Elizabeth consented to a private interview, out in the garden, where we could be observed but not overheard. She stood mute and aloof, poised as an offended goddess and nearly as lovely to my already appreciative eyes. I will not say that my heart had determined to claim her by then, but it was probably well on its secret way to making itself her own.
What I can surely confess is that I had come to hold her as a respected friend, one I had mortified and one whose opinion I valued. And so, I merely spread my hands, making myself vulnerable, and invited her, “Speak your grievances, madam.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came forth, which was novel in my experience with her. She studied me with those matchless eyes, taking her measure of my contrition and sincerity. “You are terribly unfair, sir,” she said at last.
“How so? Do you not deserve to have your say?”
“Indeed, I do, but you know perfectly well that I am at my most eloquent when I am bantering your own words back to you. Yet, here you simply open a conversational void and expect me to fill it with insults against your character. How am I to respond without making a shrew of myself?”
“You could never be a shrew. If anyone can craft a conversation from nothing, it is you. As to my character, have I not granted you ample fodder?”
She crossed her arms. “You act as if I have been doing nothing this past fortnight but ruminating on your insults, and the first words out of my mouth will naturally be recrimination.”
“Perhaps I make the mistake of assuming your sentiments are like mine, for I have thought of nothing but my offenses against you. However...” I sighed, a bit more wounded by her reluctance to attack me than I would have expected. “If leaving matters between us as they were two weeks ago does not trouble you, then perhaps I was mistaken and should simply return to London.”
I turned away, my heart squeezing sharply in my chest, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me and shot my spirits into the heavens.
“Stay, Mr. Darcy.”
I looked back at her downcast gaze and rosy cheeks and waited with my body pounding and tingling with hope.
She drew a shaken breath and lifted her glorious eyes. They were filled with tears.
“Elizabeth!” I whispered. It was the first time I had spoken so informally to her, and I never recanted it. Her lip quivered, and I could not help stepping close and dusting the salt tear from her cheekbone.
“Sir, I would have you know that I count you as a friend, and our disagreement truly has been a torment to me.”
“The fault is mine!” I hastily cried.
“No.” She shook her head. “I must claim the share of it that belongs to me. I am not normally so unreasonable.”
I offered her a tight, painful grimace as an excruciating truth dawned on me. “Nor am I. It seems we are capable of bringing out the worst in each other.”
“I cannot argue with that!” she laughed brokenly. “But consider this; perhaps we are more able to wound each other because we understand where the other is to be found vulnerable. I choose to believe that to be proof of profound similarity of character, rather than the opposite.”
I distinctly recall that was the first warmth I had felt since before I went away. I smiled so broadly that I had trouble commanding my mouth to speak, but speak I did, and to this day, I thank God for that moment.
“I believe you must be right, Elizabeth. If you can overlook my prideful insults, I will do my best to forget your stubborn impudence.”
She burst into a laugh so sudden and so startling to herself that she snorted—charmingly—and covered her mouth.
“Truly, Elizabeth,” I continued, laughing as well, “I would count your continued friendship the greatest honor ever bestowed on me if you will confer it.”
She sniffed back a mixture of tears and mirth and offered her hand. “I shall try not to spread any more unsavory reports of you in the neighborhood. So long as you take care to kiss my feet and kowtow whenever I enter the room.”
“And occasionally lose to you at chess?”
She grinned, and her small, sweet hand gripped mine with the strength of a friend. “Naturally.”
Seven
October of that yearbrought a dozen new things into my life, not all of which were welcome. Among those that I have kept and still hold dear is my friendship with Georgiana.
It did not begin auspiciously. In fact, in the first few days after she arrived at Netherfield, I confided to Charles that the girl seemed deficient in some way because she never spoke and had a perpetually haunted look to her. Caroline badgered her needlessly, though I thinkherintent was, as ever, to find some way to impress Fitzwilliam. Harassing Georgiana did not yield the outcome she desired.
After a week, Fitzwilliam was again prepared to pack up for London. This time, however, his concern was not for his own wounded pride but his sister’s sensibilities. Caroline had been dogging the girl all morning, and then we saw no more of her after luncheon. Fitzwilliam had accompanied Charles out to call on the tenants, but when they returned, he disappeared above stairs. An hour later, a trembling and white Fitzwilliam Darcy found me in the library.
“Elizabeth, a word, please,” he said between clenched teeth.
