Page 16 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

Elizabeth

R eturning home after any period of time away was always a comfort. There was nothing quite like one’s own bed, and the warm embrace of one’s family.

Unfortunately, her family now included the unwelcome Mr Collins.

Lizzie had first met him on the morning they returned from Netherfield, and at once she had been unnerved. He was a ghoulish sort of man, and he had mentioned the attainder more than once. It was as if he were cataloguing the contents of Longbourn, his eyes darting around the room.

That was not his biggest crime; he was unfathomably boring.

A preacher, of course, was expected to preach – this she could have forgiven.

A usual sort of preacher, however, was left behind at church once the sermon had finished.

Mr Collins found endless excuses to insert scripture and moral lessons into every conversation.

Jane was excused this strange torture; she was still bedridden. Whilst her condition had certainly improved from their time at Netherfield, she was still unwell. Lizzy lay awake each night, listening to the sound of her sister’s laboured breathing.

That was not the only thing keeping her awake.

There was a secret that lay pressed between the mattress and the headboard.

She felt like it would burn through her.

She had not dared to look at it since she had shoved the diary down there as soon as they had arrived.

Worse still – she did not know why she had kept it.

It would have been easy enough to return the diary to its owner.

She had not stolen it, after all; she had merely found it lying discarded on the ground.

Mr Darcy would have been grateful for its safe discovery, and that would have been that.

Instead, she had slipped it into the pocket of her coat and left, travelling back to Longbourn not knowing why she had chosen to do that. It had been a choice, even if she had done it without realising. Something within her wanted that diary, and now she had it.

“Lizzy, what is wrong?” Jane asked, her voice thick with sleep.

“I cannot sleep, that is all.”

“You have scarcely been able to sleep since we got back. Did you grow too used to the fine bed at Netherfield? I am sure this old thing cannot hope to compare.”

Lizzy laughed softly, shaking her head. The bed, whilst it had been very well-crafted, could never hope to compete with the well-worn comfort of the bed that she had always shared with her sister. She knew that something was amiss if even the familiar comfort of home could not ease her mind.

“Perhaps. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

“It is quite alright. I am only sorry you cannot find rest.”

“I think I will get up for a while.”

“Do not go wandering outside,” Jane yawned. “You will freeze.”

“I won’t.”

Her heart hammering, her hand slipped down the back of the bed, fumbling until she felt the hard edge of the book against her fingertips. She hooked it, dragging the book up until it was in her hands.

“What are you doing?” Jane asked.

“I…I dropped my book last night. I thought I would read a while.”

“Oh. You are behaving very strangely, Lizzy. Are you sure you are quite well?”

“I am just tired, I am sure. Go back to sleep, Jane, and I shall see you in the morning.”

Her sister mumbled a goodbye. Lizzy reached for her wrapper, carelessly flung over a chair, and shrugged into it. The morning air was chill, and she felt her feet grow cold on the wooden floor as she made her way downstairs.

It always amazed her how quiet Longbourn was in the hush of dawn.

It seemed impossible that a house always so full of life, the very nature of having five girls beneath one roof, was even capable of being so peaceful.

She inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of her home soothing the racing of her thoughts.

She stepped into the parlour, fingers groping through the dim for the familiar box of matches.

Striking one, she lit the twin candles that always waited on the mantle, their soft flames casting a gentle glow across the room.

Carrying one carefully, she crossed to her favourite chair, set the candle beside it, and sank into the familiar warmth of its cushions.

She set the book into her lap. Lizzy was not sure she even wanted to open it, for once the diary was opened, she could not in good conscience say that she had not pried into Mr Darcy’s innermost thoughts. Even the first page was an invasion.

It was not her fault; as she had walked towards the carriage, Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley occupied talking to Jane, she had seen it lying there on the gravel. It was then when she had snatched it up, pocketing it at once as though nothing was amiss.

She ran her fingers over the leather of the cover.

Why was she even tempted to read the diary? If it were Mr Bingley, she knew in her heart that she would have returned it to him at once. Mr Darcy, so aloof and disinterested, proved more of an enigma to her.

She sat there until the candles flickered and died, their glow replaced by the rising of the sun.

