Page 17 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

“Of course,” she said, her voice softer now. “You have my word.”

He gave a short, respectful nod. “Thank you. Might I escort you back to Longbourn?”

Before she could answer, a low rumble of thunder rolled across the distant hills. The horse shifted, ears flicking, and a moment later the sky broke open with sudden violence. Rain fell in heavy sheets, drenching them in seconds.

Elizabeth gasped, half-laughing, half-shivering, as water soaked through her bonnet and clung to her dress. Mr Darcy cursed under his breath.

“This way - quickly - there’s a copse of trees just beyond the rise.”

Before she could ask how he could come to know the landscape so well, he took her hand without ceremony.

The horse followed, traipsing behind its master without being led; a loyal beast indeed.

The air was filled with the scent of wet earth and summer leaves, and the ground turned slick beneath their steps.

By the time they reached the shelter of the trees, they were soaked through. Elizabeth’s hair clung in dark curls to her brow, her cheeks flushed from the exertion. Mr Darcy released her hand only once she was beneath the cover of the branches, though he did not step back immediately.

For a moment, they stood together, breathing hard, the storm raging around them.

“You are trembling,” he said, his voice low.

She looked up, her eyes meeting his for the first time in full. “Only a little.”

Their nearness was suddenly undeniable. The damp, the warmth of shared shelter, the memory of his fingers around hers - it all coalesced into a charged silence.

He cleared his throat and stepped back.

“Forgive me. I acted without thought.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr Darcy. If we are to be struck by lightning, I would rather not be alone in my demise.”

“That is a curious form of comfort to take, Miss Elizabeth, that we would be struck down together.”

“And yet it is comforting all the same,” she said with a soft smile. She turned to look out at the rain. “If your diary is out there, I daresay that it will be quite ruined by the weather. That should ease your mind.”

She felt the words burn her tongue, her skin itching as she lied to him so easily. He studied her a moment longer, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. When he spoke, his voice was so hushed as to almost be silent, and she struggled to hear him over the sound of the rain outside.

“You are right. If someone were to find my diary, and read it…”

“Yes?”

He faltered.

“They might come to think poorly of me.”

Elizabeth tilted her head.

“Or they might come to understand you better.”

He gave her a long look, as though weighing the risk of being known.

“It is not the way I would wish for another to understand me.”

Outside, the thunder rolled on, but within their little sanctuary, time had slowed.

She found herself not wanting to leave, encased in a world that felt like one of her dreams. It was a strange sensation, for she held no affection at all for him – and yet, she found herself drawing closer, the scent of his cologne mingling with the rainfall, intoxicating and…

She did not love him - of that she was certain.

And yet, something within her stirred with unfamiliar confusion.

She found herself leaning imperceptibly closer, drawn not by affection, but by curiosity…

or was it something more treacherous? His cologne, faint but unmistakable, mingled with the scent of rain and leather, and it made her dizzy, unsettled.

She swallowed hard and took a step back, as if the motion might ground her.

“I… I should go.”

Darcy did not move. His eyes remained fixed on hers, unreadable, intense.

“Shall I accompany you back to Netherfield? Horseback would be quicker.”

She had no desire to feel Mr Darcy pressed against her as she balanced precariously on that enormous horse’s back. The entire thing would be quite an ordeal; her own feet were much safer.

“No. I will be quite fine alone. Thank you, Mr Darcy. I wish you luck in your search.”

A moment passed - silent, electric - before she turned from him and stepped back into the rain. She continued on to Longbourn, not daring to look back.

∞∞∞

By the time Elizabeth returned home, she was soaked to the skin.

Her dress clung uncomfortably to her limbs, sticking to her even through the layers of her underthings.

Her boots squelched with every step, water pooling at her heels.

Yet she could not summon the energy to care.

The cold had settled into her bones, and somehow she scarcely noticed the discomfort at all.

She had not even reached the front door before her mother’s voice pierced through the rain.

“ Elizabeth Bennet! ”

Squinting upward, she saw Mrs. Bennet standing in the doorway, arms folded tightly across her chest, her expression thunderous enough to rival the clouds overhead.

“Where have you been?!” she demanded, her tone high with indignation.

Elizabeth reached the shelter of the archway and began peeling off her soaked gloves. “I went for a walk, Mama.”

“A walk? Mr Collins tells me you left hours ago!”

“I suppose I did.”

“In this weather?”

“It wasn’t raining when I left. The skies turned quickly; I ran back as quickly as I could, but I fear it was not quite fast enough.”

“Do not make sport of it, Elizabeth! Am I to have two daughters fall ill? Poor Jane has barely recovered, and I cannot endure nursing another!”

Elizabeth lips twitched, wishing to remark that her mother had not nursed Jane so much as hovered theatrically nearby. Instead, she offered an apology – too cold and wet to enter an argument now.

“I am sorry to have worried you, Mama. Truly, it was not my intention.”

“Well, you’re back now. Go inside at once. Straight to bed with you. You may take the second guest room - Jane mustn’t be exposed to your damp state.”

