Page 14 of Disarmed

“I must thank you, Mr Darcy, for your kindness to Kitty on Saturday. She was surprised but delighted to be likened to your sister.”

Darcy turned to the beautiful woman walking beside him. She was smiling up at him in a way that made his heart sing.

“There is no need to thank me, Miss Elizabeth. I did nothing more than tell the truth. Miss Catherine does remind me of Georgiana in many ways.”

It had been four days since Darcy and Bingley had dined at Longbourn.

This was the third time they had called on the Bennets since that event, his friend even persuading his reluctant sisters to join them on one occasion, but this was the first day the weather had been clement enough to walk out, thus enabling him to have a relatively private conversation with the woman who had taken stubborn possession of his heart.

He had to thank the wily Miss Lydia, for she had skilfully shaped proceedings to ensure that he and Elizabeth were partnered for the stroll.

“I hear that Miss Darcy embroiders you a handkerchief every year for your birthday. She certainly sounds like a devoted sister.”

Feeling a sudden pang at the thought of Georgiana, whom he had not seen now for several weeks, Darcy pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket. “This was this year’s gift. Her stitching has become truly skilful.” He held it out to Elizabeth. “It is clean,” he added.

She smiled and took the proffered article, examining the delicate needlework. “Daffodils!” she exclaimed. “Were you born in March, perchance?”

He was so lost in the sparkling delight in her eyes that he almost failed to reply. “I was. The first of the month.”

“St David’s Day.” She ran her finger over the stitches thoughtfully. “Did you know that daffodil in Welsh is cenhinen Bedr ? It means ‘Peter’s leek’.”

He shook his head. “I did not. The two plants bear little resemblance to each other in looks. And the daffodil is rather more fragrant than the leek.”

“It certainly is!”

They walked on a few steps. She was still stroking the embroidery with the tip of her forefinger.

“My grandmother Bennet was from Wales. When she first arrived at Longbourn after marrying my grandfather, she planted daffodils all round the estate. She said they reminded her of her home. They have spread wildly over the decades since.” She sighed.

“She died five years ago—in March. On the day of her funeral, the sun was shining, and the grounds of Longbourn were a carpet of yellow. I still miss her terribly.”

She smiled up at him sadly, and he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and tell her he understood.

“My mother died in January,” he said. “I was twelve years old, and I remember the grey bleakness of the land on that morning. It was as if nature were in mourning along with me. I did not attend the funeral, but my father and I walked to her grave later in the day. There was no stone yet, of course, just a mound of soil, but there was one tiny bunch of snowdrops pushing out of the earth next to it, and it gave me the smallest glimmer of hope that despite the world seeming dark and wretched, light and beauty would come again.”

She was looking at him intently, a genuine expression of sympathy, care, and understanding on her face. “I hope you have found light and beauty again, Mr Darcy,” she said.

He gazed back at her. “I do believe I have, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth folded the handkerchief carefully and handed it back to him. “I am sure Kitty would enjoy seeing your sister’s handiwork. It may inspire her in her own designs.”

“I shall be certain to show it to her at the first opportunity.”

They shared a smile so sweet that Darcy was certain his insides had turned to warm liquid.

They gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment—so improperly long, in fact, that a hint of pink began to creep into Elizabeth’s cheeks—and when he thought about it again later, he was amazed that neither of them had lost their footing, so inattentive were they to everything around them.

It was then that all doubt vanished. He would allow nothing to stand in the way of making this remarkable woman his wife.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth was not sure what had happened to her.

Her heart seemed to be fluttering in her chest, and her head was a jumble of thoughts that would not arrange themselves into any sensible order.

The man walking by her side confounded her further each time they met.

She had believed she had accurately sketched his character during their first encounter at the Meryton assembly, and her conclusions had been confirmed during her stay at Netherfield and particularly when she learnt of his treatment of Mr Wickham.

Since then, however, his behaviour had deviated so far from her expectations as to make her consider whether she had any grasp at all on his true nature.

What about their conversation at the Netherfield ball?

He had told her he had been worried about his sister and had allowed it to influence his behaviour.

It had not been a direct apology, but it had been an explanation of sorts.

Or an excuse. She had not considered it further since then, but could he truly have been so troubled by a family matter that it had caused him to be dismissive and rude to those around him?

Were his more recent softened manners an indication that his concerns had now been alleviated?

Could this kinder Mr Darcy be more of a true rendering of his character? She smiled to herself. I hope so .

But then what about Mr Wickham’s tale? She had to admit that doubt had begun to creep in about the officer’s honesty recently.

She at least suspected that he may be prone to exaggeration, using his overstated tale of woe to gain sympathy.

The two men obviously had a history, and it was not a pleasant one, but was it truly as terrible as Mr Wickham had described?

She had not heard Mr Darcy’s account, and nor did she suppose she was likely to; unlike Mr Wickham, he did not seem to be the sort of man who would tell a stranger of his misfortunes.

Lydia had been right that it was an unseemly thing to do.

Am I less astute than my younger sister?

“Sam!”

Elizabeth’s musings were interrupted by a shout from that very sister. Their little walking party had reached Meryton, and Lydia was waving to a boy farther up the street, whose handsome face broke into a grin at the sight of her.

“Lydia…” Jane began, but it was too late. Their sister had picked up her skirts and was running across the cobbles towards him. The remaining Bennet sisters stood with the gentlemen, staring after her.

“Sam Tomkins is the son of one of our father’s tenants,” Elizabeth explained.

“He and Lydia are the same age and have been friends since they were small.” She was embarrassed about her sister’s behaviour in front of the gentlemen, but in truth, she felt a great affection for Sam herself.

He and her youngest sister had played together from a young age, roaming about the fields, climbing trees, and generally causing their mothers much despair over the state of their clothing; but while Lydia still saw him as a mischievous child, it had been some time now since Sam had seen Lydia in an entirely new way.

Elizabeth had observed the light in his eyes when he beheld her sister, and her heart ached for him, knowing his love must always be unrequited.

Elizabeth kept one eye on Lydia and Sam’s animated conversation as she and the others strolled down the high street, peering into the shop windows and nodding to their neighbours.

Eventually, with a hearty wave to Sam, Lydia trotted back in their direction, her cheeks pink and her eyes gleaming. Elizabeth regarded her with suspicion.

With mutual agreement, they turned for home, and Elizabeth took Lydia’s arm, guiding her slightly ahead of the rest of the party.

“You look rather pleased with yourself, Lydia Bennet,” she remarked.

Lydia gave her a sideways glance. “I do not know what you mean. Sam and I were just talking about farming.”

This alarmed Elizabeth even more. Lydia did not know the first thing about farming, and she certainly would not have looked so smug if that truly had been what they were discussing. Something was afoot, and she was determined to keep an eye on her youngest sister.

Realising that in her haste to speak to Lydia she had abandoned Mr Darcy, she looked over her shoulder to see how he fared. He was walking with Kitty, whose head was bent over Miss Darcy’s handkerchief, engaged in earnest conversation. It warmed Elizabeth’s heart to see it.