to him?'
Whatever he might say, her staid brother did not make friends quickly, nor did he bestow his trust lightly. He had a high opinion of Elizabeth. That was clear, but that alone was so unusual that Georgiana was surprised she had not considered it sooner.
Though she still did not understand the nature of her brother's connection with Elizabeth Bennet, she rather thought that those same things that had so immediately endeared her to Georgiana might have affected him as well. The equilibrium created by their two dissimilar characters seemed designed to be so.
'Had either of them seen it?"
Georgiana had sensed no particular regard for Fitzwilliam in Elizabeth's letters; in fact, she had often been quite harsh towards him. Considering how he had acted to separate his friend from her sister, Georgiana supposed she could not blame Elizabeth for her feelings.
As for her brother, Georgiana suspected there might be something more significant hidden in what he did not say—and of Elizabeth, he spoke not at all.
Georgiana stood as a sudden idea presented itself to her. She might even have the means to test its validity now. A smile spread across her face as she picked up her letter and hurried out of her room in search of Fitzwilliam.
She found him in his study, obscured behind a newspaper, his long legs crossed with a steaming cup of coffee resting on the table beside him. As she watched, the toe of his polished boot bobbed slowly up and down—a mannerism that never failed to remind her of their father. Clearing her throat, she caught his attention, and the paper shifted, revealing a pair of dark eyes peering back at her.
"I received a letter this morning," said Georgiana, as he folded his newspaper and set it aside. "Might I read you Elizabeth's observations of Kent? I think you will find them enjoyable."
Darcy had just closed his fingers around his cup when it slipped from his grasp, sending the porcelain clattering back onto the saucer. He jerked his hand away from the hot liquid that spilled out, muttering an oath as he gave his fingers a little shake. Georgiana's brows rose as her keen eyes detected a flush creeping up his neck.
He did not respond immediately, instead reaching for his napkin. After a swallow that bobbed his Adam's apple, he offered a small, somewhat rigid nod.
Clearing her throat,and hiding her amusement behind her letter, Georgiana read aloud.
"There is no one at the parsonage with whom I might share my droll observations, so I must impose them upon you, whether or not you might wish to hear them.
I have now met your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and I must tell you that your description of her was quite exact. I was surprised only by her height; she is much taller than I had anticipated. I should not have been surprised, for I need only look at the rest of her family. And what, dear Georgiana, do you suppose she made of me? I shall tell you.
She informs me that I am too short, that I do not practice enough on the pianoforte, and that I ought to be given a season in London to catch a husband. I am afraid I am destined to disappoint her, for I have not grown an inch in five years, I play only when I seek pleasure in it, and my father continues to object to the notion of a London season.
I cannot help but think her ladyship would relish the opportunity to know me better. I am certain that if she were made aware of my frankness and love of solitary walks, she might also find me an excellent subject to despair of. I am sorely tempted to suggest she write to my father with any ideas she might have for my improvement. It would amuse him to no end.
She also laments that my parents did not ensure I was married off to my cousin, Mr. Collins, to break the entail—an observation, I might add, that she made in the presence of both Mr. Collins and his wife. Thankfully, Charlotte is not of a delicate nature; else she might have found reason to take offense.
I daresay my mother would be pleased to know of the striking similarity between herself and Lady Catherine. Neither of them hesitate to express their opinions, even when silence might be the more prudent course. Mama would take great delight in the notion that she comports herself as a grand lady. She lacks only the gravitas of your aunt's mode of address. Yet Lady Catherine herself has informed me that no excellence can be attained without practice, and so I might suggest to my mama that she devote herself to the exercise.
Rosings Park is undoubtedly the grandest home I have ever seen, and its beauty truly cannot be overstated; in fact, I find the entire house defies anyone to do so. Think what you will of my taste, but I am persuaded that the addition of more brushstrokes does not necessarily result in a masterpiece. How can one possibly feel at ease in such opulence?
I am not so spartan as to eschew finery, yet the sense of rarity is lost in such a crowd. My country sensibilities will always prefer the elegance of simplicity, and I must apologize in advance if your beloved Pemberley is done in a similar manner. I give you leave to disavow any opinion that contradicts your own. Who is Elizabeth Bennet to be the judge of such things anyway?
