Page 32 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE STORM REVEALS
Elizabeth stood in the doorway of the lambing barn, watching charcoal clouds gather on the horizon.
The distant rumble of thunder heralded the approach of a storm that had been threatening all afternoon.
She ought to return to the house immediately, but fatigue kept her rooted to the spot, reluctant to muster the energy such a journey required.
The past three days of breeding preparations had left her bone-weary.
The ewes had been sorted into groups, the rams checked for fitness, and endless records updated to track bloodlines and breeding patterns.
Though she found satisfaction in the work, the physical toll had been considerable.
Elizabeth could not recall the last time she had slept properly—each night bringing dreams of Darcy that left her more exhausted than before.
She rubbed her eyes, willing herself to focus. A particularly insistent ewe had required her attention, delaying her return to the house. Now the storm approached with alarming speed, and she had neither umbrella nor proper coat to shield her from its fury.
“Miss Bennet.”
The voice startled her. Elizabeth turned to find Darcy standing a few paces away, an umbrella in one hand. His expression was unreadable, his posture formal despite the rustic setting.
“Mr. Darcy,” she acknowledged, trying to mask her surprise. “What brings you to the barn?”
“Lady Eleanor mentioned you were still here. She expressed concern about your return journey, given the approaching storm.”
Elizabeth glanced at the darkening sky. “Her concern was not misplaced, it seems.”
“Indeed.” Darcy shifted slightly, his discomfort evident in the rigid set of his shoulders. “I have brought an umbrella. Allow me to escort you back to the house.”
The offer caught Elizabeth off guard. After their last encounter, she had expected continued coldness rather than this unexpected solicitude.
“That is… most considerate of you,” she said cautiously.
Darcy merely nodded, stepping forward to position the umbrella over both of them. The arrangement necessitated closer proximity than Elizabeth would have preferred. His arm nearly brushed hers, and the scent of him brought unwelcome memories of their night at the Red Lion.
They set off toward the house in silence, their steps carefully measured to accommodate his still-unsteady gait. The first heavy drops of rain began to fall, pattering against the umbrella with increasing insistence.
“The storm appears to be moving faster than anticipated,” Darcy observed, his gaze fixed ahead.
“An astute meteorological observation, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied before she could check her tongue.
To her surprise, something like amusement flickered across his face. “You find my conversation lacking in substance, Miss Bennet?”
“On the contrary,” she said, feeling a dangerous spark of their old verbal sparring returning. “I find weather a most illuminating topic. One learns so much about a person from their approach to discussing it. ”
“Indeed? And what does my comment reveal about me?”
Elizabeth considered him, unable to resist the opening. “That you are a man who prefers to state the obvious rather than risk venturing an opinion that might be contradicted.”
The words escaped before she could temper them with diplomacy. She had spent too many days watching him, too many nights dreaming of him, too many hours balancing her knowledge of the man he had been against the stranger he had become. Exhaustion had worn away her careful defenses.
Darcy did not appear offended. “A shrewd assessment. Though perhaps incomplete.”
“In what way?”
“Perhaps I state the obvious because I find myself increasingly uncertain of what is obvious and what is merely assumed to be so.” His voice had lost its customary crispness, taking on a quality that reminded her painfully of their intimate conversations at the Red Lion.
“My injury has left me… less confident… in my perceptions than I once was.”
The admission, so uncharacteristic of Darcy’s usual reserve, caught her heart in a quandary.
Something melted inside her at the sight of this proud man revealing such vulnerability. Her fingers itched with the desire to reach out, to draw his head to her shoulder as she did when William woke frightened in the night.
A bolt of lightning flashed, followed by the resounding boom, and the sky opened in earnest. Rain poured down with sudden violence, turning the path to treacherous mud in moments.
“We must hurry,” Darcy said, moving closer to shield her. The umbrella shook in his hand, and Elizabeth noticed he was not carrying his cane.
The rain forced a faster pace than she was comfortable. Elizabeth winced at the pronounced limp in Darcy’s step, growing more staggered as they reached the house. Despite his pain, he insisted on holding her arm, and when she stumbled in the mud, he caught her waist and drew her against his side.
“Are you well?” he asked, his voice strangely rough.
