“Yes, Mr Darcy?”
“I must apologise for the contents of the missive I handed you after... after that evening. It was the ramblings of a wounded soul, though it contained truths.”
The grip on his arm tightened imperceptibly. “Mr Darcy, I completely understand. You need not say more. The confidences about your sister will never be shared elsewhere. You have my promise. As for the rest, I apologise for causing you such turmoil, however justified my rebukes might have been. I regret speaking to you with such rudeness.”
“Oh, no,” he cut her off. “You had every right. My behaviour was abhorrent.”
She studied his face for a moment. “Then we should agree that neither of us behaved to our credit that evening. Why not try to be friends? What say you, Mr Darcy? It would be unprecedented, but I find it intriguing.”
“Friends, Miss Elizabeth?” He leaned to the right, snapping a red bloom from a rose bush and offering it to her. She accepted it and leaned to smell it.
She shrugged. “Why not? Stranger things have happened.”
“Very well. Friends.” He cupped her hand on his sleeve with his other hand and squeezed briefly. “This should be interesting. I wonder how long it can last,” he muttered, wishing with all his heart it would last forever.
Up ahead, Viscount Keathley glanced over his shoulder. He saw Darcy and Elizabeth walking close together, deep in conversation, and his cousin smiling.
The viscount turned back to Mrs Collins and grinned. “Mrs Collins,” he said. “I believe the rock formation can wait. I suddenly feel as though the world is proceeding exactly as it should.”
Chapter Ten: Epistles and Epiphanies
ELIZABETH WAS SITTINGat the small wobbly writing desk in the guest bedchamber, engaged in the delicate act of writing to her sister Jane. She glanced at her pillow which was hiding beneath it Mr Darcy’s letter and a red rose inside its folds. She sighed, though she scarcely knew why.
She dipped her quill into the inkwell, acutely aware of how careful she must be to avoid any dramatic ink splatters.
Her mind was still ringing with the logic of Anne de Bourgh. The heiress had casually dismantled Elizabeth’s entire worldview in the space of a ten-minute conversation in the grove, leaving her to pick up the broken pieces of her shattered condemnation.
What kind of man allows his sisters and his friend to separate him from the woman he purportedly loves?
Elizabeth stared at the blank paper. She thought of Jane, residing in the bustling sanctuary of the Gardiners’ home in Gracechurch Street, London. Jane, who was an angel clad in muslin, who had borne the heartbreak of Mr Bingley’s departure with dignity. Jane, who always assumed the best of everyone, to her own detriment.
For months, Elizabeth had directed all her venom at Fitzwilliam Darcy. But now, she was forced to look at the pliable Charles Bingley from a different angle. Mr Bingley had allowed himself to be steered away like a leaf upon a stream. What kind of man acted like that? What did his actions say about his constancy?
She pressed the nib to the paper.
My Dearest Jane,
I hope this letter finds you well and thriving in the excellent company of our aunt and uncle in Cheapside. Kent is quiet enough, though we have recently been subjected to a rather overwhelming invasion by the inhabitants of Rosings Park.
Elizabeth paused, chewing the end of her quill. How did one gently ask one’s sister if she had realised her former suitor possessed the character of a damp rag?
I find my thoughts turning constantly to you, Jane. The distance gives one a strange clarity regarding the events of last autumn. I have been reflecting upon Mr Bingley’s departure from Netherfield. While I previously laid the blame at the feet of those who influenced him, I find myself increasingly frustrated by the man himself.
Tell me honestly, my dearest sister—how are you faring? Does the memory of his amiable nature still cause you pain, or has the stark reality of his weak will finally began to eclipse his charming smiles? I think of him as a weather-vane, pointing wherever the wind blows, and a man who cannot stand firm in his own affections is perhaps not a man worthy of the grief he causes.
It was subtle, but for Jane, it was a battle cry. Elizabeth signed her name, sprinkled the sand to dry the ink, and folded the paper neatly. She lit a candle and melted a stick of plainblue wax—suppressing a shudder as the smell of burning wax reminded her of the Darcy crest—and sealed the missive.
She walked out into the corridor and handed the letter to a passing housemaid, instructing her to add it to the post pile.
“Lizzy!” Charlotte’s voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you ready? The morning is slipping away, and Mr Collins has threatened to read to us from his agricultural journal if we linger!”
“I am coming!” Elizabeth shouted, grabbing her bonnet and shawl with the haste of a fugitive.
The walk to the village of Hunsford was brisk. The countryside was attempting to transition into spring, offering a watery sunlight that cut through the lingering chill.
Charlotte walked with her usual brisk stride, a basket looped over her arm.
“I must call upon the apothecary,” she explained as the small cluster of village shops came into view. “Mr Collins has developed a slight tickle in his throat, and he is convinced it is the precursor to a fatal ague. I need to purchase a restorative syrup before he begins drafting his final will and testament.”
