“Oh, Jane. Aunt Gardiner told me to be kind and gentle. To wait for him and trust that he still has those feelings, but how do I know it isn’t his responsibility? Darcy would never injure me knowingly, and he has sworn to protect me, because Lady Sophia required it.”
Jane reached across the small, scarred table and placed her hand over Elizabeth’s. Her palm was warm, a steadying weight against Elizabeth’s trembling.
“Lizzy, look at me,” Jane said, her voice dropping to a note of quiet authority that only she could command. “I see a man who considers everything carefully, and he has done everything beyond duty. He has curated your calling cards and investigated the gentlemen vying for a spot on your dance card. He has ensured that Mary and I are comfortable at the events, that we are not overlooked. He procured his uncle’s letter regarding Wickham’s conduct and is headed to Longbourn to protect ourfamily. He braved Mamma’s temper, and he has looked after your dog.”
Jane paused, her eyes searching Elizabeth’s. “He has defended your reputation and honored you at every turn. And consider this: he is not a man who shares his secrets. I have observed him closely these past months, and I am certain of one thing—not even his closest friends know what happened in Kent. Not Bingley, not Allegra, not even Lady Sophia.”
“So he has kept me a secret from his closest family. Georgiana does not know, or Mary would have told us.”
“I believe he is protecting you, Lizzy, not because he is ashamed he was refused. If Lady Catherine knew, she would have used it as an example of your lack of breeding, and Lady Matlock would not have approved of you for her son. The fact that his aunts treat you with even a shred of civility is proof he has kept your secret.”
“Lord Coke.” Elizabeth’s jaw tightened, turning to Jane. “I did not tell you, but Lord Coke tried to claim me in the corridor, and he mocked Darcy. And…”
“And what?” Jane’s eyes widened. “Did he hurt you?”
Elizabeth looked away, the memory of the cold fury in his eyes still making her pulse race. “Darcy stood between us and told Coke, ‘She is mine. I claimed her before she ever set foot in town.’”
“Of you, Lizzy?” Jane gasped, drawing in a sharp breath. “Do you know what that means?”
“He was protecting me, Jane.”
Jane shook her head, a soft, pitying smile touching her lips. “Oh, I believe it is more than that, Lizzy. He proposed to you in Kent. In his mind, that proposal still stands. He hasn’t moved on, and he hasn’t relinquished his right to your heart. He simply respects you enough not to demand it.”
Elizabeth stood abruptly, the air in the small room suddenly too thin to breathe. “I cannot believe that. It is too much to hope for.”
“Is it?” Jane stood as well, moving to Elizabeth’s side to turn her toward the window. “Why else the jokes about the mud, the arguments, the next twenty-five years? He wasn’t listing your faults, Lizzy. He was describing a life he is desperate to share. He isn’t waiting for you to become a ‘proper’ lady of rank. He is waiting for you to realize that you are already his home.”
“Then what am I to do?” Elizabeth stared at the sister who had always been her compass. “How does one manage a man like him?”
Jane offered a soft, knowing smile, the corner of her mouth lifting in a way that made Elizabeth feel entirely seen. “Lizzy, surely your wit will lead you home.”
A knock at the door and a gruff bark had both sisters looking up. Elizabeth opened the door, and Nettle rushed in.
Darcy bowed. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, I trust the meal was hearty.”
Jane answered for both of them that the food was delicious, the service accommodating, and conveyed their appreciation for his arrangements.
Elizabeth could only stare, her wit failing entirely, and she wished him a truly good night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
WHAT CHANGED, LIZZY?
The carriage turnedonto the Longbourn lane at half past one. Elizabeth pressed her face to the glass, her breath fogging the pane. Beside her, Nettle had abandoned all dignity, bouncing between the cushions with a frantic, whining joy that made Elizabeth’s own chest ache.
We are returned, she thought, and found her mouth inexplicably parched, as though Hertfordshire air had grown rarefied in her absence and now demanded a toll for reentry.
“The hedgerows need trimming,” Mary observed. “Papa has let them go again.”
“Papa lets everything go,” Elizabeth murmured. The words were meant to be dismissive, but they caught in her throat. The hedgerows were the same—tangled, unruly, thick with the scent of damp earth—but they looked smaller, shabbier. The lane, rutted from the winter rains and yet to be smoothed, felt like a journey back in time.
Outside, Darcy rode his black stallion with a straight-backed, chilling composure. He hadn’t looked at her once since leaving the White Hart. He had been a silent, grey-clad ghost, riding just ahead of the horses, his eyes perpetually sweeping the horizon.
She wondered what she would say to him, and what he might say to her. She wished the lane were either longer or shorter, or that it led anywhere but Longbourn, where her father and Kitty awaited, and the complications of home would swallow whatever fragile clarity she reached the night before.
“The gates,” Jane whispered, and her hand tightened on Elizabeth’s wrist.
The gates to Longbourn’s drive sagged on their hinges, one rusted and the other completely gone. Elizabeth recalled them standing tall and straight. Hill had complained about the rust, and her father had promised to see to it, only he hadn’t because it would have required him to leave the library.
