A few well-spoken observations would not overturn her judgment.
Her lips curved, almost against her will.
He had spoken exceedingly well—far too well. Elizabeth pressed her hand lightly to her cheek, as though the gesture might dispel the warmth gathering there.
This would never do. She must be sensible. She must remember his cruel words at the assembly.
Elizabeth pressed her hand lightly to her cheek, as though the gesture might dispel the warmth gathering there.
This would never do.
Her thoughts faltered, for despite every effort to direct them elsewhere, they returned again and again to the same point: the way he had regarded her, and the unsettling possibility that, for once, she had been correct in believing that look meant something more.
And to the unsettling possibility that, for once, she had been correct in believing that look meant something more.
Of Accomplishments and Opinions
Morning arrived at Netherfield beneath a pale wash of silver light, the kind that belonged only to the hours immediately after rain. The storm of the previous evening had passed sometime during the night, though its presence lingered still in the softened ground, the dripping hedgerows, and the light scent of damp earth carried through every open crack of the house.
Darcy had slept badly—not from discomfort, for Netherfield’s chambers were perfectly adequate, the bed well-made, and the fire properly attended. Under ordinary circumstances, he might have rested easily. These, however, were not ordinary circumstances.
Twice during the night he had risen and crossed to the window, staring out over grounds obscured by darkness and rain while his thoughts returned, with maddening persistence, to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. More specifically, to the expression upon her face during the previous evening’s conversation in the sitting room.
Surprise, embarrassment, and something else besides. Had he spoken too openly?
The realization troubled him, not due to any remorse over the opinions expressed. Those had been sincere. The danger lay in how plainly he had revealed them before Miss Bingley, whose vanity had already taken sufficient injury to render her sharp-tongued and suspicious.
Even now, with morning light making reason easier than midnight reflection, Darcy could not absolutely repent of his honesty.
Miss Elizabeth had listened. More importantly, she had understood what he meant to convey. That knowledge followed him downstairs long before the breakfast hour, through a house only beginning to stir itself awake. A servant crossed the hall carrying fresh coal for the fires. Somewhere deeper within the servants’ passages came the muffled sounds of preparation—the clink of china, the creak of doors, the subdued movement of a household arranging itself for the day.
Darcy paused near the front windows. The gardens beyond lay washed clean beneath the gray morning sky. Drops of water still clung to the last roses of the season, gathering heavily along crimson petals before slipping soundlessly into the dark soil below.
The sight drew him outward almost instantly. He told himself he desired fresh air after confinement indoors, though the excuse hardly satisfied him.
Within minutes he had exchanged the warmth of the house for the cool dampness beyond it, stepping carefully onto the gravel paths that wound through Netherfield’s gardens. The air carried a freshness that sharpened the senses even as it chilled them, and though the season had turned decisively toward autumn, traces of summer stubbornly lingered among the flowerbeds.
Darcy followed the nearest path without conscious direction at first.
Then he rounded a bend near the southern terrace and saw her. Miss Elizabeth stood alone beside a bed of pale roses, one gloved hand brushing absently against the bowed head of a bloom weighted by rainwater. She had not fully dressed for company; her hair, though neatly arranged, lacked the severe precision expected later in the day, and several curls had escaped near her temples. The simplicity suited her more than careful fashion ever could.
For one suspended moment, Darcy merely stared at her. The morning light bathed the edges of everything around her—the roses, the damp stone paths, the distant hedges—and she herself seemed more vivid for it. There remained traces of fatigue about her eyes, no doubt from sitting with her sister through much of the night, but even weariness failed to diminish her animation altogether.
She glanced up at the sound of his approach. Surprise flickered briefly across her face. Then caution followed it.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said, inclining his head.
“Mr. Darcy.” The reply was civil, though guarded enough to remind him how precarious his position remained.
He stopped several feet away, unwilling to crowd her into retreat. Every apology he had rehearsed over the last three days abandoned him in an instant, leaving only the sharp awareness that this was the first time since the assembly they had stood truly alone together.
No Miss Bingley to interrupt. No one to redirect conversation and no crowded room to shield either of them from honesty.
Darcy seized the opportunity before hesitation reclaimed it. “I hope you will forgive the liberty,” he began, “but as we are both abroad before the rest of the house has risen, may I ask whether you would permit me to walk with you?”
Her brows lifted slightly. “You may,” she said after a brief pause. “Though I confess myself somewhat surprised by the request.”
“The fault for that lies squarely on my shoulders,” Darcy admitted.