I continue to be grateful to your brother and cousin for arriving in Kent soon after us. Their society has become my favorite here by far.
Your cousin, the colonel, is a presence that cannot help but please. He possesses a rare talent for teasing without malice. He smiles often and laughs freely—a quality I am quite certain to approve of, as I suspect most would say the same of me. Should you ever wish to exchange your cousin for mine, dear Georgiana, I am at your disposal. Perhaps you might come to prefer a ridiculous parson who is forever offending and taking offense. I must boast that Mr. Collins is far more beneficial for building fortitude than your Colonel Fitzwilliam could ever hope to be.
As for your brother, I must admit that he has been something of a surprise to me here in Kent. He is far less reserved than I recall from our brief acquaintance in Hertfordshire, and I believe it suits him well. You mentioned that he dislikes these trips to Rosings, but I wonder if you might be mistaken? He smiles almost as often as he appears grave when we meet. If this is how he behaves in a place he does not favor, I cannot imagine how he must conduct himself at Pemberley! Does he smile as much as Mr. Bingley? I do not think I should recognize him.
When we have had the rare opportunity for a tête-à-tête, we do not argue as much as we had used to. While I am glad for the more pleasant and rational exchanges, I must confess I regret my diminishing ability to vex him. I have so few accomplishments to recommend myself that the thought of falling out of practice in this particular skill is rather distressing.
The countryside here continues to endear itself to me. I do not think this says much of the singular beauty of the place, for I believe there is not a countryside anywhere in which I could find nothing to praise. Wherever there is fresh air and a fair prospect, I shall be satisfied. I do not even need fine weather to be pleased. Give me the rain that comes sideways and I shall find a tree or field that looks well in it.
Speaking of the wilds of Kent, I am quite convinced that when the wind blows from the south, there is something of salt in the air. Charlotte informs me that Hunsford lies but a little more than ten miles from the coast. Pray, do not shatter this fanciful notion by reminding me that I have yet to behold the sea and thus lay no claim to credibility in such imaginings. It is a shame to be so near and yet unable to witness its grandeur.
But I fear I am being maudlin. How absurd it is to long for a place I have never visited? Yet, it is a peculiar feeling I cannot quite articulate. I suppose it resembles how I think of you, dear Georgiana—a soul I have come to know only through words penned upon a page and the accounts of others. But do not waste your compassion on me, dear friend, for I have every confidence that I shall see both you and the sea ere long.
Alas, I must now conclude. Charlotte has just come to inform me we are to prepare a basket for the widow Thomas.
If you would be so obliging in your next letter, please inform me of which books Mr. Darcy holds in disdain so that I may cultivate a fondness for them whilst we remain in Kent. After all, Lady Catherine did bid me to practice.
Yours ever faithfully,
Elizabeth.
When Georgiana looked up, she found her brother wearing a soft smile, his gaze unfocused as he seemed to contemplate something in the middle distance.
She folded her letter and asked, "Will you tell me what occupies your thoughts?"
He started at her voice. "Pray excuse me. It is nothing."
"Fitzwilliam, I cannot believe you ever think of nothing."
He regarded her for a moment, then said, "Would you care to accompany me to Kent?"
Georgiana's surprise momentarily halted her thoughts.
"I..." she began, lowering her eyes to her hands. "I do not think I am brave enough to face our aunt, Fitzwilliam. Not yet. Not after..."
"You would not be alone," he said with gentleness. "And you could at last meet Miss Elizabeth."
Her face fell as she shook her head. "I am certain that any joy in finally meeting my friend would be spoilt by our aunt's presence. I could never be at ease, and I would not wish Elizabeth to see me in such a circumstance."
Darcy nodded, perhaps understanding better than anyone the peculiar challenge of possessing a reserved nature.
"I do not wish to leave you in London," he said at last, looking pained.
Georgiana clasped her hands together, feeling a nervous flutter as she said, "I want to go home, Fitzwilliam."
