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“The room is rather close,” Mr. Darcy remarked. “Would you like to take a turn on the terrace?”
“That would be lovely.”
With the merest touch to her elbow, he guided her toward the French doors, which were open so that early spring breezes might cool the ballroom. The terrace was wide and long, lit by torches and the faint glimmer of a rising moon.
They were not the only ones outside, but people were sparse, and most were involved in their own conversations. Darcy led Elizabeth toward the balustrade where they could take pleasure in a view of the formal gardens in the meager moonlight.
Elizabeth laid her hand on the rough stone wall, and a moment later Mr. Darcy’s hand was resting right beside it. Although her eyes were fixed on the garden, she was intensely aware of their hands’ proximity. She held her breath. Might he move his finger a few inches to the right so their hands would touch? She could imagine the slide of his skin against hers. Even with something as impersonal as hands, the sensation would feel quite intimate.
His hand reached out and enclosed hers in a warm, dry grip. She turned up her palm so their fingers might intertwine. As he leaned toward her, his eyes seemed to be asking her a question.
Will he kiss me? Elizabeth swallowed. She should not allow it, and yet she could not possibly deny him. She wanted to taste his kisses nearly as much as she wanted to breathe.
Then he frowned and glanced down at her hand.
“What is it?” she asked softly. Oh. He had run his fingers over the work-hardened callouses on her palm. And he disapproved. Elizabeth tried to withdraw her hand, but he intertwined their fingers and held it in place.
“Collins should not make you and your sisters work.” His tone was hard and uncompromising.
Not wanting to argue with Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth kept her voice light. “He does not force us to work. He supports five dependent women when nobody would have faulted him if he had turned us out. Our labor is all we have to offer in exchange.”
“But you are gentlewomen. You should not have to—”
She interrupted him. “The work must be completed. With such a large household, there are many tasks that must be done every day and not enough servants to do them.”
“Because Collins dismissed them.”
“Yes. I wish he had not done so. They had been with us for many years.”
“Dismissed them so he might enjoy embroidered waistcoats and a gold watch fob.” Mr. Darcy’s voice dripped with derision.
“Yes.” She could not disagree with this fundamental unfairness.
“You do not even like him.”
She sighed and turned toward the garden. “I had hoped it was not so obvious.”
“Maybe not to others…to those who do not know you well. But you are too clever and too kind to suffer his idiocy and greed.”
Elizabeth did not know how to thank him for such a roundabout compliment, so she did not respond.
“Why do you work for him if you do not like him?” Mr. Darcy asked. “You cannot be pleased with the situation.”
Elizabeth focused on the still and dark garden below. “I am not. But I am not just working for Mr. Collins. When I make a meal, it feeds my mother and sisters and Charlotte—and even t
he Longbourn staff. I am caring for everyone who lives under that roof.”
He seemed very struck by her words. He opened his mouth to respond and then closed it again. “Hmm. I had not considered it from such a perspective.” He reached out so his fingers caressed her palm once more. “But still, a lady should not have such callouses and should not be subjected to such harsh work. I will speak with Collins and insist that he hire another maid.”
She disentangled their fingers, facing him directly. “Mr. Darcy, I do not believe my callouses are anything to be ashamed of.”
“But a lady—”
Seizing his hand, Elizabeth turned over his palm. “You have callouses on your hands.”
“From riding, the reins…”
“Do you ever help the tenants at Pemberley…in the fields or with the cottages?”
