Chapter 21

Darcy stopped walking; he could hardly believe the guilt Elizabeth had just voiced. Neither, it appeared, did she, for she blushed, her cheeks rosy with regret for her hasty words.

“Pray, forget that I said it!” she cried, twisting back in the direction they had come. But he clasped her arm.

“No, wait,” he said, gentling his hold. “There is a shortcut to the centre just here. Come with me—we shall be there in only a few minutes.”

He could not explain why he felt he must encourage her to stay, to talk to him. Perhaps it was an intuition that the burdens she carried were as heavy as his own; perhaps it was only that she would likely never look at him again if she did not, so deep was her obvious embarrassment. He took the winding shortcut and, as promised they were soon at the centre, where chestnuts, benches, and the pretty little pagoda stood.

“Please, sit,” he urged.

To his great relief, she sat. Carefully—as if approaching a wary doe—he sat beside her. As usual, the words he wanted did not magically appear, and he struggled to find something encouraging and yet not too inquisitive. Naturally, he wondered why she would say such a thing. If she had been an ill-tempered girl, he would have seen it already—she certainly had experienced provocation. Instead, he had seen her overlook the offences against her, comforting Georgiana, easily befriending the other young ladies—the ones who were sociable, at least—and helping her gracious but much more reserved sister be comfortable.

That was what he needed to do now, he realised—help her be comfortable. Or at least, try.

“Your father…can you tell me about him? He was a gentleman, I think you said?”

His awkward beginning proved adequate to set her talking. Thomas Bennet had been a scholarly man, it seemed, fonder of his books than of company, but good humoured and affectionate to his daughters.

“He did not do as much as he could have to provide for us,” she said. “There are those who criticise him now for it. It was not as straightforward as one might suppose. He, personally, required no more entertainment than watching the leaves change colour with the seasons or a beautiful sunset. But my mother was…is difficult. He had a choice between a peaceful home and denying her wishes. He chose peace. Who can blame him?”

Her father’s struggle reminded him of old Mr Wickham and his handsome, temperamental wife. “My father’s dearest friend for many years had the management of all the Pemberley properties. His wife, like how you describe your mother, was…difficult. Some men might answer such a woman with force and aggressiveness in return. He could not. I saw how it was—it seemed impossible to do other than give way.”

This sympathy did not seem to satisfy her, for she appeared more troubled still. “I easily blame my mother, for she was noisiest. I am glad I no longer live with her. As undutiful as it sounds, I do not really even like her. But I wish…I wish I did. I wish she liked me. I remember evenings of laughter, laughing so hard at some tale she told, that there were tears in my eyes. She would become enthusiastic about shopping—she could always tell what looked best on me. I trusted her taste. She was never happier than when designing some new dress for one of her daughters, even her least favourite one.”

He wished he could hold her hand, soothe the furrow in her brow, provide some physical comfort. She appeared so alone.

Struggling to think what else he might say of comfort and coming up with nothing, he was about to mutter some stupid commonplace when she spoke again. “My parents, I thought, did not like each other. I always took Papa’s side in any dispute. But when Papa died, she lost her wits. For about a day, she did not recognise any of her daughters, only Mrs Hill, our housekeeper. She simply did not know us. With the return of her wits came a noisier grief, but those first hours showed me her true feelings. She loved him. She did not understand him and she frustrated him beyond measure, but she did love him.”

A single tear dripped off her cheek and he could not bear it any longer; he took her gloveless hand in his, marvelling in the softness of her skin. She did not seem to notice, lost in her grief.

“How did he die?” he asked softly.

She was so obviously adrift, he thought she might not answer, and for some time, she did not. “It is a long story,” she said at last. “There was…an event. A series of them, actually. In response, I made a foolish decision,” she explained, her words careful. “It ended badly. For a time, I was the focus of much amusement and mockery from my neighbours.”

The focus of amusement, he noted. Not scorn, not shame, but amusement. Her ‘foolish’ decision was not a potentially ruinous one, such as Georgiana’s.

“As a result, I was self-pitying and distraught. I took to walking Longbourn’s wooded paths, and when that was not far enough, up Oakham Mount, the furthest—and highest—point in the valley. There are paths up Oakham which are easy. I did not use those. I went up the steeper, rockier side. I have been doing it all my life—I did not see any risk and have no fear of heights. But one day as I climbed using one of those rougher paths, the ground crumbled beneath me, and I fell. I managed to grab on to some scrub to stop my fall, but I twisted my ankle in the process and was quite stuck. I could neither climb up nor down. So there I stayed as daylight turned into night.”

Darcy could visualise it all too well. He was holding her hand with both of his now, as if he could prevent her falling off a cliff face with his grip, and had to force himself to loosen it. “That must have been frightening,” he said, speaking the words casually, pretending he was not filled with horror at an accident which could easily have ended her life.

