Darcy forced himself to maintain his composure. “Indeed. The quiet of the woods offers a welcome reprieve.”
Miss Elizabeth’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Do you require one?”
“I do.”
She waited—did she expect him to say more?
At last, she broke the silence herself. “I might have thought you preferred London’s diversions.”
“Perhaps once,” he admitted. “But I find I have little need or desire for such distractions now.”
Her brows arched slightly, her curiosity evident, though she said nothing. Instead, she gestured toward the path. “I would not like to invade your privacy, but you are welcome to walk with me if you would like company.”
Darcy had intended to avoid precisely this sort of encounter, yet the invitation was impossible to refuse. “It would be my pleasure.”
He dismounted and they fell into step.
“You are out and about a good deal these days, Mr. Darcy. I cannot help but wonder if there is some matter requiring your attention, or if we have simply won your approval at last.”
Darcy’s pulse quickened. Her words, though playful, struck far closer to the truth than she could have known. He glanced at her, weighing his reply carefully. “There are indeed matters that require my attention,” he said slowly. “But I find myself drawn to this place for reasons I cannot easily explain.”
Miss Elizabeth’s steps slowed, and she turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “You speak in riddles, sir.”
Darcy’s chest tightened. How could he answer without betraying too much? He looked away, his gaze settling on thehorizon as he spoke. “There are times when one must act, but how to act is not entirely clear.”
Miss Elizabeth tilted her head, studying him closely. “A curious answer. I wonder if your silence shields you, or someone else?”
He met her gaze then, the intensity of her dark eyes stirring something deep within him. “Both, perhaps,” he admitted quietly. “But I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, my intentions are not to deceive.”
“Then why not speak plainly?” she pressed, her tone gentle. “You are clearly troubled, Mr. Darcy. If I may offer my ear—”
“No.” The word escaped him too quickly, too forcefully. Darcy saw her eyes widen slightly. “Forgive me. I only mean to say that it is not a matter I can share. Not yet at least.”
Miss Elizabeth regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, she smiled faintly. “Patience is not one of my virtues, Mr. Darcy, but of course I will respect your need for privacy.”
Darcy’s lips curved into a faint smile of his own. She was certainly more patient than he was himself. “It is more than I deserve.”
She frowned at that, but did not entreat him again.
They resumed their walk, the conversation turning to lighter topics such as wedding plans, his sister’s love of music, the latest gossip in Meryton, the small New Year’s dinner Longbourn would be hosting this evening. Yet Darcy’s mind kept working through the questions he could not answer.
As they approached Longbourn’s outer gate, Elizabeth paused, turning to him once more. “Whatever weighs upon you, Mr. Darcy, I hope you will find the resolution you seek. And though your family is with you, should you find you need a friend . . .” She hesitated slightly before continuing. “You may find one closer than you think.”
He bowed. “You are very generous, Miss Elizabeth.”
With a final, lingering glance, she stepped through the gate, leaving him standing in the grey winter light. The burden of his secret weighed heavy on his heart, but her words carried a glimmer of hope. Perhaps one day she might forgive him for the truths he could not yet speak.
Mr. Darcy had not joined Mr. Bingley on his call yesterday, but Elizabeth was strangely relieved that he had made his appearance tonight. The dining room at Longbourn was warm and lively as the Bennets and their guests gathered for New Year’s Eve dinner. The fire crackled in the hearth, reflecting golden light off polished silver and delicate china. Mr. Bingley sat beside Jane, his admiration expressed openly, while Colonel Fitzwilliam entertained Kitty and Lydia with tales of military life.
Elizabeth was seated next to Mr. Darcy and found herself drawn into an unexpected debate over the influence of literature on society. She felt he might admire her, but likewise knew he could do nothing about it. Therefore, she ought not to pay him too much attention. But he possessed a quiet magnetism that made it difficult to refrain.
The topic of reading had been broached by Mary who, in her solemn tones, suggested that novels were frivolous indulgences compared to sermons or histories. Mary had long since deserted them for the pianoforte next door, playing while Miss Darcy had accompanied her to turn the pages, but the debate had carried on without her.
“Surely, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, “you cannot wholly side with my sister’s dismissal of novels as mere trifles? To doso would suggest that literature offers nothing of value to a thoughtful mind.”
Mr. Darcy paused as he set down his wineglass, his expression thoughtful. “I do not dismiss novels outright, Miss Elizabeth. Some, indeed many, are poorly conceived and lack intellectual merit. One cannot ignore their power to influence, but that influence is often a poor one. What benefit, I wonder, is there in engaging the imagination at the cost of reason?”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “At the cost of reason? You speak as though a well-told story could itself overthrow society. What are we, Mr. Darcy, without the imagination? Do sermons or histories often move us to tears or inspire us to dream?”