He appraised her in silence for a time before nodding gravely.
"Then I shall make the arrangements before departing for Kent. You will be at Pemberley before the week is out, and I will join you as soon as I can."
"Thank you," she said in a meek voice.
She turned her back to him, intending to leave when he spoke again. "Perhaps you should invite her to visit you?"
Georgiana turned back. "Invite Elizabeth? To Pemberley?"
"Yes."
Georgiana searched his face.
"She must be accompanied by someone, of course," he said. "It would not be entirely proper for her to come alone. Perhaps she might prevail upon Miss Bennet to accompany her?"
With a sudden swell of agitated delight, Georgiana pressed her palms to her cheeks. "Oh, truly, brother? Will you ask her? Will you find out how soon she can come?"
Darcy laughed softly, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. "I believe it must be you who asks her."
"Then I must write her a letter immediately! Will you bring it to her? You leave for Kent in the morning, do you not?"
"It is not so simple to pass her a note without causing a stir."
"Oh! But if my message accompanies you, it is sure to reach Elizabeth far sooner, and I might then receive the quickest possible response! Truly, I do not think I can wait a moment longer for her reply."
He sighed, and regarded her warmly, "Very well, sister. I shall do my best to give Miss Bennet your invitation."
Her smile widened as she dashed to him, placing an undignified kiss atop his head.
"Thank you, brother," she said as she hurried away.
Her own excitement was not so consuming as to make her miss the distant smile that lingered until his departure the following morning.
As Elizabeth settled herself before the gleaming keys of the pianoforte, she admired the lacquered wood and ivory before her. She wondered idly how the craftsman of such a fine instrument would feel, knowing that this masterpiece would sit silently in a house where no one played.
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned down as she rifled through the sheet music. "I must warn you now that I am unlikely to judge your performance fairly. I have a regrettably poor ear for music."
She flashed him a quick grin. "That must be a great virtue in a listener. You may find your pleasure more easily that way."
"Indeed," he replied. "I am incapable of discerning which notes are intentional and which are accidental. My aunt is much the same, though she is far less inclined to be pleased in general."
Elizabeth laughed, noticing as she did so the thinning of Lady Catherine's lips.
The colonel opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by his aunt's cool voice. "Let the lady alone, Fitzwilliam. She will need to concentrate, and your presence will only distract her. Come, sit here and amuse your cousin."
The colonel blinked in surprise, giving Elizabeth a covert eye roll as he said, "Of course, Aunt."
As he moved toward the sofa some dozen feet away to settle by his cousin, Elizabeth felt distinctly alone.
She selected a piece that required no extraordinary skill. Performing it with energy, the song's busy melody served as an effective disguise for her occasional missteps. As the last note hung in the air, she reflected that she had done a credible job and was rewarded by the colonel's loud applause. She smiled, sparing only a passing glance at her cousin, who imitated the colonel with an odd solemnity.
"Great show," the colonel said genially. Elizabeth raised a single brow in his direction, and he shrugged, his eye twitching as if to wink.
"There would be nothing amiss with your playing, Miss Bennet, if you would only practice more," said the noble lady from across the room. "Mrs. Collins, of course, does not keep a pianoforte, but you may come every day and play on the instrument in Mrs. Jenkinson's room. You would be in nobody's way in that part of the house."
The colonel winced at this comment.
"I thank you, ma'am," Elizabeth said, more amused than offended.
"Do carry on, Miss Bennet," Lady Catherine continued. "Though your skill is not extraordinary, it is better than silence."
Elizabeth, who was too well-bred to refuse a direct request, began another melody. As she picked her way through the fingerings with more feeling than accuracy, she amused herself by turning her ear to the surrounding conversations.
"Mrs. Collins, Benedict tells me you have made plans to move the garden to the west side of the house," Lady Catherine's sharp voice cut in. "Is it not better to keep it on the north side of the parsonage, where it cannot be seen from any of the parlors?"
Elizabeth shifted her attention to the conversation between the colonel and Miss de Bourgh.
"Where is Mrs. Jenkinson today?" the colonel asked.
