Page 45

Longbourn – Garden

T he air was sharp with the scent of wet earth and sodden leaves. Elizabeth had excused herself quietly from the room - no explanation, no destination, just a curtsey and the soft click of the door behind her. Only once in the hall did she let her pace quicken.

She moved as quickly as her ankle would allow, favouring it as she turned away from the house and crossed the edge of the gravel onto the soft grass. Her shawl slipped slightly from her shoulders, but she did not stop to fix it.

She had no destination in mind - only the overwhelming need to be elsewhere. Her thoughts jumbled and clashed as she limped toward the orchard gate, each step aching but necessary. Mr Collins’s voice echoed in her mind, absurd and earnest. A spring wedding. Lady Catherine. Miss de Bourgh .

And Mr Darcy. Engaged! Before he had arrived in Meryton.

Had it all been a mistake? A misreading of glances, of small kindnesses? The storm, the horse, the room, the carriage. She had believed he cared. Or had wanted to believe it. And now - now the world tilted with embarrassment.

Away, she thought. Just away from them all.

If her ankle had been whole, she might have outrun him.

She knew every hedge and path between Longbourn and the orchard; he would never have caught her.

But as it was, she could only limp forward, dogged and aching, every step a reminder of how close he was behind her - and how impossible it was to escape this moment.

Behind her, footsteps.

“Miss Bennet - Elizabeth - please.”

She stopped, but did not turn.

She could not bear to look back - not now, not when her heart was already tightening with the weight of knowing.

Hope had been foolish. Dangerous. And she had let it bloom unchecked.

That he had sought her out in kindness, that he had cared - she had wanted so badly to believe it.

And now, even his voice behind her felt like a cruelty.

Whatever she had imagined, it had never been real. And yet she grieved it all the same.

The sound of his boots on the path slowed, then stilled.

“I beg your pardon,” Mr Darcy said, his voice low. “But I thought… I feared you had misunderstood.”

Elizabeth turned then, slowly. Rain clung to the edges of her hair. Her expression was not cold-only very, very tired.

“I heard enough,” she said. “You are to marry Miss de Bourgh?”

Mr Darcy’s brow furrowed slightly. “No.”

“That’s not what Mr Collins said.”

“I am not engaged to my cousin,” he said evenly, each word measured. “Nor do I intend to be. ”

He stepped closer-not urgently, not presumptuously, but with purpose. As though every pace had been considered and chosen.

Elizabeth did not move.

He lifted his hand. Slowly. Then paused.

“I am not bound to her,” he said, his voice quiet, firm. “By honour. Or inclination.”

His gaze held hers. When she did not draw back, he reached forward and took her hand.

He wore gloves-fine leather, cool and damp from the mist. Her bare fingers curled around them regardless. The warmth was muted, but the steadiness was unmistakable.

It was not what she had dreamed. But it was real. Unexpected. And, for the first time in days, it was something she might begin to trust.

Still holding his gloved hand, she glanced up, searching his face. “Why?” she asked, the word barely more than breath. “Why was it so important that I know?”

Mr Darcy’s jaw tensed, and for a moment she thought he might not answer.

Then: “Because I could not bear for you to believe my aunt’s lies. ”

Elizabeth looked at him for a long moment. “Why would your aunt say such a thing?”

Mr Darcy’s mouth tightened slightly. “Because she has believed it for years - though I never encouraged the idea. She may have spoken to Mr Collins as if it were settled. But it is not. It never has been.”

She blinked. “That’s not an answer.”

“No,” he said, his voice roughening. “It’s not.”

He looked down at their joined hands, then back at her. “Because it matters what you think of me. More than it ought to. More than I ever intended it to.”

Elizabeth felt her breath catch.

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that this man - the one who had found her in the storm, who had walked her home, who had given her his room - was not capable of such duplicity. But trust, once splintered, was not so easily mended. And she had been wrong before.

He did not let go of her hand. “When I realised what you must have overheard - that you might think I had deceived you - I could not rest. I still… do not know what you believe.”

“I do not know either,” she said, too honestly. “Everything is a little too loud, and too much.”

He nodded, and gently, without letting go of her hand, offered his other arm.

“You should not be walking on that,” he said, more gently than she expected. “Let me help you. There’s a bench just ahead.”

Elizabeth hesitated - then shifted closer, accepting his support. His arm was steady beneath her hand, his stride careful to match hers.

They walked in silence across the grass. She leaned more heavily on him than she intended, but he did not seem to mind. Each step jarred her ankle, but not intolerably. The bench beneath the great ash tree came into view, damp but sheltered by the high branches above.

When they reached it, he released her hand only to brush the seat dry with his glove, then helped her sit.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He gave the smallest of nods and remained standing, a little apart, his expression unreadable.

The silence settled, not awkward but tentative. Elizabeth stared ahead at the mist-coiled hedgerows, her ankle throbbing dully, her mind caught between clarity and confusion. She had come here to flee - not just him, but her own foolish hope.

Mr Darcy stood beside the bench, his gloved hands loosely folded before him. He had said what he came to say. He had not pressed her further. And yet he lingered.

