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Chapter Three
On the third day of Lady Matlock’s indisposition, the weather improved slightly and I almost expected that Mr Darcy would join me on my wanderings about the park; I had even brought a handkerchief with me to embroider, should we sit together in the hermitage once again. He was nowhere to be seen, and I told myself I was not disappointed. Neither did I allow my mind to dwell on his whereabouts. After all, it was not as though we had talked much. The only conversations we truly managed concerned Derbyshire and his ancestral home. I needed no help in longing for a holiday in the Peaks.
Uncle had meant to take us touring—we had often planned to visit Lambton—and I truly believe that, had he not died, we would have done the thing by now. How odd it was, to consider that I might have visited Pemberley on that trip; had we done so, I might have asked Mr Darcy’s housekeeper for a tour. I might have happened by just as Mr Darcy and his beautiful, elegant wife strolled through their beautiful, elegant home, laughing and smiling at each other, noticing no one else. For some reason, the thought soured me on my pleasant day of freedom.
It was envy, of course. I had lived, I had been happy, even; but it was not the life or the happiness I had anticipated. And then my uncle died; Uncle Gardiner, who had been almost more of a father to me than my own. I did not want to dwell on my loss, but today was the sort of day that brought losses to one’s mind. Grey skies, cold and comfortless, with nothing blooming.
Earlier today I had received a letter from Aunt Gardiner, and it was wonderful to finally discern the beginnings of happiness within its lines. Her eldest daughter, happily wed just before her father’s death, expected to give her a first grandchild. The three who remained with her had adjusted to country living, and she explained her ailing mother’s health had actually improved since their arrival. The neighbourhood was welcoming, and several difficulties had been overcome; the vicar had agreed to educate the boys, and a retired drawing master of uncommon ability had volunteered to work with Ellen and help cultivate her artistic passions. Her mother’s roof had been replaced for the most reasonable sum, and they were, at last, cosy and comfortable. It made sense, I suppose, that at the very point when my aunt was recovering her spirits, I should be overcome by a wave of longing—for my uncle and aunt, for the home we once shared, for the company of my young cousins.
But then, worse, came a stabbing misery: I yearned for my parents and Longbourn—or at least, what Longbourn had represented. Safety. Status. Youth. Unfairly, I blamed Mr Darcy for the onslaught of despair—seeing him again had harrowed up my feelings from their neatly aligned rows, disturbing my peace by poking at parts of the past I had chosen to forget.
I walked faster, trying to outpace my emotions. I knew several methods in achieving control, but it had been a long while since I had to use them. Remember how fortunate you are that your health is exceptional, that you can walk these grounds with strong limbs and lungs. Remember the comfort of your chambers, the excellence of your meals, even the small savings you are accumulating. Remember that you are not without family, that you are loved.
My breath hitched. No! I will not allow it! No self-pity! No stupid, useless tears!
And then I heard a voice calling, though some distance away.
I did not wish to see Mr Darcy now, when I was so near to losing my composure. And perhaps he had not yet spotted me.
And so, with an impulsive loss of dignity so complete I blush to remember it, I hitched up my skirts and ran.
I must have run a half mile or so, and while I was an avid walker, I do not believe I had run so far in a stretch since I was a girl. Collapsing at the foot of a large oak, hardly able to catch my breath, I tore at the fastenings of my now mud-splashed coat, sweating, gasping, heart pounding wildly. My cap slipped and hung askew, my hair almost combusting at the loss of pins and fabric securing it.
And so of course, that is where he found me, obviously alarmed by my flight, as well as my current unkempt and disordered condition. I might have even laughed at his expression, were I not so embarrassed.
I yanked off the hated cap, uncaring of the wrenching pins still clinging to my hair. At least now the breeze could reach my scalp. With a deep sigh, I leant back upon the oak, closing my eyes and hoping that a stray bolt of lightning might end my mortification.
I expected his remonstrances, but his question, when it came, surprised me.
“Does my presence distress you?”
I opened my eyes. Heedless of his clothing, he knelt beside me on the ground. He looked concerned and yet…there was a penetrating keenness in his gaze, as if he asked more than his words implied.
“Your presence at Rosings, or your presence now, in particular?” I replied with my own question.
“Is there a difference?”
I sighed, closing my eyes again. A distant bird trilled its song. A breeze fluttered leaves in a raspy rustling. He simply waited.
“No,” I said. “It is not you. I…I do not like to remember what I cannot always forget. It was a moment of…homesickness, for a home long gone. I ran from it.”
“Does that work?” he asked, as if he really wondered.
I considered. I no longer was in any danger of sobbing, so… “Yes. Sometimes.”
He settled in beside me at the base of the huge oak tree. We were in a more densely forested section of the park, and it was colder here in the gloom, now that my sweat was drying. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing occurred to me. My deepest thoughts were too close to the surface, my tenderest emotions too exposed. ‘How do you find the weather?’ was the only question that seemed safe, and it was a stupid one since we were sitting out of doors in it. So I sat in silence, close enough to hear his intake of breath and soft exhale.
And then, in the most casual tone one could imagine, he asked, “I wonder whether you would do me the honour of marrying me?”
I turned to stare at him. Had he suddenly sprouted a second head, I could not have been more astonished.
“Is this a joke?”
He frowned. “It would be a terrible one. No, of course not.”
“Mr Darcy…I am nearly nine and twenty.” I am not quite certain why I felt the need to clarify that—he must have had some idea.
“And I am nearly seven and thirty,” he replied. “It does not signify.”