The second guest room was at the very back of the house, largely forgotten about in both décor and upkeep.

It was more at home to cobwebs and dust than any real person.

Referred to as ‘the Blue Room’ by everyone but Mrs Bennet because of the fading wallpaper in a once-charming cornflower shade, it seemed to have a melancholy that matched its name.

Lydia insisted that the room itself was haunted, but by who nobody could say.

“Mama, really, I am not unwell! I will dry myself and change, and all shall be quite right. Clothes do come off, you know.”

Her mother was almost red with fury at her defiance.

“To bed, Elizabeth! I will see that hot water is sent up to you, and some broth – we must hope that will do some good.”

The adrenaline of her brisk escape from the weather – and Mr Darcy – had worn off. Now too cold and too weary to argue further, Elizabeth surrendered and stepped inside, water dripping steadily from her hem onto the floorboards.

Upstairs, as she passed her sister’s room, Jane sat upright in bed.

“Lizzy!” she exclaimed, alarmed. “Whatever has happened?”

“The same fate that befell you, dearest,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Though I was not fortunate enough to be attended by a handsome gentleman in my hour of need.”

“Out of those wet clothes at once!” Jane scolded, throwing aside the covers and reaching for her robe. “I’ll find you something dry and warm. Here, wrap yourself in this blanket once you are out of those wet things.”

She pulled off the blanket that she herself had been resting under, offering it to Lizzy. She shook her head, taking it from her sister’s hands and placing it back onto the bed.

“A nightgown will do,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Mama has decreed bedrest, effective immediately.”

“Why?”

“You’ve ruined getting caught in the rain for the rest of us,” Elizabeth said with mock gravity, squeezing her sister’s hand. “She fears I will take ill as you did.”

“Perhaps she is right to be cautious. I’ll make room for you beside me in bed.”

“Oh, no,” Elizabeth smiled wryly. “I have been banished.”

Jane’s eyes widened.

“Not the Blue Room?”

“The very same. Mother’s cure for dampness appears to be draughts and the possibility of ghosts.”

“I’ll go,” Jane offered. “You stay here.”

“You’re the one who’s actually ill. I’ll be perfectly fine. Besides, it might be a welcome escape from our esteemed houseguest.”

“Mr Collins cannot be so dreadful as all that,” Jane murmured, ever gentle.

“You’ve only endured him in brief doses,” Elizabeth replied. “I assure you - he is worse .”

Jane smiled despite herself.

Jane retreated into their shared dressing room and retrieved a clean nightgown. As she changed out of her sodden clothes, she thought briefly of the diary tucked into her bed. Temptation pulled at her, far stronger than she had ever known it.

Soon, she would be alone in the quiet of the Blue Room. Nobody would dare to disturb her if her mother had forbidden it and…

It was wrong, she knew.

Dressed only in her damp slip, she darted forward to her bed, checking that Jane was still in their dressing room. She plucked the diary once more from its hiding place and placed it with her pile of reading books.

“This one should be nice and warm,” Jane called. “Oh, you poor thing. You are trembling.”

Lizzy looked down at her shaking hands.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Come, get out of that and get warm. I will accompany you to the Blue Room and see that you have all that you need. Are you sure I cannot stay with you? Mama would understand…”

“You are too kind, darling Jane, but I insist that you get back into bed and forget all about me. It is not worth making Mama angry with you as well. I will be quite alright.”

Elizabeth changed into the nightgown, her skin still damp and chilled. Bidding farewell to Jane (as though she were departing to a far-off land, rather than just down the landing), she scooped up her pile of novels and scurried away to the Blue Room.

She did not even mind that the room smelt musty and that there was a spider currently taking residency in the corner of the room. She set the books down on the bedside table and slipped beneath the covers. She sat there, tucked tightly beneath the sheets, frozen in both temperature and motion.

“I cannot read it,” she muttered, glancing over to the diary. “I cannot. It is not mine.”

Some secret, devilish voice in her mind whispered back

He does not know you have it. He will never know that you have read it. He thinks it lost to the rain.

“That is not the point!” she muttered to herself.

You want to know what he is thinking, you not? You want to know all the ways he has insulted you within these pages. You want to know if it was truly him that penned that discarded letter! You wish to know who was the object of his most fervent desires without any doubt. You hope…

“Stop it!”

Those trembling hands scrubbed at her face, her breathing harsh and uneven.

She turned, staring once more at that diary, which from the outside looked so unassuming.

This diary, if its owner’s account was to be believed, contained the man’s very essence – his innermost thoughts, and dare she say it – his heart.

She turned, lifting the diary and placing it on the bed in front of her. Between two fingers, she grasped the leather cover, turning it gingerly as though Mr Darcy himself may come bursting out from the pages.

The writing began on the very first page.

His handwriting was at once familiar, and it was confirmed to her that the discarded entry had indeed belonged to him.

The page was filled with his small, sloping penmanship.

From a distance, the words blurred into one – it was only when she lifted it from the bed and held it closer to her face that she could begin to make out the words.

And so, she began to read.