Page 18 of Time Stands Still

“I confess I am curious, Miss Bennet,” Darcy began again, his tone shifting as if to grant her a reprieve from the intensity of the topic. “What reason did you give Mr. Collins for this sudden departure?”

A small, wry smile touched her lips, a spark of her usual self returning. “I told him that I had received an urgent letter from my sister Jane, expressing a lowness of spirits, and that I felt a compelling need to be with her. I added that you, sir, having urgent business of your own in London, had most kindly offered the use of your carriage to see me safely to my aunt’s door. Mr. Collins, as you may imagine, found the arrangement highly irregular and expressed his grave doubts regarding propriety.”

“I can well imagine,” Darcy murmured, a hint of a smile on his own lips.

“However,” she continued, her eyes sparkling with mischief, “I assured him that you, as a gentleman of honour and impeccable connections, would not have suggested such a course were it not of the utmost necessity. And then,” she paused, savouring the memory, “I added that you yourself had mentioned how Lady Catherine, being a most devoted sister to your own dear mother, would surely approve of such a venture, particularly when undertaken for the sake of a young lady’s peace of mind.” She met his gaze. “He ceased to object immediately.”

“A most effective strategy,” he conceded. His expression then grew more serious. “And is your sister truly so low in spirits?”

“Her heart was broken some months ago, sir,” she replied, her voice losing its lightness as the reality of Jane’s suffering returned to her. “I believe her spirits have been low ever since.”

Darcy felt a familiar prickle of discomfiture, knowing his own culpable role in that affair. His apology to Elizabeth had been a necessary first step, but he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his conscience, that he owed an even greater one to Bingley. That was a conversation for another day, another battle in the war for his own integrity. For now, he sought to draw their conversation to safer, more pleasant ground. “You spoke of your sister, and of your home. Tell me of Longbourn. I confess my picture of it is… incomplete.”

“It is a place of little consequence compared to Pemberley, I am sure,” she said, her tone light once more. “We have no grand tours, only walks through the five fields that border our home. Our great artistic treasures are the crude chalk drawings my sisters and I made as children that still adorn the walls of the upstairs nursery, and our music is whatever we can play for ourselves, often with more enthusiasm than skill.”

“And yet you seem to have found a contentment there that many in my own circle, with all their grand tours and treasures, never achieve,” he observed, his voice thoughtful. “When I was in Rome, I spent a fortnight studying the works of the great masters. I saw men of fortune stand before a Raphael with expressions of profound boredom, their thoughts clearly on their dinner or their card game. It is not the grandeur of one’s surroundings, I am beginning to believe, but the quality of one’s mind and the society of one’s companions that determines happiness.”

“Perhaps,” she countered, a teasing light in her eyes, “it is simply that a walk through a Hertfordshire lane can be as edifying as a tour of the Vatican, if one only knows how to look.”

He found himself smiling, a genuine, unforced expression that seemed to rise from a place long left dormant. “It seems my education in Roman art was incomplete, Miss Bennet,” he said. “I find myself quite eager to discover what further lessons a Hertfordshire lane might offer.”

The intimacy of the conversation, the easy back and forth of it, was a thing so new and unexpected that it left him feeling both strangely exposed and deeply content. He thought of their past encounters. Never had she spoken to him with such freedom, such open wit, such unbridled honesty. He had once believed her spirited defiance to be a sign of interest, a challenge to his address. Now, with a clarity that was both humbling and exhilarating, he understood it had been a true and righteous dislike, a spirited defence against the very pride he had so readily and arrogantly displayed.

He had misjudged her in every conceivable way, blinded by his own assumptions and the rigid expectations of his class. He was beginning to see the true Elizabeth Bennet, and the sight was more captivating than any masterpiece he had ever admired in Italy. She had admitted her opinion of him was revised; he now allowed himself to hope, with a new and unfamiliar earnestness, that this revised opinion might one day grow into something more, an affection born not of a shared crisis, but of a true meeting of minds and hearts.

The long hours and the emotional strain of the past days eventually took their toll. Elizabeth’s replies grew softer, her eyes heavier. She fought against her exhaustion, her head nodding once, then twice, before it finally drifted to the side, and she fell into a quiet, deep sleep.