She did not know how long had passed, too consumed in her thoughts to notice something as trivial as the passage of time.

As she heard the servants begin to stir, she realised she was no clearer on what she should do.

And so, she retreated upstairs and returned the diary to its hiding place.

Jane still slept peacefully; Lizzy envied her, for her sister had always been capable of sleeping anywhere with comfort.

She dressed herself for the day, deciding that a brisk walk before breakfast was more sensible than wallowing in her own miserable self-pity for a situation entirely of her own creation.

She went downstairs to put on her muddied boots (which her mother insisted be kept by the back door in the servant’s quarters) – and was accosted by their odious houseguest.

“Miss Elizabeth! You are awake very early. What a marvellous quality; the early bird catches the worm, as they say. I myself endeavour to rise with the crow of the cockerel. Lady Catherine De Bourgh, too, rises very early. It is a most admirable trait.”

“I see.”

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked, moving closer to her.

“I am going for a walk before breakfast.”

“Might I accompany you?”

When Elizabeth had first heard that Mr Collins had confided to their mother his intention to marry one of the Bennet sisters, she had been horrified. Now, such motivation provided her with a perfect reason to refuse his offer.

“It would not be proper, sir, to walk with a man so early in the morning – let alone without a proper chaperone. I am quite familiar with my surroundings. I know the grounds as well as I know myself. I often walk alone at such a time.”

“I see. I have not encountered a woman who is so bold in their endeavours, Miss Elizabeth – but exercise is good for the soul. Time in God’s creation, the exertion of the body and spirits; one cannot fail to be invigorated.”

“Quite. If you’ll excuse me, Mr Collins.”

She slipped away before he could engage her in any further conversation, darting through the door to the kitchen and slipping her beloved boots by the back door. Then, she was out – wrapped in the embrace of the crisp, late autumn air.

She left Longbourn as quickly as possible, lest Mr Collins find an excuse to waylay her and keep her within the respectable bounds of the garden. She slipped through the garden gate and out into the fields that surrounded the estate without a backwards glance.

She did not stop walking until she found herself staring at Netherfield from a distance. Here, she sat down in the damp grass against a tree, staring out.

If she had had the good sense to bring the diary with her, she might have feigned its discovery – Mr Darcy would know nothing of her deception, and she could continue her life without the terrible temptation to delve into the forbidden pages.

“Miss Elizabeth?”

A voice behind her startled her, and she turned quickly - almost guiltily - to see Mr Darcy atop his dark steed.

She rose at once from the mossy bank where she had been seated, brushing her skirts with a swift, embarrassed hand.

The morning mist had not yet lifted, and the imposing figure of horse and rider seemed almost spectral in the pale light.

“Mr Darcy,” she said, steadying her voice.

“It is barely eight,” he observed, dismounting with practiced ease.

His horse remained perfectly still, as regimented and as stoic as its master. Mr Darcy walked towards her, letting go of the reins and leaving his steed where it stood. She took a step back, her shoulders straightening.

“Yes,” she replied, uncertain whether it was accusation or concern in his tone.

“You should not be walking alone at such an hour.”

Her jaw tightened, irritated at the second man this morning who took it upon himself to tell her what she ought to do.

“I often do,” she said with a faint lift of her chin. “And you, sir, are out riding just as early.”

“Yes. I was…” He paused, avoiding her gaze as he led his horse a few steps closer. “I was looking for something.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“Have you lost something?”

He hesitated, glancing away toward the woods.

“A book.”

“A book?” she echoed.

“My diary.”

A silence followed.

“You keep a diary?” she asked, her voice light and inquisitive, though her heart gave a sudden, guilty flutter.

“I have kept one since I was a boy,” he said, still not meeting her eyes. “I believe we have already discussed this in detail, Miss Elizabeth.”

“How did you come to lose such a thing all the way out here? We are far from Netherfield’s library.”

“I was careless enough to carry it with me the morning I rode out - just before you left Netherfield. I believe it fell somewhere along the trail.”

“I am sorry,” she said more seriously now. “That is a great misfortune.”

“It is more than misfortune,” he murmured. “It is folly. If you should chance upon it during your walks, Miss Elizabeth, I would be grateful for its swift return.”