Page 67 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

And then she reached the final paragraphs, and her hand flew to her mouth.

If you can pardon my behaviour at Hunsford, if you can bring yourself to believe I am truly changed, if you feel even a portion of what I feel, then I entreat you to meet me tonight at ten o'clock beside the small frozen pond that lies near Longbourn.

Elizabeth's vision blurred. She blinked, but the tears came anyway, sliding down her cheeks in the bitter December cold.

He must have waited in the freezing darkness for hours whilst she sat in the drawing room with her mother and sisters, ignorant of the man standing alone beneath the winter stars. And when she failed to show, he must have believed that she had rejected him for a second time. Small wonder he had ridden away before dawn, for what remained to say to a woman who had received his declaration and answered with silence?

He is currently residing at Netherfield.

Darcy. Here. Again.

He hadn’t accompanied Bingley, which told her how wounded he had to be by her perceived slight.

Back in her chamber, Elizabeth pressed her hand against the cold glass of the window and made herself breathe. She would not go rushing across the county like a woman without sense. She had wounded him once with her haste and her pride. She would not repeat that folly.

***

The next two days were among the longest of her life. She occupied herself as best she could — she walked, she sewed, she sat with Jane and said almost nothing of consequence. Once, she sat down to write a reply to his letter, but the words would not come in any order that satisfied her. She burned three attempts in the grate. What she felt could not be properly committed to paper; it required her own voice, her own face, the chance to watch his expression as she spoke.

On the third morning she woke early, while the household still slept, and lay staring at the ceiling until the pale winter light had crept across the floorboards. Then she rose, dressed without waking her maid, and went downstairs.

“Hill! Hill, I need a horse saddled at once.”

The housekeeper appeared, her face creased with concern. “Miss Elizabeth, the stableboy is still polishing the side-saddle. It will not be ready for another quarter hour.”

A quarter hour. Fifteen minutes stretched before her like an eternity.

Driven purely by instinct, Elizabeth gathered her skirts and ran toward the stables, her half-boots slipping on the frost-slicked cobblestones. Behind her, she heard her mother's startled cry, but she did not stop.

The stable was fragrant with hay and leather. Elizabeth moved to the nearest stall, where her father's old bay mare stood dozing.

“Miss Elizabeth!” The stableboy looked up, rag and polish forgotten. “Whatever is the matter?”

“I need a horse saddled. Now. The side-saddle, quickly.”

The boy gaped at her. “But miss, the roads are terrible. There was frost last night, and the fields are nothing but mud and slush. It is not safe...”

“Now, if you please.”

Something in her voice convinced him, for he set aside his work and hurried to comply. Within minutes, the mare was saddled and led into the stable yard. Elizabeth mounted with more haste than grace.

Her mother had followed from the house and now stood in the stable yard entrance, her face a mask of horror.

“Elizabeth Bennet, what on earth do you think you are doing?”

“I am going to Netherfield.” Elizabeth gathered the reins. “Mr Darcy is there, and I must speak with him. I must tell him I received his letter.”

“Mr Darcy?” Mrs Bennet's confusion shifted to alarm. “What letter? Elizabeth, this is most improper! You cannot simply ride off to call upon a gentleman without a chaperone. What will people say?”

“Send Jane after me in the carriage once it is ready. She can serve as chaperone when she arrives. Or Hill if you please. Or yourself. But Mama, it is crucial that I depart right this instant.”

“Elizabeth! I absolutely forbid...”

But Elizabeth was already urging the mare forward, out of the stable yard and onto the lane, and her mother's protests faded into the grey December morning.

The road to Netherfield had never seemed so long. Elizabeth pressed the mare as fast as she dared, but the conditions were treacherous. Frost had hardened the ruts into ridges, and patches of ice gleamed beneath the overcast sky. She was forced to slow more than once, her jaw tight.

When she left the lane for the shortcut across the fields, matters grew worse. The ground had thawed just enough to become a morass of half-frozen mud that sucked at the mare's hooves and splattered Elizabeth's habit to the knee. The side-saddle proved hopelessly inadequate for such terrain. She felt herself sliding with every stride, her leg aching from the effort of maintaining her perch, her hands white-knuckled on the reins.