Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

The room was too small, too warm, too stifling. His collar too high, his cravat too tight. Every hot flush of doubt now threatened to suffocate him, and those words whose success he had no worry of earlier now seemed woefully inadequate. Oh, this would not do!

He swallowed, the gall sticking in his throat.

"Are you well, Mr Darcy?" Elizabeth asked from her chair. "My finger… I hope it did not discomfort you excessively. Some people cannot look at blood with equanimity. There is no shame in it."

Did she think him…?

Get a grip on yourself, man! He chided himself. She had no way of knowing his humbling thoughts.

"I am well, merely concerned about you, Miss Bennet." That sounded quite reasonable, did it not? "It is… it is warm in here. I know you enjoy walking. Would you accompany me on a short turn about the garden, or…?"

"Perhaps a stroll through the park?" she added. "I would enjoy that. My earlier walk was curtailed by…" She stopped for a moment, her jaw tightening momentarily. That must be when she had spoken to Richard and learned about Darcy's interference between Bingley an d her sister. But she was gracious. "By my headache," was what she said. "Thank you. I would very much enjoy the fresh air."

It took but a moment for her to replace her slippers with stout walking shoes and to retrieve her bonnet from where she had left it earlier, and almost before Darcy knew it, they were outside, away from that dratted parsonage and every manner of interruption. The air that had all but deserted him earlier now came rushing into his lungs, and he felt strangely free for the first time that afternoon.

Elizabeth's lovely face brightened as well. She, too, was a child of nature. She could charm and amuse in the parlour or dining room, of course, but it was here, outside under the wide sky, surrounded by trees and muddy fields, that Darcy suspected she was the most comfortable. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as a gentle smile spread across her countenance.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, but a different silence. Just days ago—yesterday, even—Darcy had believed his wordless stalking beside Elizabeth, as she strolled along the paths, to be romantic, somehow. Why, he could not say; it was, perhaps, a futile attempt to be close to her without the risk of baring any part of his inner self. But this, this was something completely other.

This was not that stilted, awkward silence that he now recognised from those earlier walks. This was a comfortable silence, that shared intimacy between two people who—for this brief moment—needed no words. It was warm, like the gentle sunshine of an early summer's day, glowing, undemanding. It enveloped his soul in its soft embrace, and he swore he could feel it linking his to Elizabeth's. His lips curled into a serene smile quite unconsciously, and he saw, beside him, Elizabeth's do likewise.

He held out an elbow for her to take, or not, as she desired. She had no need of his support, for she was an excellent walker, strong and vigorous, but she slipped her hand through his arm regardless and walked beside him, closer than he could have dreamed. Yes, this was different, indeed.

They allowed their feet to guide them. Across the garden behind the parsonage—Collins was a fool, but the man did know how to tend to his roses—and through the gate that opened onto the laneway that bordered Rosings. From there, the path continued a short distance through the wood, before diverging into two. One branch would take them back to the great house where his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mr Collins' esteemed patroness, reigned with an iron fist to rival that of the Roi Soleil. The other meandered through the wood, down towards a stream that darted in and out of the trees. As it neared the house, the stream's course had been constrained and manipulated into something grand, swelling into artfully constructed ponds graced with follies and rather dreadful statuary, but here, in this patch of wilderness, it was natural and free. Like Elizabeth.

He pulled his arm a touch closer to his chest, and she moved closer with it.

"It is beautiful here," she said at last. "I can hardly believe us to be on your aunt's land. Everything else is so…"

"So rococo?" Darcy ventured.

She laughed. "That is one word. I can scarcely believe her to allow a stream to wind across her demesne without paying all due attention to her commands, as to where it should flow, how fast, and with no care whatsoever as to the best economy of its energy."

"You are cruel, Miss Bennet!" But Darcy's tone was anything but, and she laughed again, a sound even more precious than the comfortable silence they had shared so recently.

"My aunt does," he sought the words, "have her imperious ways."

"Lady Catherine the Great!" Then she gasped. "I am sorry… I should never have thought that?—"

"Richard and I have called her that to each other more than once. You are forgiven. Just please, never say that in her presence!"

The path and stream played with each other, winding about through the woods, sometimes veering close to the great expanse of lawn that surrounded Rosings, sometimes diving deeper into the trees as the patch of wood thickened further from the town. Here there was a glade with a bench, there a picturesque bridge that spanned the burbling brook. Darcy wondered if Elizabeth would enjoy a picnic on a fine day, surrounded by trees and birds and wildflowers, and thought to ask her.

They had just rounded a bend, approaching the fields once more, where the main path to the house was visible through a screen of trees. It was a lovely vista. Rosings held few precious memories for him, but it was a magnificent building to be seen, with its Elizabethan splendour and immaculate manicured gardens. She stopped beside him to take in the sight.

"Is this like Pemberley?" she asked. She had never before expressed any interest in his own estate, he now realised.

"You must see it for yourself to decide," he replied. She did not object.

Was this, then, the moment? Was this the time to declare himself? He took a deep breath in preparation, and she gazed at him with wide eyes.

"Miss Bennet," he began, "you must allow me?—"

"Lizzy?" A voice came ringing through the trees. It was Mrs Collins, scurrying down the path from Rosings, clearly seen through the screen of foliage. "Lizzy, are you out? Dorothy said you had taken a walk. Lizzy?"

Darcy stiffened. Beside him, Elizabeth clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes aglow in what could only be barely supressed laughter. At once, Darcy felt his whole being overcome by light, and he, too, had to fight to maintain any manner of self-regulation. He bit his lip to stop himself from laughing out loud.

"Come," Elizabeth whispered, eyes still sparkling with mirth. He obeyed. He would follow her anywhere. She took his hand in hers and pulled him behind her as she dove further into the woods, away from the path.

"This time, we shall not be interrupted!"