Page 17

CHAPTER 17

A Private Meeting

E lizabeth stepped into the room; her cheeks flushed from the wind.

She stopped short at the sight of the two men, the tension between them still hanging faintly in the air.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, glancing between them.

“I did not realise you were engaged, Papa. Mr. Darcy, I am surprised to see you here so early in the morning, especially after such a late evening at the assembly.”

Both men rose at once—Bennet with a faintly amused expression while Darcy appeared more conflicted.

Something unspoken lingered in his manner, and Elizabeth regarded him with quiet wariness.

When Bennet spoke, his tone was even, his expression unreadable.

“There is no need to apologise, my dear. You are always welcome in my study.”

Darcy gave a slight bow.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

She returned the gesture with a nod though her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than was necessary.

“I hope I have not interrupted anything of importance. ”

“On the contrary,” said Bennet with a dry smile.

“Your timing, as ever, is impeccable, Lizzy. I believe you may be able to add to our discussion.”

She inclined her head, eyes flicking briefly to his, her expression neutral.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed that Darcy had paled and wondered about the cause.

“I will not remain; I only came to return this,” she said, holding up a small book.

“I found it in the drawing room upon my return from my walk.” She crossed to place it on the desk, her movements unhurried, though Bennet—keen observer that he was—noted the slight tension in her shoulders.

“Thank you,” he replied, watching her closely.

“You arrived at an opportune moment. Darcy and I had nearly concluded our discussion.”

Elizabeth glanced again at Darcy.

“Indeed?

“Not serious,” said Bennet with a faint smile, “but not insignificant, either.”

She gave him a questioning look, but before she could speak again, Bennet turned to Darcy.

“If you are in no great hurry, sir, I wonder if you would remain a moment longer. I should be very glad of your opinion on a matter relating to the northern fields.”

Darcy hesitated briefly at the change in topic of their conversation, then nodded his agreement.

“Of course, sir.”

“Excellent.” Bennet gestured towards chairs in front of his desk.

“Lizzy, I imagine you have nothing against remaining a few moments yourself?”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, amused but obliging.

“If I must,” she said with a teasing air.

They all took their seats.

Bennet remained behind the desk while Elizabeth and Darcy sat in the chairs facing him.

He studied them with the same unassuming sharpness he often reserved for more delicate passages in books and saw how they each turned, ever so slightly, towards the other.

There was a pause before he spoke again, this time with a careful casualness to his tone that caused both his companions to turn to look at him for a moment.

“I have been considering a few changes to the crop rotation in the north field,” Bennet said, leaning back in his chair once again.

“The soil has been growing tired, and I wonder whether it might be time to rest it—or perhaps introduce barley in place of wheat. Darcy, what is your opinion?”

Darcy turned to Bennet, thoughtful.

“I have seen similar cases at Pemberley. We rotated in clover and vetch for two seasons, then barley in the third. The yield improved steadily when we did this. It was Father’s idea, but we have done it for nearly a decade now, and it seems to have helped.”

“Hmm,” Bennet murmured.

“We have not tried clover before. Although I have some doubt whether the tenants would favour the change. As you know, Lizzy, several of the older tenants are not fond of surprises, nor are they willing to make changes to the way they have always done things.”

“They are not alone in that,” Elizabeth said lightly, but her brow was drawn in thought as she wondered about the purpose of this conversation.

It was one they had debated several times, and while Elizabeth had read about several different options, the one she had proposed was different.

“But if the soil is exhausted, as Papa says, then barley would take less from it. And clover would need to be introduced gradually—perhaps only on the far end at first, near the tree line, where few notice what is grown anyway.”

Both men turned towards her.

Bennet’s expression showed quiet approval, but it was Darcy who spoke .

“You are likely correct, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy began.

“I do not know precisely what field you refer to, but if it is near a tree line, it is likely the edge of the field is underused and shaded. That would be enough to slow the growth of anything planted there. But with clover, that might actually be of benefit.”

Elizabeth looked surprised but not displeased.

“I read about it in a pamphlet Mr. Davies lent us. There was a diagram and several tables showing the benefits of such a scheme.”

“Then you were more thorough than most,” Darcy said.

His tone was not patronising, only matter of fact, and Elizabeth noted, with a small flicker of something like satisfaction, that he addressed her not as someone less than himself, but as an equal.

Bennet, who had opened a ledger and was flipping through the most recent notes on crop yields, said without looking up, “It seems I shall soon be out of a position. Between the two of you, there may be no need for me at all.”

Elizabeth smiled and laughed at the familiar tease.

“I cannot say I mind if we manage the land a little better. As you well know, it has been Mr. Darcy’s agreement with my plans for the estate that has persuaded you more than once, Papa, when we disagreed about what would work best.”

Darcy inclined his head, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.

“Then it seems we make a good team, does it not? At least from afar. But I suppose we can only improve now that we are in the same county for a time.”

“That seems likely,” she replied, a touch of colour rising in her cheeks as she met his gaze.

There was a pause as they simply held each other’s gaze.

It was comfortable but charged.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Finally, Darcy glanced towards the window, where the early morning light lay soft across the lawns.

“Would you like to walk with me, Miss Elizabeth? I should very much like to see the orchard path your father mentioned on a previous visit.”

Elizabeth hesitated for only a breath.

