Page 5 of Darcy’s Redemption (Holidays with Darcy and Elizabeth)

Chapter Five

T he following day, Elizabeth once again walked the grove, her mind still racing as she thought over the sermon from the day before. Although she had wished to speak to the bishop privately, there had been no opportunity. Not long after the bishop had joined the family at the parsonage for a late breakfast after church, he had accompanied them to Rosings for tea.

At Rosings, there had been little opportunity for anyone to speak, for Lady Catherine had not particularly enjoyed the bishop’s sermon, though she had offered much praise for the one given by Mr. Collins. It seemed that nearly everyone else was reflecting on the sermons of that morning, for they all allowed Lady Catherine the floor in peace. Even Colonel Fitzwilliam had little to say in reply to Lady Catherine’s proclamations. Mr. Collins was the only one who spoke, and he mainly agreed with every word out of the mouth of his patroness.

Even the bishop remained quiet. He knew enough of Lady Catherine to know that arguing with her would be foolish. Instead, he reviewed in his mind several Proverbs that helped him keep silent, particularly reminding himself of the verse from the tenth chapter that read “…he that refraineth his lips is wise.”

Elizabeth laughed at the memory. Darcy had insisted on accompanying the Collinses party home to carry the bishop’s belongings back to Rosings. Lady Catherine had argued that a footman could retrieve the valise, but Darcy countered that he needed the exercise and would walk with his godfather there and back. Although the great lady had reluctantly conceded, Elizabeth could not help but note how much Lady Catherine resembled her sister Lydia when denied her way.

Darcy and the bishop had walked with Elizabeth as they made their way to the parsonage. Charlotte had encouraged Mr. Collins to hurry so they could ensure the staff had packed Bishop Baines’ things, leaving Elizabeth to be escorted by the two men. As they walked, Darcy offered Elizabeth his arm, which she hesitantly accepted, feeling awkward because of the incident from the day before. Recalling what had been said that morning, she straightened her back and attempted to act as unaffected as he seemed to be.

During this short walk, Bishop Baines had quietly confessed what he had been thinking during Lady Catherine’s diatribes, causing his companions to laugh. Elizabeth had to stop walking, lifting her free hand to join the one already resting on Darcy’s arm as she steadied herself after so much laughter. This action caused her laughter to fade into a breathless chuckle as she glanced up at him, only to find his gaze already on her, warm with amusement… and with something else. For a fleeting mo ment, the absurdity of the day—Mr. Collins’ sermon, Lady Catherine’s bluster, the bishop’s dry wit—melted away, leaving only quiet understanding between them.

“Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked quietly, observing the myriad of expressions that crossed her face in that moment. He continued to examine her closely as he had always done, yet this time it felt different. She knew now that he was not looking to find fault, but she was not sure what it might signify.

“I am,” she replied, equally softly, but she barely heard her own words over the sudden rush of her pulse. Her hands still rested lightly on his arm, but she was acutely aware of every point of contact between them. The strength beneath the fine fabric of his coat. The way he had not shifted away when she drew close. The look in his eyes that seemed to be telling her… something. She knew not what.

Her breath caught as they lingered in the moment, neither moving nor speaking. She did not notice that the bishop had taken several steps ahead and now observed them with keen interest. Nor did Darcy. His attention remained wholly fixed on her, his usual reserve momentarily forgotten.

A noise in the distance brought both of them back to themselves, and the moment was gone. Darcy cleared his throat and shifted slightly, though he did not step away. Elizabeth let out a small, self-conscious laugh, dropping her gaze as warmth spread through her. She could still feel the press of his arm beneath her fingers, solid and steady. Straightening, she dropped her second hand before resuming a more proper hold on his arm.

A few paces ahead, Bishop Baines paused as if just realising they had fallen behind. He turned, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—speculation, perhaps, or quiet amusement—as he watched the couple. Elizabeth briefly wondered if, in addition to being a member of the clergy, he was something of a mind reader. The way he had shown up yesterday seemed to imply some sort of divine appointment.

Darcy finally spoke, his voice softer than usual. “Shall we catch up?”

Elizabeth nodded as they resumed their walk, but the spell of the moment lingered, an awareness neither of them could entirely dismiss. Only a few minutes later, the party arrived at the parsonage, and soon thereafter, Darcy left with his godfather. Mr. Collins had much to say, and so Elizabeth did not have the opportunity for quiet reflection until that morning.

As she walked through the grove, this incident, along with so many others, weighed on Elizabeth’s mind. She had craved time alone since the night before when she once again shared a room with Maria Lucas who had wanted to talk about her day. Worse still, she had spoken at length about Colonel Fitzwilliam, comparing him to his cousin. Much of what the girl said about Mr. Darcy was negative since Maria still believed Wickham’s lies about the man. This fact only added to Elizabeth’s troubled thoughts that morning, for while she and Charlotte had done what they said and had written to their mothers about the fictional trouble caused by a troop of soldiers in a nearby town, she still worried whether their plan would be successful.

With her thoughts so conflicted, Elizabeth walked more quickly than usual and soon found herself nearing a walled garden. She glanced around for a moment, for she had not encountered such a location on any of her previous rambles. In the distance, she could see Rosings, but it seemed that the garden was at some distance from the manor, yet within its boundaries.

