Page 23 of Near Pemberley

Darcy seemed more composed now than at their initial meeting. Yet, Elizabeth remained aware of a certain effort in him – as though every word was considered before it was spoken, not from coldness, but from an anxious wish not to offend.

The perception affected her more than she wished to allow.

When they reached the inn, Darcy paused rather than immediately taking leave.

“Your aunt and uncle may not yet have returned,” he said. “Would you permit me to order tea while we wait?”

Elizabeth looked at him in some surprise.

There was nothing improper in the proposal. The inn coffee-room stood open behind them; servants passed continually through the hall, and yet the request, simple as it was, seemed to carry a significance wholly disproportionate to itself.

She hesitated only a moment. “You are very obliging, sir.”

Something in his countenance changed then – not fully a smile, but near enough to become one.

“The obligation,” he said, inclining his head slightly, “is mine.”

Tea was soon brought, and though the attendance of the servants spared them the appearance of too complete a privacy, Elizabeth remained acutely conscious of how extraordinary their situation would once have seemed to her.

That she should now be sitting opposite Mr. Darcy in such comparative ease – after all that had passed between them – was a circumstance she could not have imagined only a few months earlier.

For a short while, the conversation proceeded with all the caution natural to both.

Darcy inquired after her journey through Derbyshire; Elizabeth spoke of the scenery they had visited before arriving at Lambton; he mentioned the lateness of the harvest in some parts of the county; she observed that the season appeared finer than the last.

Nothing could have been more proper. Nothing, perhaps, more restrained. Yet beneath that restraint there existed an awareness which neither entirely succeeded in concealing.

Elizabeth, though careful not to observe him too openly, remained continually sensible of the difference in his manner. There was still reserve in him – that perhaps would never wholly disappear – but it no longer carried the appearance of indifference. On the contrary, she had never before seen him so attentive to the comfort of another person.

And the effort itself affected her.

She could not remember ever feeling so conscious of his presence beside her.

“It was very gracious of you to invite my uncle to fish in your stream. Yesterday at dinner, all he could talk about was your river; he called it. He believes every stream in Derbyshire was created solely for the purpose of fishing.”

Darcy’s expression softened. “Then he and my steward would be excellent allies.”

“Indeed? Then I suspect they would spend an entire afternoon agreeing with one another.”

“And another disagreeing about the proper method. One is not a proper fisherman if he cannot cast a line in precisely the manner the other recommends.”

Elizabeth laughed.

He had been responsible for that laugh, he thought.

“That is very likely.”

For a moment, the ease of the exchange surprised them both.

“You seem much attached to Pemberley,” she said, partly because the silence had become too noticeable, and partly because she genuinely wished to hear him speak of it.

Darcy paused before answering. “I believe I value it more now than I once did.”

Elizabeth looked up slightly. “Indeed?”

“Yes.” A faint seriousness entered his expression. “Formerly, I regarded it chiefly as something to preserve – an inheritance, a responsibility. I do not think I sufficiently considered what sort of influence a place may have upon the character of the person who inhabits it.”

Elizabeth was silent.