The soldier hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod before stepping back. “I will send for someone.”
Darcy barely acknowledged him. His attention was wholly consumed by the woman before him.
She turned to face him fully, and for the first time, he saw the full depth of her eyes—rich and dark, alive with intelligence.
“I had it handled,” she said, her voice even.
Darcy let out a short breath that could have been a laugh. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
She gave him a long, measuring look, as if assessing whether he was an ally or an obstacle. Then, seeming to decide on the former, she nodded once in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”
Darcy inclined his head. “It was only sense.”
Before she could reply, a sharp, ragged cough tore through him, doubling him over slightly. He turned away, pressing a fist to his mouth, his chest seizing with the effort.
When he finally straightened, he found Miss Bennet watching him, one brow arched.
“You should not be out here,” she observed.
Darcy cleared his throat. “Neither should you.”
Her lips quirked, but she did not argue the point. “Is there something you require, Mr.…?”
“Darcy. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
She gave no sign of recognition, merely inclining her head. “Then, Mr. Darcy, can I help you with something?”
Stay here and continue speaking with me until the world rights itself again.
But instead, he said, “On the contrary, I was about to ask if you required anything.”
“I thank you, but no. We will be leaving soon for my father’s estate. Thank you helping me assist this woman.” She turned to walk away.
“Wait, she is not with you?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, she stumbled into the park late last night.”
“You argued with a soldier—for a stranger?”
She tilted her head, considering him as if the question were strange. “Of course.”
Darcy studied her, astonishment flickering through his thoughts. She had argued—boldly, passionately—with a soldier over a woman she did not even know. How many others in her position would have turned away, claiming it was not their concern? He had never seen such conviction in a lady before.
“Why get involved?” he asked, his curiosity overriding his usual reserve.
Her fine eyes met his, unwavering. “Because she could not speak for herself.”
The simplicity of her words struck him deeper than he expected. He had heard countless justifications for action in his lifetime—duty, honor, pride—but this was different. No self-righteousness, no need for recognition. Just… an innate, immovable sense of rightness.
The ladies of his acquaintance concerned themselves with embroidery and drawing-room gossip, not standing their ground against uniformed men for the sake of an unknownwoman. Even the most charitable among them donated funds and spoke kindly of their efforts—but they did not act.
Yet here stood Miss Bennet, covered in soot, defying orders with no apparent hesitation.
Before he could form another thought, she gave him a polite nod. “Thank you again, Mr. Darcy. Good day.”
And just like that, she was gone.
He turned slightly, his eyes following her form as she walked away, moving with sure steps across the field. Her skirts skimmed the trampled grass, and the hem of her stained gown was coated six inches in mud. But as he watched her go, he was unable to shake the feeling that he had just encountered someone singular—someone unlike anyone he had ever met.