Slowly, Elizabeth moved towards the ivy-covered entrance, and upon reaching out, found the door unlocked. This seemed invitation enough, and she slipped inside, astonished by the sight before her.

Unlike the rigidly ordered gardens at Rosings, this space felt almost wild. Someone clearly tended it often enough—there was no debris on the pathways, and nothing was overgrown—but nature had been allowed to shape its own beauty here. The walls that enclosed the space on all four sides had ivy climbing up them and the hedges that lined the pathways showed the tender green of new spring growth.

The air was fragrant with the mingling scents ofhawthorneand primrose, layered with the sweetness of violets that dotted the ground in delicate clusters. The grass, though lush, had been carefully cut back so as not to intrude upon the gravel paths, which were lined with daffodils and narcissus, their golden heads swaying gently in the light breeze as if they too turned towards the sun’s warmth. Several types of wildflowers had begun toappear, addingtheir subtle beauty to the scene, while in shaded pockets, forget-me-nots formed carpets of soft blue that tempted Elizabeth to stretch out and rest upon them.

In places, the stone of the enclosing walls peeked through the greenery, but for the most part, all the beauty here came from nature rather than man’s design—or so it seemed. She inhaled deeply, the lingering coolness of morning still present in the air, though softened by the promise of a warm day ahead. A deep sense of peace settled over her .

Moving along one of the pathways, she came upon a weathered stone bench nestled in a quiet corner. Without hesitation, she sat down, letting the atmosphere envelop her.

Hoping to find a quiet refuge, Elizabeth had brought her journal with her. Writing down her thoughts had always helped her make sense of them when they felt tangled, and never had her mind been in such disarray as it had been since Mr. Darcy’s arrival. She carried a pencil with her book and intended to write her thoughts in pencil which she would later transcribe in ink, that is, if her thoughts proved worthwhile of being treated thusly. Her mind was in such a muddle that she was uncertain what, if anything, of use she would be able to convey.

Finding the bench an adequate spot for writing, she opened her journal and began to jot down what she had learned about Mr. Darcy since his arrival.

1. Mr. Darcy did not look at me to find fault.

Was it possible that he admired her? He had hinted at it, she considered, but she had so far refused to consider that he might be serious. No, he said I was fascinating, she reminded herself. Is that the same as admiration?

Since that was one of the thoughts that troubled her most, Elizabeth did not want to continue along this route. Instead, she moved on to the next point.

2. Mr. Wickham is not at all the gentleman he claims to be. In fact, he is rather terrible, and I hope that my mother and Lady Lucas can be of use by spreading their gossip about him .

Setting down her pencil, Elizabeth spent several minutes contemplating what Mr. Wickham had said to her while reconciling it with what Mr. Darcy said and did. The more she considered Mr. Wickham, the more she realised the man had merely imitated a gentleman in his words, while his actions ought to have conveyed a different impression.

Suddenly, the idea that he had pursued Miss King only after her inheritance became public knowledge seemed more avaricious than sensible. Elizabeth had, at first, defended his defection by jokingly observing that handsome men needed something to live on as much as the plain. However, in light of what she now knew about him, his motivations were more suspect. She wondered if there was some way she could warn Miss King, but was uncertain as to how she could accomplish it. Hopefully, the lady’s guardian would take care before allowing the match to proceed.

3. Mr. Darcy is a far better man than I gave him credit for being.

Elizabeth considered the obvious care he showed for his sister and the pain he must have endured since the summer. He had nearly lost her to his former friend, and it was obvious that he regretted not protecting her better. Not only that, but she had seen a different side of him in the last few days. After the day before, she realised that he possessed a dry sense of humour and was not as stuffy as she had believed.

Had he shown this side of himself when he was in Hertfordshire, Elizabeth would not have disliked him at all. However, she also considered that, perhaps, he had done so, but she had been blinded to it by her prejudice against him .

This led her to the last item she needed to include on her list, the most difficult to write and to admit to, even to herself. Eventually, after a few moments of hesitation, she picked up her pencil and wrote next to the number four.

4. I have been a blind fool who has allowed herself to be misguided due to vanity and pride.

She recalled saying to Charlotte on the night of the assembly that “I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. ? 1 ” It was true; she had been mortified by his insult that evening, causing her to deliberately seek evidence of his incivility. Perhaps, had Mr. Darcy not said what he did, or, at least, not within her hearing, she would not have felt so… so determined to dislike him. Perhaps, had their acquaintance not begun in the manner it had, she would have questioned Mr. Wickham’s confession to her sooner and not so easily believed his words.

Since meeting Mr. Darcy again, he had apologised several times, but she still held those words against him. At church the day before, the bishop had spoken of forgiveness, specifically mentioning that it was human nature to misunderstand and misjudge at times, but that we were called by Christ’s example to forgive. Elizabeth could no longer hold onto his words from so long ago. Particularly not when he had proven himself since then to differ from her long held opinion of him.

“Pride has been my failing,” she murmured to herself, closing her journal and tucking her pencil into her reticule. “That, and stubbornness,” she added with a sigh.

Rising from the bench where she had sat for the past half hour, she turned—only to find the very subject of her musings approaching.