"She is ill, apparently," replied Anne de Bourgh in a nasal voice that, despite her soft tone, came across as rather shrill. "Mama believes she is unwell because she insists on using so much black pepper on her fish."
"A common cause of illness, I am sure," he replied sardonically.
"You are making fun."
"Surely not."
Elizabeth looked up to see the woman frown at him, her lips pursed.
With a jarring abruptness, she changed the subject. "Where has Darcy gone?"
"To London," replied the colonel smoothly.
"Where in London?"
"To visit his solicitor."
"Did you not say it was his man of business?"
"Why ask if you already know?"
"Because I think you are being dishonest."
The colonel grinned. "I am offended."
"You are most certainly not."
"Mama will find out eventually, you know," Miss de Bourgh said with a shrug.
"If there is anyone equal to your mama's unyielding nature, it is Darcy," the colonel replied with a charming smile. "Heaven help us if they ever find themselves in agreement."
Miss de Bourgh let out a small tut.
"It is his business, not mine," he added, his tone quelling. "You know our cousin, Anne. He does not wish for anyone to know anything particular about him."
"Why do you and Darcy speak so often with Miss Elizabeth?" Miss de Bourgh asked, her lip curling in disdain. "She cannot be of much consequence if her cousin is Mr. Collins—and she is not handsome."
"Anne!" cried the colonel.
The lady looked at him with her unnaturally angular features.
"Does Darcy favor her?" she asked bluntly.
"How on earth should I know?"
Miss de Bourgh continued to stare.
"She is witty, Anne. And kind," he said with exasperation. "You know you might actually like her too, if you would exert yourself to speak with her."
Miss de Bourgh scoffed. "Mama would forbid it. She is too impertinent."
"She is nothing to your dear mama," Richard replied, his expression one of disgust. "Did you hear what she said to the poor woman? The nerve she has to insult someone's playing when she has never touched an instrument in her life."
"I have never seen Darcy so at ease as when he is talking to her," she persisted. "It makes me think he is rather fond."
"They knew each other in Hertfordshire, Anne. That is all."
"He knew Mrs. Collins in Hertfordshire, Richard," Miss de Bough countered. "Yet to her he has spoken hardly a word."
The colonel fell silent.
"I see much, cousin," she said, voice almost too soft for Elizabeth to hear.
He cast her a curious look.
"Do you think it possible he fancies himself in love with the girl?"
Elizabeth's fingers slipped on the keys, but no one in the room paid her any attention.
"That is quite a supposition to make based on only a few visits."
"I see much," she repeated with a shrug.
"You do indeed," the colonel agreed lightly. "Perhaps he simply enjoys her conversation. There is nothing wrong with that."
"Darcy does not enjoy conversation."
A bark of laughter erupted from the colonel. "No, I suppose not. But I think you ought not to make such hasty leaps. Darcy is not one to fall in and out of love on a whim."
"Do you think he would marry her?" came Miss de Bourgh's unvarnished reply.
Elizabeth concentrated on her fingering, the rapid pounding of her heart making her hands shake slightly on the keys. When she glanced up, she caught a brief furrowing of the colonel's brows before he smiled once more.
"Are you perhaps worried that you will lose your intended to an unimportant country miss?"
At that unfortunate moment, Mr. Collins's loud laugh cut through the air as he reacted to some remark made by Lady Catherine. Elizabeth's eyes darted to her ladyship's look of cool indifference before she risked a glance at the two cousins. She did not hear Miss de Bourgh's response, but she did see the roguish wink the colonel gave her in response. This was received with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.
"I think you are wasting your concern, little Anne."
"I am hardly concerned," she replied, raising her chin.
"Nevertheless, might I offer you some reassurance?"
Anne did not respond. From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw him straighten his back and adopt a look of cool indifference, a perfect replica of Darcy's own demeanor.
"Gentlemen of good breeding do not take such women as wives if you take my meaning."
Anne let out an involuntary titter of laughter. "How very coarse of him."
"Yes, quite," replied the colonel.
Elizabeth felt as though the room expanded impossibly around her and on its heels came the sudden sensation of falling.
