The distinction ought not to have mattered so much. Indeed, she was rather ashamed to discover how much it mattered. For several days she had found herself listening for the sound of horses in the drive, only to feel a ridiculous disappointment when they belonged to somebody else. Every morning's post brought a fresh opportunity for hope and, lately, for disappointment too.
The letters had stopped.
Not for long. Ten days perhaps. Two weeks at most. Yet after becoming accustomed to seeing his hand so regularly, the silence seemed to possess a significance she could neither justify nor dismiss.
Had something delayed him? Had something changed? Or had she merely been foolish enough to build expectations where none had ever been intended?
The admission was mortifying. Not because she regretted it, but because it left her feeling absurdly vulnerable. There had been a time when she would have considered it impossible to become so attached to any man in so short a period. Now she found reminders of him everywhere.
A remark from Mr Bennet would call to mind a passage from one of his letters. A walk through the woods would remind her of some description she had sent him weeks before. Even Jane's happiness, which ought to have occupied her thoughtsentirely, carried her back to him, for every proof of Mr Bingley's constancy served only to remind her of his friend.
???
One afternoon, finding the house once again consumed by discussions of wedding gowns and guest lists, Elizabeth escaped.
The day was mild and still. A pale sun rested over the fields and the familiar paths beyond Longbourn seemed particularly inviting. She had walked them so often that she knew every turn almost by heart. Indeed, she had described several of them to Darcy in her letters and more than once had found herself wondering whether he could picture them accurately from her account.
The thought brought with it a familiar ache. She was still reflecting upon it when she rounded a bend in the path and saw a gentleman some distance ahead.
At first she paid him little attention. The lane was rarely deserted, but she had no expectation of meeting anybody she knew.
Then the gentleman lifted his head and Elizabeth stopped walking.
She had imagined this meeting so often during the previous fortnight that, for one absurd moment, she wondered whethershe had imagined it now. The path was familiar and the afternoon ordinary. There was no reason why Darcy should suddenly appear in the middle of Hertfordshire merely because she had spent half her days wishing for it.
But the Darcy of her imagination did not look at her with such unmistakable feeling. It was he.
The certainty settled over her at once and with it came a relief so profound that she was almost ashamed of it. During the long silence which had followed his last letter, she had attempted every reasonable argument. She had reminded herself that men had business. That correspondence occasionally faltered. She had even persuaded herself, for brief intervals, that his absence mattered very little.
The sight of him destroyed all such pretences. He was here and nothing else seemed of consequence.
Suddenly she was running towards him, her bonnet trailing down her back as she propelled herself along the dirt lane and threw herself into his arms. She landed against his chest with a reassuring thud and he pulled her to him and held her so tightly that it seemed he would never let her go.
"Elizabeth, my Elizabeth,"he whispered into her hair as she clung to him and rested her face against his chest.
For several moments neither spoke. The reality of him was overwhelming after so many weeks of absence and uncertainty. She could hear the rapid beating of his heart beneath her cheek. One of his hands was pressed firmly against her back, the other buried in her loosened hair, as though he feared she might disappear if he relaxed his hold for even a moment.
At length she drew back just far enough to look up at him. The sight that met her gaze was enough to steal what little composure remained.
Darcy looked entirely undone. There was no trace of reserve about him. No dignity or careful self-command. He looked happier than she had ever seen him and so openly relieved that Elizabeth felt her own eyes sting afresh.
"You took a very long time to come to Hertfordshire," she said softly.
A laugh escaped him. "I am sorry, my love."
"I was beginning to think you had forgotten me."
The expression that crossed his face made her immediately regret the words.
"Forgotten you?" He looked genuinely horrified.
"Elizabeth, there were days when I could scarcely think of anything else."
The answer was so earnest that she could not help smiling.
"That is fortunate."
His gaze travelled over her face as though reassuring himself she was truly there.
