Page 8 of Look on the Heart (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #10)

Chapter Five

The morning sun was slow to chase away the autumn chill.

Elizabeth did not mind. She knew her morning walks would soon be curtailed until spring and was determined to enjoy them while she could.

Winter walks were less agreeable and occurred but rarely.

The trees had long since been stripped of their leaves, and the last of the flowers had succumbed to the cold.

She hurried down the well-trodden path and onto the broad lane that served as Longbourn’s drive.

A few minutes later, she turned onto a narrower trail leading toward Oakham Mount—her favorite walk.

She walked the path at least twice each week.

Today, however, she hoped Mr. Darcy had taken her subtle hint and might meet her there.

She found the gentleman fascinating and wished to know him better.

His loquacity in conversation with her father had vanished the moment they rejoined the larger company.

Though still amiable and unfailingly polite, his desire to be elsewhere had been obvious, at least to Elizabeth.

She wondered whether the posturing of certain guests had robbed him of any chance to enjoy a simple gathering.

Mr. Goulding, for example, fancied himself something of a speculator.

He had done well enough in years past but had since ventured into riskier schemes.

Elizabeth had overheard him urging Mr. Darcy to invest in his latest endeavor.

The gentleman had politely declined, but as the evening progressed, his posture had grown increasingly rigid.

By the time they took their leave, it was clear he had endured enough.

She climbed the slope to the top of Oakham Mount with quiet purpose. I want nothing from him but friendship, she thought. How lonely he must be. If I can offer him that, I shall.

Lydia had again spoken rudely of Mr. Darcy’s appearance on their return from Lucas Lodge the previous evening.

“He is ghastly, is he not?” she giggled with Kitty. “I suppose, were he a militiaman, that scar might be called dashing rather than disgusting. But nothing can excuse the horrid bloody stain.”

“What if he got the scar in a duel?” Kitty whispered eagerly. “Can you imagine?”

“What would an unattractive man have to duel over? Kitty, you are so stupid!” Lydia scoffed, pinching her sister hard on the arm.

The family coach was crowded, and the close quarters made their words seem excessively loud.

The two continued to snip at one another until they reached Longbourn, at which point they climbed unceremoniously over Jane and Mary to exit the carriage first.

“Have a care, girls!” Jane admonished, firm yet kind.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet said nothing, but Elizabeth turned a gimlet eye upon her father as they entered the house.

“You did not even defend Mr. Darcy!” she said brusquely. “After spending such a pleasant time with the gentleman, how could you let your daughters speak so cruelly of him?”

“They are shallow and harmless,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I dare say Mr. Darcy would not concern himself. He seems too intelligent for that sort of pettiness—and I imagine he has heard far worse.”

“Words still wound, no matter how often one hears them.” Elizabeth folded her arms and glared at her father’s indifferent countenance. He withdrew in silence, leaving her simmering in frustration. She went to bed still feeling irritated.

Shaking off the recollection, she reached the summit of the hill and paused to draw breath.

The climb was not especially difficult, but she had taken it at a brisk pace and now found herself in need of respite.

Crossing to a fallen oak log, she seated herself and rubbed her hands together to warm them.

Her gloves were thin, and quite unequal to the morning’s chill, but the fur-lined pair she owned tended to grow unpleasant during a long walk.

“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”

She started in surprise, turning toward the sound.

“Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed, catching sight of him at the edge of the tree line atop the mount.

He sat astride a large, brown-and-white stallion.

The horse tossed its mane in the crisp morning light, its breath misting visibly in the air.

Mr. Darcy dismounted, and Elizabeth rose to greet him.

“Will you sit beside me, sir?” she asked, gesturing to the log. “’Tis more than large enough for two.”

He nodded and joined her. “This tree was felled a few years ago,” she explained. “The local furniture and cabinet maker harvested the oak timber. My father’s desk was fashioned from the very wood.”

“A fond reminder of his boyhood, I expect. This oak tree must have been a sterling specimen for a lad to climb.”