Could Darcy truly be the sort of man the colonel implied? Would he indeed consider taking a mistress to appease his desires, yet proceed with a marriage solely to fulfill his duty?
Somehow, her fingers continued to play despite the bilious flush creeping through her. Her vision took on the vivid unreality of a dream, but Elizabeth was strong in her determination and would not succumb easily to her distress.
"You have already played that part, Miss Bennet," Lady Catherine called sharply.
Elizabeth managed a smile as she glanced up. "I apologize, Lady Catherine. I lost my place for a moment."
After a brief silence, the conversations resumed around her, but Elizabeth felt Charlotte's gaze fixed on her.
The colonel spoke again, "You may reassure your mama too. Poor Miss Bennet ought not to be needlessly subjected to her wrath."
"I do not think she has taken any notice of Darcy's behavior toward the lady."
"I am shocked."
"As am I," she replied. "I believe she was too displeased by his mysterious leave-taking."
Elizabeth was grateful to be hidden behind the grand pianoforte. It afforded her the much needed chance to compose herself in solitude, pretending to be lost in her admittedly average playing.
'I care not,' she reminded herself, though tears pricked the corners of her eyes.
Yet the colonel's words, spoken so casually, had left a void within her—a space where something unknowable and unnamable had once lived. A piece of something small and hopeful, now doused in a wash of cruel humiliation.
'His opinion is nothing to me,' she thought with bitterness.
Yet, at present she longed to run away from this place. She wished for Jane to chide her with gentleness, to wrap her in a soft embrace, no matter how she made light of her pain. She yearned for the safety of Longbourn and the tranquil feel of Oakham Mount—a place where she could allow her heart to feel without fear of judgment.
She wondered if that place could ever feel the same as it once had or if the memory of standing beside Darcy on the windy hilltop would spoil it forevermore. Shaking her head, she attempted to chase away these distressing thoughts.
When at last she felt somewhat composed, Elizabeth concluded her song and rose from the instrument. Inclining her head in the colonel's direction, she turned away from him and approached Charlotte, who frowned at her.
"You have no great gift for technique, Miss Bennet," Lady Catherine remarked as she drew near, "though I suppose you may improve with practice."
Elizabeth bowed her head. "Your ladyship is very kind."
Charlotte stood, looking at Elizabeth as she said, "I believe it is time for us to return to Hunsford, husband. We ought not trespass further on her ladyship's hospitality."
Mr. Collins leapt to his feet at the suggestion that he was overextending his mistress.
"Please forgive—" he began, but was cut off by Lady Catherine.
"Miss Bennet, are you ill?" asked the Lady, appraising her with a critical stare.
All eyes turned to her as she shook her head. "I am quite well, Lady Catherine. Perhaps just a little tired from playing."
Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes. "Mrs. Jenkinson, and now you. If you are ill, then you ought not to have come at all. Mrs. Collins, I shall send a tonic with you. Ensure that Miss Bennet takes some before bed and does not stir from her room until she is well. I cannot abide a person who says that they are well when they are not," Lady Catherine went on. "It shows a foolish lack of self possession."
Mr. Collins nodded in agreement as he hurried their little party to the door, Charlotte's eyes never leaving her friend.
Mounting the steps with brisk purpose, Darcy nodded to the footman who hurried to tug open the door, in order that Darcy might cross the threshold of Rosings without slowing his pace. But as he reached the entrance and lifted his gaze, he was startled to find himself looking into a pair of fine eyes he knew as well as his own. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, captivated by the gaze he longed to admire for all his days. He stumbled as his momentum carried him forward, even as his feet slowed.
Her eyes were wide with shock as she beheld him, unable for a long moment to look away. But it was she who at last did so, and Darcy was perplexed by the expression akin to panic that crossed her face before she turned away. She was a shade lighter than pale, and she looked diminished in a way that he did not recognize, or at least, he did not recognize it in her.
Amid the swirl of servants who approached the little party at the door, Elizabeth looked anywhere but at him, while he only had eyes for her. Darcy shook himself, turning to the woman beside Elizabeth.