“Not really frightening, no. I knew that when I did not return in time for dinner, a search would commence, and I had told Jane I meant to go to Oakham. They would search the easy side first, of course, but eventually they would find me. I thought of little but myself, of the pain I was in. That I was hungry and cold.”

She seemed to hunch into herself, as if she could make herself smaller.

“Anyone would when one is in pain. And hungry and cold.”

She looked up then, her large, dark eyes brimming with unshed tears. Looked up, but not at him—instead at some scene from her past, a sight which filled her with despair.

“The men came carrying lanterns,” she whispered softly. “Mr Hill and John Bond and Mr Bell and John Joseph and Papa. I called to them, only telling them I was injured. I said nothing of the uneven, crumbling paths, of the danger. I did not warn them. Quite the opposite. I told them to hurry.”

He could guess what had happened. His words would be trite and clumsy ones, but he must say it.

“It was an accident.”

“Papa did hurry to me,” she whispered, as if he had not spoken. “Just as I begged him to. It was too dark. He lost his footing and fell. Mr Bell said he broke his neck, that it would have been instant—that he would not have felt any pain. I hope he did not.”

She reclaimed her hand from him, using both hers to cover her face. Her sobs were silent ones, but her shoulders shook. Removing his handkerchief, meaning to give it to her, suddenly he could not bear it, folding her into his arms instead. His hold was gentle, trying to soothe, wishing he could take her pain from her, for her.

“An accident,” he repeated. “Not your fault. No one could ever blame you.”

She raised her face from his shoulder. “My mother certainly does, and I agree. I blame me. It was my fault.”

“’Twas an accident,” he said firmly.

She took a deep breath and straightened suddenly, as if she had only just come back to herself and realised the improper nature of his hold. Of course, he let her go immediately. He simply did not want to, and wished he had the right to comfort her. All he could do was hand over the handkerchief, a meagre offering.

“I am sorry,” she said after a few minutes of silence between them, and it was more her usual voice. “I am ordinarily very good about keeping the past in the past. Something about being in the country again after so long…I suppose it brings it all back.”

“It is not good to keep grief locked within you,” he said. “It would not have spilt out had it not needed to.”

“Very kind,” she murmured, but it was a perfunctory response. She had returned to embarrassment again, the last thing he wanted. The need to console her, to turn her thoughts, was imperative, however inept his efforts.

“Within those shrubs and cypress trees bunched together in the centre,” he said, gesturing to his right, “you will find what purports to be the last remaining ruins of an outer castle wall.”

“Really?” she asked, perking up.

“Come, I will show you.” He stood and offered his hand. She took it but only for the briefest measure as she rose. Any sort of intimacy, he knew, had been a result of her confidences—something he was certain had been bottled up, perhaps since her father’s death, and never allowed to surface. She had not shed a tear after Miss Bingley’s assault—she was not a weepy sort.

He parted the shrubberies, contenting himself with her expression of delight at the sight of an ancient-looking, curving stone staircase overgrown with artfully planted weeds. She quickly scampered to the top, where a crumbling castle wall ended in a small aperture with a stone seat at its base forming a sort of parapet. From there, he knew, she could look out and see about half the maze as well as more distant sights. Once it had featured a view of the whole maze, but the surrounding chestnuts had grown too tall, and Perkins—who hated the maze as an unnatural aberration—would never prune them unless Darcy forced the issue.

She laughed, the sound golden and cheering. “I can see the church spires of a village!” she called. More sedately, he followed her up the steps. The landing was a small space, designed for only one or two people. Again, he lacked the easy charm of meaningless conversation, and said aloud the first thing occurring to him.

“You have not pestered me for your clue,” he said. “Not even a hint.”

“Clue?” she stared at him blankly.

“The earl’s great treasure hunt,” he said, feeling stupid.

But her expression cleared. “One does not like to harass one’s host,” she explained. “Especially if one has made a great fool of oneself only minutes earlier.”

Unable to help himself, he laid a hand upon her shoulder. “I hope you know that I find you anything except foolish. Now, as for your prize-winning clue—” He cleared his throat importantly and she smiled up at him, her good humour plainly restored.

“It brings to mind the grass or trees, though its use is more routine;

To decorate before the sneeze that renders it unclean.”

“Oh, very good. It is not a handkerchief, then—or else I have never had a green one. But decorating one…” She paused, staring down at his handkerchief which was still crumpled in her hand, one of his initials partially showing.

She grinned up at him triumphantly. “Too easy, sir! It must be green embroidery thread.”

“I cannot, of course, confirm or deny your deduction,” he said very formally, and she laughed.

He would never be able to come up here again, he realised, without imagining her here beside him, her smile curved upwards. He had made her happy, he knew. So easily done, because despite her sorrows, happiness was her customary disposition.

He also knew better than to wrap his arms about her, to press her back against him, to kiss the pale skin where her neck met her shoulder, to see if he could ignite her passion, her affections. She was not his.

The thought left him bereft.