“Only for a boy, Mr. Darcy?” She lifted a brow in mock offence. “I must inform you that you are in the presence of the finest tree-climber in the shire. My speed reaching the top remains unbroken—and as the tree is no more, it shall stand indefinitely.” She smiled triumphantly.

“Do you still climb trees, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, eyes bright with amusement.

“I shall never confess it.”

Her answer appeared to delight him, for his smile deepened.

He ought to do that more often, she mused.

His smile does much for his features. He was not an outwardly handsome man—nor would he ever be; indeed, society would never agree to that.

But Elizabeth did not mind. She found his face interesting.

The broken nose and the scar added a touch of mystery—at least Elizabeth thought so.

“Do you find me handsome, Miss Elizabeth?”

His unexpected question caught her off guard, and Elizabeth responded before she could think better of it.

“No, sir.” Clapping a hand over her mouth, her eyes widened in horror. Dropping it again, she hastened to apologize.

“There is no need,” he said, raising a hand to silence her. “I asked and expected an honest reply. Had you answered otherwise, I should suspect you of seeking my favor for some self-serving purpose.”

“Appearances are not everything,” she protested earnestly. “I like your company very much.”

“An old friend once said that only those with none claim looks to be of little importance.” The tone of his words held a bitter note, and he bowed his head, his gaze on his clasped hands. “Yet your words would seem to contradict his.”

“Your friend sounds dreadfully boorish,” Elizabeth replied, with a flash of indignation. “My father has impressed upon me that a person’s worth lies within. You, sir, are far more than your face.”

He glanced up at her quizzically. “My scar does not trouble you?” he asked, plainly astonished. “’Tis a recent addition to an already imperfect countenance.” He traced a finger down its length, a thoughtful look overtaking him. “Does it make me appear roguish?”

She laughed. “I have heard it whispered once or twice.” After a brief pause, she continued. “Have you been approached by those seeking only to benefit from your acquaintance?”

“Such is often the way for those with wealth,” he replied indifferently. “Perhaps I find it easier to discern sincerity, precisely because…” He trailed off.

“Because people overlook you at first,” she said quietly, “only to trip over themselves for an introduction once they learn of your fortune?”

He looked at her, eyes alight with surprise. She pressed on.

“I noticed it at the assembly. Mama scarcely acknowledged your presence—though she is shallower than most. Even after learning of your income, she did not believe you worthy of her daughters’ notice.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Mama is absurd.”

“That is not how most matrons respond.” He seemed amused rather than offended. “Tell me, did she warn you against me?”

“Not directly,” Elizabeth admitted, rubbing her hands together for warmth. The sun had begun to warm her cheeks, but the air remained sharp. “I must apologize on her behalf. She would never own to any fault, I fear.”

He grinned. “Think nothing of it. Her opinion is not singular. I have heard worse. Most mamas are willing to overlook my visage for the sake of seeing their daughters as mistress of Pemberley.”

“Is it a very great estate?” She had grown curious about Mr. Darcy’s home. He lived in the North, but she could not recall if she had ever heard precisely where.

“It is. Pemberley is in Derbyshire, very near the Peak. The estate spans some ten miles. It is maintained largely through tenant farms, though we also harvest timber and raise sheep. Most recently, I have invested in a number of textile mills.”

“Trade, sir? How scandalous!” She winked to show her teasing words. “In truth, I cannot object. My dearest relations in London are likewise engaged. My uncle, Mr. Gardiner, owns an import-export business. He is quite successful.”

“Trade is the way of the future,” Mr. Darcy acknowledged. “There are tradesmen now who possess greater incomes than some peers. Those who refuse to accept progress and accept change will inevitably be left behind. The future waits for no one.”

“A most astute observation, sir. I only wish more of society shared that view. Instead, we judge one another by accidents of birth, condemning without thought and often without justice.”

They fell silent for a moment, each considering the weight of their conversation.

“May I ask a somewhat impertinent question, Miss Elizabeth?” He turned to her.

“You may, sir, though I reserve the right not to answer.” She was intrigued now—what could he wish to ask?

“Tell me of Miss Lucas,” he requested. “We shared a peculiar conversation last night.”