“It is ten miles around.”
“And of all that I might have been master,” Bennet mused. He paused just long enough for Darcy to feel a sliver of alarm, for the legal formalities had not been completed. Then the older man shuddered. “It would have made me miserable.”
Darcy chuckled. “You need not stand on ceremony; you are family after all. Come to visit us, and the library, whenever you wish.”
“Perhaps I will,” Mr. Bennet replied, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “Shall we play a game of chess while we wait for my daughter to return?”
Darcy understood that the offer was part of Bennet learning more about his nephew. “I would like that, Bennet,” he said. “I would like it very much indeed.”
After the first game, which he lost more quickly than he had since he had first started playing, Darcy paid closer attentionto Bennet’s strategy. He did himself more credit in the second, though all that meant was that it took twice as long for Bennet to defeat him.
Bennet cleared the board and returned the pieces to their box. “I believe I heard Lizzy coming in. Why do you not await her in the family parlour?” He reached for the bell. “Mr. Hill will take you there.”
Darcy stood and bowed deeply to Bennet. “Your servant, sir.” He left the book room with a rare sense of peace. For all his acerbic humour, Mr. Bennet was a family man. His wit was sharp but his heart unexpectedly generous, particularly where his relations were concerned. Darcy found himself feeling a curious warmth towards this man who was his uncle and would soon, God willing, be his father.
Elizabeth handed her coat and scarf to Mr. Hill, warm from her brisk walk to the stream. The March air was cool but no longer cold, and the first buds of spring were beginning to open. The Lucases had departed for Kent last week without her—she had sent her regrets to Charlotte, but she could not possibly leave Longbourn until she had seen Mr. Darcy with her own eyes and could confirm that he was well. Her message to Charlotte mentioned only her father’s recovery, however, not Mr. Darcy’s.
She had removed her gloves and untied her bonnet when Mrs. Hill bustled in to announce that Mr. Darcy awaited her in the family parlour.
The news sent a flurry of emotions through her. Relief, anticipation, and anxiety all mingled as she tried to compose herself. Elizabeth might have thought it was a coincidence that he was here when she had only just been thinking of him, but the truth was that she was always thinking of him now.
He was here. After all the weeks of uncertainty, of illness, of wondering what might have passed between him and her father, he was here.
She hurried down the hall to the open door and there he stood, immaculate as always, though there was a gentleness in his expression that made her feel somehow whole again. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, neither spoke.
“Miss Bennet.”
His sonorous voice made her heart skip. “Mr. Darcy,” she replied, dipping into a curtsey before gesturing toward the sofa. “Are you well? Please, do sit.”
He inclined his head but hesitated, his hands clasped behind his back. “Forgive me, but I find myself unable to do so until we have spoken.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened a touch more. She stepped closer, clasping her hands before her. “Then I would hear it, sir.”
What issued forth from Mr. Darcy’s mouth was a startling story. It was not at all what she had expected him to say.
She was inordinately proud of her father.
“Are you certain you did not read a novel before you fell ill, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, only half in jest. Then her lips parted. “That is why you were asking about the baby blanket.”
“When was that?”
“When you were fevered. I could not understand why it had bothered you so.”
He sighed. “It was the moment I realized I should have to resign all my security, which would leave me unable to propose to you.”
“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” she breathed, only now comprehending how painful that must have been. He had already been feeling unwell, and then . . .
He took her hands in his own. “Now that your father has cleared the way for us, I must ask you a question.”
It was the question she wanted to hear, but not yet. Elizabeth gently removed her hands from his. The truth lay before her now, yet it did not settle easily. It was as if she had been walking a path shrouded in mist, only to have the fog blown away.
“You should have told me,” she said at last, her voice low but steady. “You let me wonder, let me sense that something was amiss, yet you said nothing. I knew—Iasked—oh, I knew you were keeping something a secret, something that troubled you terribly. But never did I imaginethis.”
Mr. Darcy’s voice was strained. “I did not know what the truth was. Before I did . . . I had no wish to deceive you.”
“And yet you did.” She turned back to face him again. “Did you think I would not notice? That I would not feel it every time you hesitated?”
“I beg you to understand, I could do nothing until I knew the truth. I could not ask to call on you or raise your expectations until I knew that I would be able to support you. I kept my distance because I did not know whether I would be Mr. Darcy of Pemberley or just Mr. Darcy.”