“I did not come to defend myself,” he said at last. “Only to be understood.”

Elizabeth glanced sideways, but said nothing.

“There was a time,” he continued quietly, “when I would have convinced myself that your opinion did not matter. That silence was safer. That feeling… could be managed.”

He paused. “I can no longer think so.”

Elizabeth said nothing. She should have. She had so many things she might have said - sharp things, gentle ones, uncertain questions and impossible admissions. But none of them seemed safe. Not here. Not now.

The mist beaded lightly on the edge of her shawl.

Mr Darcy remained still beside her, though she could feel something shifting in him. Not urgency. Not expectation. Something closer to hope.

“You changed something in me,” he said, very low. “I did not expect it. I did not intend it. But it happened.”

He hesitated, and then - with the same quiet resolve with which he had offered her his hand - added, “I have not made myself easy to know. But I would be honoured if you tried.”

Elizabeth’s gaze dropped to her lap. Her fingers had gone still.

Mr Darcy drew a breath. “I did not mean to speak today. Not like this.”

She said nothing.

“But it seems I have already said everything except the thing that matters most.”

He stepped forward, not quite to her side - not yet. “I love you, Elizabeth.”

The mist stilled between them.

“I do not ask for your answer now,” he said. “Only that you know it. That whatever else may come, you know this to be true. ”

Elizabeth closed her eyes.

It was too much. Too close. She had spent days trying not to feel this - not to want it, not to remember every look and silence and half-offered word. And now, here it was, spoken plainly, and it tore at something she had just begun to mend.

Her hands trembled.

She drew them into her lap and tried to steady them. A tear slipped down her cheek - not from sorrow, not entirely, but from the weight of wanting to believe him. Of wanting, full stop.

“I do not know what to say,” she whispered.

Mr Darcy did not move. He made no plea, no protest.

“You have said it,” he replied, his voice low. “And I thank you for it.”

But then, seeing her tears, his brow furrowed. He bent slightly at the waist, concern softening every edge of his expression. “You are crying,” he said. Not an accusation - a realisation.

Elizabeth laughed once, a brittle sound. “Yes,” she said, wiping her cheek with the edge of her glove. “It appears I am.”

Mr Darcy crouched slightly beside the bench, still not touching her, still hesitant. “Have I caused you pain?”

“No,” she said quickly, and then - because it was true - added, “Only confusion.”

She glanced at him. “And… perhaps a little hope.”

Mr Darcy held her gaze a moment longer, then stood slowly. He took a few steps away from the bench, not far, but enough to turn and look out across the wet garden. His shoulders were stiff, hands behind his back, the way he held himself when his emotions threatened to show.

He turned back after a moment. “You said confusion,” he said quietly. “May I ask… what confuses you?”

Elizabeth looked at him, then down again. She picked at the edge of her glove .

“I thought I understood you,” she said quietly.

“But I keep learning things I did not know - that you’re Lady Catherine’s nephew, when Mr Collins mentioned her.

That you were in the room that night after my nightmare.

That you arranged a carriage so I would not be confined again - so thoughtfully, so precisely, as if you had known what I needed before I could even ask. ”

She looked down. “And then I hear what the staff say. What the neighbourhood says. About you. About us.”

Her voice caught slightly. “And yet none of them match the man I see now.”

She looked up at him again, uncertain. “That is what confuses me. Not what others say - but the feeling that I may have been wrong. That I may still be.”

She gave a faint, self-conscious smile. “It is not a feeling I like.”

Mr Darcy was silent a moment longer, then stepped closer again. “I understand.”

Elizabeth met his gaze. “I want to say yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Part of me does. But I need-time.”

He nodded. “You shall have it.”

She exhaled softly, as though she’d been holding her breath.

Mr Darcy did not move to take her hand again. He only bowed his head slightly and said, “That is more than I hoped for.”

He hesitated, then said gently, “Shall I fetch your father? Or one of your sisters?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Not yet. Just a moment more.”

He inclined his head. “As you wish.”

They sat in silence, not quite together, not quite apart. The mist shifted around them, soft as breath, and somewhere above the hedgerow, a bird called once and fell quiet.

At last, Mr Darcy turned toward the house. “I will leave you to your thoughts,” he said. “But I will wait - near the path - until I see you safely to the door.”

Elizabeth did not look up, but she nodded.

And he did exactly as he had said.

But his horse was still tethered beyond the stables, and so instead of returning to the house, he turned down the wet gravel path toward the rear drive.

It was there, passing the edge of the kitchen garden, that he saw Bingley and Miss Bennet walking together beneath a shared umbrella. Bingley’s face lit at once, but it was Jane who spoke first.

“Mr Darcy?” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Where is Lizzy?”

He paused before answering. “In the orchard, near the ash tree,” he said. “She is well - I promise you - but she asked for a moment alone.”

Miss Bennet nodded, her concern easing only slightly. “Thank you.”

“She will need a warm shawl and a calm room,” he added. “And someone who will listen, not speak.”

Miss Bennet smiled faintly. “Then I am exactly the right person.”