"Mrs. Collins, I am sorry to have missed you," he said, directing his words to the least fraught presence in the room. "Would you mind if I came to the parsonage to pay my respects in the next day or so?"
"We would be truly humbled by your presence, Mr. Darcy," chimed the stooping rector. "Allow me to take this opportunity to thank you again, most sincerely, for your condescension."
Darcy did not respond, continuing to look at the rector's wife, keeping his eyes away from her friend.
"Of course, Mr. Darcy," she said in an even voice. "You are welcome at any time."
Just then, a footman passed her a bonnet, which she settled on her head, fastening the chestnut-colored ribbons with exactness. Behind her, Elizabeth glanced at her reflection in a grand gilded mirror, sliding a finger beneath the lilac satin at her chin and tugging it into place.
Darcy observed them quietly, with a mounting sense of despair as it appeared Elizabeth might leave Rosings without so much as a glance in his was unwell, and a sudden dread stirred within him, coupled with an irresistible urge to reach out, to cross the divide and offer whatever comfort he could, even if it was only to be near her. To offer a silent comfort that spoke of understanding and care, in desperation, wishing that she could feel the warmth of his concern through the chill of her apparent distress. It was a feeling he now knew all too well.
Mr. Collins's rapid effusions slid past him without penetrating his consciousness as he watched Elizabeth, until at last, the insipid man descended into a series of crouched bows and began backing toward the door. Darcy turned, face grave and dismay mounting as the party turned to hurry through the door.
He must say something, though he knew that in such company it would not be what he wished.
"Miss Bennet, may I trouble you for a moment?" he said, taking a hasty step forward.
She stilled, her hand resting on the great oak door frame. As she turned her bonneted head back to look at him, he noticed her somber expression on her face. Darcy's courage fled. His mouth went dry as he stared at her for a beat too long.
"I…" he began in , remembering the missive he now carried, began fumbling with the pocket of his coat, eventually producing a book from within. Holding it out with rather less dignity than he might have hoped, he added, "I brought this for you—from my library in London."
Her eyes shifted to the volume in his hand, bound in mauve leather with the title 'Kentish Flora' embossed in gold upon the spine. She reached out a tentative hand, taking it and turning it over to inspect it.
"You had mentioned an interest in the different flora and fauna of the area."
"Did I…?" Elizabeth said, trailing off.
"Yes," he replied, clasping his hands behind his back to still them. "When we visited the parsonage."
"Oh," she said, her forehead creasing as she examined the book.
"I came across it and thought, perhaps, you would appreciate it."
At last, she looked up at him, her expression queer and pensive. "I do, Mr. Darcy. Thank you."
She gave him a small curtsey and turned away. Darcy felt the panic kindling in his breast once more.
"It is a favorite of Miss Darcy's, you know," he blurted.
"She enjoys books about botany?" Elizabeth replied, turning back, the corner of her mouth twitching.
"Ah, yes," he said. "Among other things."
She nodded, considering the book in her hands. "Does Miss Darcy have any favorite Kentish plants?"
"I would not know for certain, but she has a predilection for writing in her books, so it is possible you may find something of particular interest within."
He was rewarded with a genuine smile as she tucked the book into her reticule.
"How fares Miss Darcy? She is well, I trust?"
"She is for Derbyshire," he said, relaxing his shoulders, "which, as you know, is a circumstance pleasing to anyone native to that place."
She nodded again. "Yes, I've been told the air of Derbyshire is as good as any salty sea breeze for the constitution."
Darcy gave her a wide smile, recognizing the words, so often spoken by his father.
"Perhaps you will judge for yourself one day."
She pursed her lips and looked away. "I do not think it likely, sir."
He watched her for a moment, frowning as the silence between them stretched beyond comfort.
"Do not underestimate the future, Miss Bennet. It may yet surprise you."
She took a quick breath at these words, turning her head aside as she bent her knees to curtsey once more. Without offering him further opportunity to speak, she turned away and strode through the door. Darcy watched with a frown as her bonneted head disappeared down the stairs, leaving only disquiet in her wake.