Page 52 of Beyond Pride, Past Prejudice

Elizabeth no longer remembered why she had once found pleasure in travel.

Every sudden jolt of the carriage annoyed her, while the slow pace of their journey tried her patience just as much.

The sun glaring through the windows wearied her, her breakfast seemed too heavy, and she was perpetually thirsty.

The only mercy granted by that wretched day was the silence; neither Mrs Gardiner nor her husband attempted to draw her into conversation, for they understood her distress.

Seeing how troubled she was the evening before their departure, Mrs Gardiner could no longer bear the weight of concealment. She had recounted in detail to her husband the story from its beginning in Kent to its climax in Derbyshire.

At first, he had grown angry that she had kept such details from him.

Soon, his frustration had shifted to Elizabeth, who had rejected what any woman might consider a most desirable proposal.

Then he had remembered Bath, and nothing had made sense any longer—for their behaviour had not been that of two people who despised one another.

“What is wrong with that girl?” he demanded of his wife, vexed that this marked the second offer Elizabeth had refused.

Yet even as the words left his mouth, the image of Elizabeth smiling rose before him, and his annoyance melted away.

She was a strong woman, capable of recovering from any hardship, no matter how dramatic, and building a life worth living.

He watched her with much affection as she looked out of the carriage window with a melancholic gaze, hoping that this journey, still in its early hours, would help soothe her pain.

His wife returned his gaze with a reassuring smile, though inwardly, she was counting the hours until they reached Longbourn—when disaster struck.

With a violent crash, a front wheel struck some unseen obstacle, and the carriage was tossed violently.

Elizabeth and the maid lost their balance, falling against the bench where her aunt and uncle sat.

The terrified cries of the horses only heightened the confusion they all felt.

Thankfully, the skilled and alert coachman brought them swiftly to a halt.

At the same time, the footman beside him narrowly avoided being thrown from his seat.

The ladies watched with anxious expressions as Mr Gardiner descended from the carriage to inspect the damage, which was apparent: the front wheel on the left side lay broken, its once-fine spokes shattered into splinters. They would not be able to continue for some time.

“What dreadful luck!” exclaimed Mr Gardiner, dismayed as he surveyed the crippled vehicle, now leaning heavily to one side. Yet he quickly collected himself, unwilling to alarm the ladies.

“One of the front wheels is gone,” he announced, offering his hand to help the ladies down. Elizabeth had suffered no serious harm—only a light scrape to her right hand. She did not seem frightened; in truth, there was a quiet energy about her, as if she welcomed the unexpected delay.

Mrs Gardiner, however, felt her breath catch. Only a few miles from Lambton, this mishap now cast a shadow over their journey, as it became apparent that it would take at least a day longer.

“Now, my dear, do try to remain calm,” her husband said gently.

“Samuel will take one of the horses and ride into Lambton for help.” The words were not for Elizabeth, who showed no signs of fear.

She had already tied her bonnet, quite ready for a stroll.

The July air was warm, but the nearby woods offered shade, and she was no stranger to woodland walks, having often roamed the groves of Longbourn.

“I shall take a short walk. It will take a while for Samuel to return.”

“Stay on the path!” Mrs Gardiner called after her without alarm. She knew the woods near Lambton harboured nothing more menacing than deer, foxes, and the occasional squirrel.

As Mr Gardiner further inspected the damage with his coachman, his wife, lulled by the sound of their voices, soon drifted into sleep upon a blanket. They had weathered delays before on their travels, and no one was genuinely anxious.

Strange as it may seem, the incident that would undoubtedly prolong their journey did not trouble Elizabeth.

A faint smile, the first to arise through the ache in her heart, touched her lips as she thought that, after all, Mr Darcy had loved her.

And fate—curious and determined—seemed determined to keep her in Derbyshire, not far from his splendid home, which she had only glimpsed upon arrival.

The trees calmed her. The rustling of leaves and the birdsong reminded her of the woods at home, and the cool shade invited her to walk farther.

In the distance, she could still hear the voices of the men at work, her uncle’s among them, and when she came upon a clearing, it felt as though she had found the heart of the forest.

