She did not look at Darcy as she crossed the pavement. Then, just before she stepped up, she did.
It lasted only a moment. It contained no promise but there was so much feeling in her expression, so much depth to her gaze, that a seed of hope took root in his heart, despite the fact that she was moving away from him.
Darcy remained upon the step as it rolled away from the house, past the narrow line of shops, towards the turn that would take it from sight. He had been trained all his life in composure. He had stood before tenants, lawyers, creditors, relatives, magistrates and Lady Catherine de Bourgh without betraying more than he chose. Yet no education in self-command had prepared him to stand politely in a Dorset street while Elizabeth Bennet was carried away under her father’s protection and he did nothing.
The carriage turned the corner and the sound of the wheels faded. Bingley sighed and scuffed at the pavement with his boot.
As the carriage disappeared beyond the rise of the road, Darcy became uncomfortably aware that he had spent much of the lastfortnight assuming there would always be another opportunity. Another walk. Another conversation. Another day in which to explain himself better than he had managed the day before. The assumption had appeared reasonable while tomorrow remained available. Now tomorrow was travelling steadily towards Hertfordshire under the supervision of Mr Bennet.
The thought produced a sensation so unlike anything he had previously experienced that it took him several moments to recognise it.
Panic.
Before he had fully decided what he intended to do, he found himself moving. The first few steps carried him only to the edge of the pavement. The next took him into the road itself. Had anyone asked where he was going, Darcy would have struggled to provide a satisfactory answer. He was dimly aware that pursuing a departing carriage on foot was not the action of a sensible man. He was also aware that, sensible or not, he could not quite bring himself to stop.
Somewhere behind him Bingley called his name. Darcy ignored him and increased his pace.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Darcy had not run any considerable distance since leaving Cambridge. This became frustratingly clear approximately halfway up the hill beyond the lodging house.
At the time he had set off, the undertaking had appeared almost reasonable. The carriage had only just departed and a sporting gentleman in possession of sufficient determination might surely overtake a vehicle that had to pause often in the swell of town traffic.
Unfortunately, determination proved considerably more abundant than breath. By the time he reached the crest of the hill his cravat had come loose, sweat was trickling between his shoulder blades and he was sure he must appear as a madman. Indeed, the horrified glances he got as he navigated pedestrians like a man running from a wild beast, solidified the matter.
But he could see it. The Bennet family coach had slowed in a snarl of traffic and he reached it and hammered onthe door, with little thought for what might follow. The coachman shouted, "Move off sir!" with a frustrated bellow, but he hammered again, until Mr Bennet’s face appeared at the window.
Darcy gulped in air as he struggled to find the words, any words to explain his actions.
"Young man," Mr Bennet said firmly with less laconic mildness than usual. "You have accosted my coach and my family, and you have exactly five seconds to explain yourself."
"Papa!" came Elizabeth’s voice from within the carriage.
Mr Bennet did not take his eyes from Darcy.
"I have heard the interjection from the audience," he said. "The five seconds continue to elapse."
Darcy attempted a reply and discovered that running uphill had not improved his powers of expression.
The coach door opened and Mr Bennet climbed down and shut it carefully behind him. The movement ought to have concealed the occupants from view. Unfortunately, Mrs Bennet immediately pushed it open and all of its occupants peered out, rendering the effort entirely useless.
Darcy caught sight of Elizabeth beyond her mother's shoulder. That alone was enough to make the whole absurd undertaking seem justified.
"Now then," said Mr Bennet, folding his arms. "You have pursued my carriage through Dorset. I think we may safely conclude that whatever you have to say cannot be entrusted to the ordinary post. Proceed."
Darcy was painfully aware of Mrs Bennet listening with delighted attention and the wide eyes of both Bennet daughters. Now Elizabeth must indeed think him a madman, and his dash through Lyme was for naught. He attempted to square his shoulders and assume a considered expression, as if he and Mr Bennet were having a sensible conversation in a sensible place.
"I wished to ask your permission."
Mr Bennet sighed. "I was afraid it would be something of the sort."
"To write to Miss Elizabeth."
For a moment Mr Bennet simply looked at him. Then he glanced towards the carriage.
"Lizzy," he called over his shoulder. "This young man wishes to write letters."
"I gathered as much, Papa." She smiled at Darcy with what he hoped was affection, but may just as well have been bemusement.