All she could do was nod. She wouldn’t hurt his pride by asking his condition.
“Steady.” His voice burred low in her ear. “We’re nearly there.”
They reached the kitchen entrance, bursting through the door into the warmth and light. Mrs. Honywood exclaimed in horror at their drenched state, immediately calling for towels and hot tea.
“You should change immediately,” Darcy said, his voice still laced with concern—for her, although not himself. “Lady Eleanor would not forgive me if you were to catch cold.”
“I am not made of sugar, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, water dripping from her skirt onto the flagstone floor. “I assure you, a little rain poses no threat to my constitution.”
“Nevertheless,” he insisted, handing his umbrella to a waiting footman in exchange for his cane, “dry clothes would not go amiss.”
“Your leg, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her eyes moving to where he leaned heavily on his cane. “You shouldn’t have?—”
“It is nothing,” he cut her off, suddenly uncomfortable with her concern.
“Here now,” Mrs. Honywood bustled forward with towels. “Miss Elizabeth, dry yourself before you catch a cold. Mr. Darcy, sir, you must change immediately.”
Elizabeth felt the urge to wrap a towel around the man she’d known as husband for a night, but of course, propriety forestalled her.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Darcy,” she said politely.
He nodded, his expression once again reserved, and they parted in the hall.
As she climbed the stairs, she found herself puzzling over his unexpected solicitude.
Perhaps it was merely the reflexive courtesy of a gentleman toward a lady caught in inclement weather.
Yet something in his manner had suggested a more personal concern.
Could he be remembering her? Caught in another storm?
After changing into a dry dress and arranging her damp hair as neatly as circumstances allowed, Elizabeth descended to the drawing room.
The storm had intensified further, lashing the windows with sheets of rain while thunder crashed overhead.
The cozy room, with its cheerful fire and warm lamplight, provided a welcome contrast to the tempest outside.
Lady Eleanor and Mary were already seated by the fire, engaged in quiet conversation. William played with his wooden blocks while Georgiana sat nearby, occasionally assisting him in his architectural endeavors.
“Ah, Elizabeth,” Lady Eleanor greeted her. “I see Fitzwilliam found you before the worst of the storm hit.”
“He did,” Elizabeth confirmed, taking a seat beside Mary. “Though not before we both received a thorough dampening.”
“He insisted on going himself,” Lady Eleanor remarked with an arch of her elegant brow. “Quite adamant about it, in fact.”
Elizabeth chose not to engage with the implication, turning her attention instead to William. “Mary, has he been good for you this afternoon?”
“Remarkably tractable,” Mary replied. “Though I cannot claim credit for his improved behavior. Miss Georgiana has been most attentive to his entertainment.”
Georgiana blushed slightly at this acknowledgment. “He is a delightful child. So curious about everything.”
Elizabeth watched as her son carefully balanced one block atop another, his small face a study in concentration. In moments like these, his resemblance to Darcy was particularly striking—the same focused intensity, the same determination to achieve perfection in even the simplest task.
The door opened, admitting Darcy himself, now dry and impeccably attired. His gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on Elizabeth before settling on William.
“I see we are all gathered,” he observed, moving to take a seat near his aunt. “The storm appears to have increased in severity.”
“Indeed,” Lady Eleanor agreed. “Mr. Graham reports it may continue well into the night.”
The conversation turned to general topics as tea was served. Elizabeth found herself without words, her usual wit dulled by fatigue. She sipped her tea and allowed the others’ voices to wash over her, content for once to observe rather than participate.
Her attention drifted to Darcy, who appeared similarly withdrawn.
He sat somewhat stiffly in his chair, occasionally rubbing his temple in a gesture she had come to recognize as a sign of pain.
The headaches that plagued him seemed particularly troublesome in inclement weather, according to Georgiana.
“Miss Bennet,” he said suddenly, addressing her directly. “Might I have a word?”
The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward them with varying degrees of curiosity. Elizabeth’s heart stuttered in her chest, but she managed a composed nod.
“Of course, Mr. Darcy.”
He rose and moved toward the far end of the room, where a small seating arrangement offered a measure of privacy while remaining within proper sight of the others. Elizabeth followed, intensely aware of Lady Eleanor’s speculative gaze.