Darcy watched the steady, gentle rhythm of her breathing, the way a stray curl had fallen across her cheek, dark against her pale skin. A feeling more potent and profound than simple admiration washed over him, a feeling that settled deep in his bones. This deep and searing connection, this sense of rightness he had never known, was nothing like the inconvenient affection he had fought so hard against at Netherfield. It was not an affliction to be cured, but an anchor in a world that had lost its moorings. The thought of any harm coming to her, or of facing this strange new world without her, was a physical pain. He had found more than an ally in this impossible venture; he had, with a certainty that defied all logic, found the one woman who could make his own soul complete.

As the carriage rumbled over cobblestones, the change in rhythm and the increased noise of the city broke the quiet intimacy of the carriage. Elizabeth awoke with a start, her hand flying to her chest, the tense anticipation of their mission returning to her features.

“We have made excellent time,” Darcy said, his voice gentle. “We shall arrive by early afternoon.” He paused, as if gathering himself for a question of some weight. “Miss Bennet… As we are in London, I had hoped… that is, I would be honoured if you and your sister would consent to dine with me at Darcy House this evening. My own sister, Georgiana, is in town. I should very much like for you to meet her.”

“We should be honoured, sir,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

He gave a single, relieved nod, the matter settled. As he did so, Elizabeth turned to him, her expression soft and serious.

“Mr. Darcy,” she began, her voice low and earnest. “I must thank you. I know, logically, that the probability of my family remembering anything is all but non-existent. My arguments with myself have told me so. And yet… this journey to confirm it, to be certain, has eased a fear in my heart that logic could not touch. I know the cost and effort of such a rapid journey is not insignificant. You have undertaken it only to soothe my mind, and I… I find I value the generosity of that action more than I can say.”

Her words, so full of genuine gratitude and a clear-eyed understanding of his motives, struck him more profoundly than any compliment he had ever received. That she saw not an inconvenience, but an act of generosity, that she understood he had done it simply for her peace of mind, was a balm to his soul.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, his own voice thick with an emotion he could not entirely conceal. “Any cost, any effort, is a trifle. It is of no consequence whatsoever when weighed against your peace of mind.” And he knew, as he said the words, that they were the truest he had ever spoken. Her happiness had, in the space of a single day, become the organising principle of his own.

The carriage soon drew to a stop before a respectable and well-appointed house on Gracechurch Street that spoke of a man of sense and industry. The door was opened by a maid. A moment later, a handsome, gentle-looking woman appeared. “Lizzy!” her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, exclaimed, her smile warm but her eyes full of questions. “What a delightful surprise! We had not expected you from Kent so soon.”

Darcy’s gaze met Elizabeth’s for a fraction of a second. Their question was answered: for her family, time flowed as it ought. Her aunt’s cheerful, uncomplicated surprise was the only proof they needed.

“A matter of some urgency required my presence in London, Aunt,” Elizabeth said, managing a composure Darcy found remarkable as she employed their agreed-upon reason. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Darcy. He was kind enough to escort me.”

They were ushered inside, where they were met by her uncle, Mr. Gardiner, a man whose intelligent and steady gaze Darcy immediately respected, and her sister Jane. Seeing their simple, affectionate welcome, a fresh wave of shame washed over Darcy for his earlier disdain for her family’s connections. These were good, honourable people, he realised, possessed of a quiet dignity that many in his own circle sorely lacked.

After a few moments of strained pleasantries, during which Darcy felt the full weight of his irregular arrival, Mr. Gardiner cleared his throat. “Mr. Darcy,” he said, his tone polite but firm. “May I have a word with you in my study?”

Darcy had expected this and, with a brief nod to the ladies, followed him into a quiet, book-lined room. Mr. Gardiner closed the door, the sound echoing the gravity of the encounter.

“Sir,” he began, wasting no time as he gestured for Darcy to sit, though he himself remained standing by the hearth. “I confess I find this situation highly irregular. For my niece to arrive so unexpectedly, in the company of a gentleman all but a stranger to us, is a matter of some gravity. I must ask you to explain your intentions plainly.”

Darcy met his gaze without flinching. He was now face to face with the very man whose respectability he had so casually dismissed, and he found that Mr. Gardiner possessed a quiet authority that put his own past arrogance to shame.