She wandered for a long while, at times sitting on a fallen tree or a moss-covered stone, grateful for that moment of peace that soothed her and allowed her to think of the future.

The love she carried within her would fade in time, perhaps, but the memory of Mr Darcy would never vanish.

With a quieter smile, she recalled a sunlit day in October when she had gathered mushrooms in the woods around Meryton, and just before reaching the path, she had heard someone call out, “Miss Elizabeth”.

They had all been walking out from Netherfield, but only Mr Darcy had seen her and spoken her name.

She closed her eyes, longing to hear his voice again, but something in it had changed in her memory. She was certain he had called her ‘Miss Elizabeth’, yet now, only ‘Elizabeth’ echoed in her mind—how she had often hoped to hear it.

She opened her eyes in surprise as she realised the forest rang with a real voice.

Looking about her, she did not hesitate and called out in return, “Fitzwilliam!” She repeated it, louder each time, more certain it was no trick of the imagination.

And indeed, from the direction of the road, she saw him appear, hurrying, calling her name even before he caught sight of her among the trees.

She had tried to be strong, to hide the depth of her sorrow when all hope had seemed lost—but now, standing before him, she understood that his loss had broken her, had hollowed out her soul and struck her heart with a quiet, mortal wound. For he was there—the only man she had ever wanted.

She leant against a tree, on the verge of fainting for the first time in her life. She did not yet know why he had come, and she would rather have fallen into oblivion than lose him again.

Breathless from the effort, he looked at her deeply, sighed, and reached for her as one might reach for a rare wildflower—startling in its beauty.

Only then did Elizabeth exhale and allow herself to hope she had not lost him.

But when his lips sought hers, she drew back from his embrace.

“Wait,” she said, her voice sharp.

“I shall wait,” he replied, smiling into her eyes.

“Where could I run with you in my arms?” And although she still struggled, he drew her in once more.

“I have ridden like a madman for ten miles and have searched for you for ten minutes. May I kiss you now?” he asked again, still smiling, still patient, ready to follow whatever pace she set.

“No…I mean, yes,” she whispered, and he tried to kiss her. But again, she cried, “Wait!” as his lips touched hers.

“You will drive me mad, Elizabeth,” he murmured in an unfamiliar voice that sent a shiver through her.

She thought it was pain, but there was too much joy around them for her not to wonder what else it could be that had caused the sensation that travelled from her toes to her heart, making her cling to him so she would not fall under the weight of what she felt in her body.

“You are engaged,” she said, searching his face but standing too close to read his eyes.

“I am,” Darcy agreed, and she tore herself from his arms, fighting his attempts to stop her.

“Then why are you here?”

Darcy looked at her as if trying to understand. He seemed puzzled but not troubled—for he already knew that life with her would always be like this. And there, in that forest, it was only the beginning.

He did not try to approach her again. It was enough for him to stand apart and watch her. She glared at him, though a ray of sunlight fell through the trees, casting her in a golden glow, making her look like a woodland spirit conjured to enchant him forever.

All her life had been governed by honesty and a sense of propriety, yet as she looked at him now, she felt, with sudden clarity, that she must feel love to its fullest in his arms, regardless of what might follow.

His betrothed would never know, and she would carry within her, forever, the wind stirred by a true and ardent love, one she would never feel again.

It was her right, for it was she who Darcy had first asked to marry him.

“Kiss me,” she murmured.

And he obeyed—for nothing could be more tempting than her lips.

His lips touched hers while his impatient hands began to make the acquaintance of her perfect body, which unexpectedly surrendered to his caresses, only making him more eager, conquering her in their first kiss that felt like the physical expression of love.

“Oh!” she exclaimed when his lips left her mouth for her neck. “I wanted just a small kiss.”

“There is no such thing between us, Elizabeth Bennet,” he murmured in her ear, making her tremble like a woman for the first time.

They stepped apart for a moment, unable to bear the passion any longer, suddenly aware that they stood in a forest, only minutes away from the others who were surely waiting for them.

“You are engaged,” she repeated.