Page 24 of Near Pemberley

“And have you altered your opinion?” she asked.

“I hope so.”

There was nothing remarkable in the words themselves, yet the manner in which they were spoken prevented her from misunderstanding them.

He was speaking of far more than Pemberley.

Elizabeth lowered her eyes to her cup. “We are all liable to judge incorrectly at times,” she said quietly.

Darcy regarded her in silence. “Yes,” he replied. “Though some mistakes ought to have been recognised much sooner than they were.”

The colour rose faintly in Elizabeth’s cheeks.

She could not doubt what recollection occupied him now, and what most astonished her was not merely the humility of the acknowledgement, but the absence of resentment in it.

There followed a short pause.

“I think,” said Darcy at last, with a gravity very unlike his former manner, “that I once imagined reserve a sufficient excuse for neglecting the ordinary civilities of life.”

Elizabeth could not entirely suppress a small smile. “And do you no longer think so?”

“No.” His answering smile, though slight, was real. “I have lately had reason to believe the fault was entirely my own.”

There was something in the quiet sincerity of the admission which deprived it of all appearance of affectation. Another man might have spoken thus merely to recommend himself. Still, Elizabeth, watching the seriousness of his expression and the evident restraint with which he spoke at all, could not suspect him of such insincerity.

She stirred her tea absently.

“I think,” she said after a pause, “that few people are willing to examine themselves so honestly.”

Darcy looked at her with an expression she found difficult to support.

“Perhaps,” he answered, “because the examination is not always favourable.”

Elizabeth traced a finger lightly around the rim of her cup.

“I do not know,” she said after a moment, “whether self-examination becomes easier with practice.”

Darcy looked at her. “Do you think not?”

“I suspect it only becomes more necessary.”

A faint silence followed.

“At least,” she added with a slight smile, “I have lately found several reasons to think so.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

“I believe,” said Darcy at last, “that is very true.”

The words were spoken quietly, but with a firmness which struck her more forcibly than anything more impassioned might have done.

For a brief moment, neither spoke.

The awkwardness which had at first attended them had altered almost imperceptibly into something quieter, though no less unsettling. It was no longer discomfort which silenced them, but consciousness.

Elizabeth became aware that she was at ease with him. The discovery startled her. Not wholly at ease, certainly; too much remained unresolved for that. She was still embarrassed by the recollection of Hunsford, still uncertain what he now thought or felt, still very conscious of her own former prejudice. Yet the dread she had once associated with his presence was gone.

In its place remained only agitation. And perhaps, though she almost dared not name it even inwardly, expectation.