Page 41 of The Longbourn Bloodline

Drawing on his heavy greatcoat, he retrieved his hat and gloves from their accustomed peg, stepped across the threshold, and faced the keen, frosty December air. He swung himself into the saddle and gathered the reins, bracing himself for the road ahead.

Richard was already at the gate, waiting. He glanced back but said nothing. The Colonel knew when to press and when to leave a man to his own reckoning, and this, apparently, was a moment for the latter.

The cottage fell behind first—the low stone walls, the patched roof, the window where he had stood watching the lane—and then the outbuildings, the stable and yard, the paddock where Jane’s mare poked her nose over the frost-rimed trough. The lane curved sharply beneath the overarching oaks. Longbourn’s roof appeared above the hedgerow—the familiar chimney, the upper windows catching the first real light of the morning—and Darcy reined in.

The house sat in the pale winter light with the settled patience of a building that had seen Bennets come and go for generations and would continue standing long after this particular chapter of its history had closed. Smoke snaked from the kitchen chimney. A lamp burned in an upper window—the east-facing room, second from the left. He did not know whether she was watching or even knew he was departing.

He could not have said whether a figure stood behind the glass or whether it was only the curtain catching the draught, a pale movement that might have been a hand drawing back or might have been nothing at all.

But he looked back and raised his hat anyway—a small, private gesture to the woman who had trembled in the firelight and given him nothing except the devastating knowledge that his heart was no longer his own—and to the faint, unreasonable hope that she might, one day, give him leave to speak.

Goodbye, Elizabeth.

He forced himself to look away, to settle his hat and urge his horse forward. He did not know if he would see her again, but he would never stop wanting to. Goodbye, for now, Elizabeth.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE EMPTY LANE

Elizabeth heard her mother at the foot of the stairs, shouting at her younger sisters to wear fresh lace and bring down their best bonnets, for the gentlemen were certain to call, and everyone would have a most merry time on St. Thomas Day, passing out baskets and visiting the tenants. Jane had risen early and had already descended to the breakfast room as the new heiress of Longbourn.

Elizabeth, however, felt no inclination to join the merry ranks below.

Instead, she lingered at her bedchamber window, tracing the delicate, fern-like lacework of frost upon the glass, her gaze drifting—entirely against her better judgment—toward the steward’s cottage. Had Darcy passed a sleepless night there? Would he appear among the basket-bearers, or had the mill inspection claimed him? Her thoughts, as ever, ran ahead of her.

She checked herself with a mental reprimand. Longbourn was no longer Darcy’s proper concern—if the exuberant, celebratory toasts echoing late into the night through the wainscoting were any indication.

Movement on the lane caught her attention, and two riders emerged from behind the hedgerow. A loaded carriage followed, Vernon visible on the box beside the driver. Elizabeth’s hand pressed flat against the cold glass without her permission.

Darcy rode in front, his greatcoat dark against the pale winter sky, his posture as correct as ever. Colonel Fitzwilliam was beside him, saying something that made him shake his head. They were leaving. They were actually departing—without breakfast, without farewell, without so much as a note sent up to the house to explain.

Her heart lodged in her throat. Had she driven him away? He had caught her by surprise, asking her—no, not asking—but pressing her with feelings she could not acknowledge. He had been noble and kind, but when she demanded the reason he wanted to marry her, he had said she would understand if she knew his character. And she had not possessed a ready reply because what she thought she knew had shifted, and she was no longer sure she had the lay of him at all. A man who could steady her on the ice and praise her unsteady piano playing—and in the same breath confess he had driven Bingley from Jane out of spite. One who came as the conquering hero and departed like a meek lamb. For he was leaving, was he not?

She watched as the riders approached the bend in the lane—the place where the road curved south around the low rise, where Longbourn would disappear from view, and a traveler would see nothing but open fields and the Meryton church spire.

Colonel Fitzwilliam rode on without pausing, but Darcy reined in his mount.

He turned in the saddle, holding his horse steady and looked back—at her, for even at the distance, she could make out his tortured gaze. And then, he lifted his hat, tipping it to the house, the empty lane, perhaps? He could not see her; she did not think so, as the sun reflected off the east-facing window.

But it did not matter, because he was leaving, and the gesture held for a breath—a man saying goodbye to a house, or a window, which might not have anyone behind it—to a woman who had not given him any reason to return.

The lump hardened in Elizabeth’s throat as Darcy settled his hat, turned his horse and rode away. She watched until she could watch no more, until the following carriage had also disappeared, and there was nothing left but the grey morning and the cold glass beneath her hand.

And she could no longer be alone, so she gathered her skirts and went down the stairs. She had not reached the bottom step when Mrs. Bennet’s lamentations achieved full-scale eruption.

“Gone! Both gentlemen gone, without so much as a by-your-leave. We had planned the goose! The spiced syllabub! The whole of Christmas Eve was to be a tableau, and now we have lost our two best gentlemen.”

Elizabeth entered the breakfast room to find Mrs. Bennet clutching a note in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. The rest of her sisters were arrayed around the table, Kitty and Lydia squabbling for the marmalade, and Mary with her nose buried in a book of sermons. Jane poured tea calmly, not in the least bit affected by this latest maternal calamity.

“He did leave a word of explanation,” Mr. Bennet observed mildly. “Several words, in fact. His sister is ill, and he has been summoned to her bedside.”

“Oh, I hope the illness is not serious,” Elizabeth said, sitting in her usual chair near Jane. “Did he say?”

“No, only that he has been called to Matlock and thanks us for our hospitality and trusts that the entail documents are in order.”

“Entail documents! Lizzy, did you ask him to change them?” Mamma rounded on her with the swiftness of a hawk spotting a field mouse. “Mr. Philips and your father were in there for hours, and is it true? That he did it for you? Put Jane on as heir because of you?”

“I believe that the gentleman stated it plainly,” Mr. Bennet said. “He answered Mr. Philips’s questions sufficiently, and was determined to be of sound mind, and so, with my permission, he changed the entail to include female heirs. And in doing so, Mrs. Bennet, he has saved our daughters, and you need not worry about any of them marrying. Jane will inherit, and all of you can live here happily ever after.”