“Of course, sir. Let me collect my things and notify a footman to accompany us.”

“It is not necessary, Lizzy,” Bennet replied, feeling that it was best to allow the two to speak in privacy.

They would be outside, and there were enough people about that they would not be unobserved.

“You need a footman only if you go out alone, and I trust Mr. Darcy to be adequate protection for you. Take your maid Sally instead.”

Elizabeth nodded at this, and the two stepped out into the corridor to claim their outerwear and hats.

These in place, Elizabeth led Darcy through the kitchen and out a side door that led towards the garden.

Before they exited, she claimed two of the rolls that were sitting on a sideboard, cooling in preparation for the family’s breakfast.

The air remained cool beneath the pale sun of early autumn.

For a time, they walked in companionable silence—her hand resting lightly on his arm, their boots quiet on the packed earth, the rustle of birds in the hedgerow their only company.

It was Darcy who spoke first.

“I had not expected, when I arrived this morning, that I would be drawn into estate matters quite so quickly,” he said with a dry smile.

Elizabeth cast him a sidelong look.

“You are not disappointed to find me out of the drawing room, then? And intruding on my father’s matters of business? I know that you are aware of my involvement, but perhaps after meeting me, you have formed a different opinion.”

“On the contrary,” he said.

“It is…refreshing to speak of these matters with you. I cannot say I often find conversation on estate management both intelligent and spirited. My steward mostly listens, and while he does suggest alternate ideas, he rarely does so in such a pert manner. ”

She smiled.

“Careful, Mr. Darcy, or I shall begin to believe you are impressed by me.”

He glanced at her, something warm flickering just behind his usual reserve.

“I am.”

The admission was quiet, but unmistakable.

Elizabeth’s brow arched, though her tone remained light.

“Well. I shall do my best not to let it go to my head,” she replied, her tone revealing nothing.

However, a moment later she ducked her gaze and slipped her hand from his arm, quickening her pace by a few steps.

The movement was not dramatic, but it was enough to give Darcy pause.

“Have I offended you, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, speaking quietly but loud enough to be heard from her position ahead of him.

“No,” she replied, without turning.

He tried again. “Have I upset you?”

“No, sir.”

Her tone was even, but too brief to be reassuring.

He reached forward, hesitating only a moment before his fingers touched her arm—gentle but firm enough to make her stop.

“Then what is the matter?” he asked, his voice low, earnest.

She turned to face him at last, chin lifted, though a faint crease had formed between her brows.

Her hands, now clasped tightly before her, belied the calm set of her features.

There was a slight flush at her neck, the kind that came not from embarrassment, but from the effort of keeping one’s composure.

“You should not say things like that to me, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice controlled, although her eyes did not quite meet his.

Darcy regarded her with quiet confusion, his brow furrowing as he searched her face.

“Might I ask why? ”

Elizabeth hesitated, her hands clasped before her as if bracing herself.

“Because I do not know how you mean them. And I would rather not imagine meanings where none were intended.”

There was a heavy silence between them as neither spoke for several long moments.

Darcy’s reply came slowly, as though he were choosing each word with care.

“Then allow me to be clear. I meant what I said.”

She met his gaze, her own still cautious.

“And what, precisely, did you mean?”

“That I admire you,” he said simply.

“Your intelligence, your willingness to speak your mind. Ever since I discovered it was you who wrote to me, not your father, I have been intrigued by you. Now that I have met you, it is bordering on fascination.” Darcy repeated his initial comment.

“As I said, I admire you, Miss Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth did not answer at once.

She looked away, towards the trees, where a breeze stirred the leaves, causing a few to fall.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.

“I am not in the habit of being admired for such things,” she admitted.

“Then it seems many have not looked closely enough,” Darcy said.

His tone held no embellishment—only quiet sincerity, as though he stated a truth rather than offered praise.

Elizabeth glanced back at him, studying his face as if to discern whether he truly understood what he was saying—and whether she believed him.

Something in her expression softened.

“You are different than I expected,” she said at last.

Darcy allowed a faint smile.

“And how did you expect me to be?”

Elizabeth did not respond, and after a moment, Darcy offered her his arm.

Elizabeth took it without hesitation .

They walked in silence for some time, meandering beneath the thinning canopy of trees, the crisp rustle of leaves beneath their boots the only sound that was heard.

Eventually, the path brought them back towards Longbourn—in their distraction, they had not gone to the orchard as intended, but had merely walked in a wide circle.

“I believe my friend intends to call at Longbourn tomorrow,” Darcy said quietly.

“I mean to accompany him—both to conclude my conversation with your father, and because I hope to speak with you again. Tell me, Miss Elizabeth; will I be welcome?”

She looked up at him, searching his face, trying once more to judge his sincerity.

Whatever she saw there seemed to settle something within her.

She nodded.

“I would enjoy that,” she said.

At her reply, he smiled—more fully than before—and she caught, for the first time, the dimples that softened his usually solemn expression.

Gently, he took the hand resting on his arm and raised it to his lips, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to her gloved fingers.

Aware that should he remain much longer in her presence he would say more than he was ready to confess, with a brief wave goodbye, he turned and made his way towards the stables.

Elizabeth remained at the edge of the drive, watching as he mounted his waiting horse and rode down the lane, the figure of him growing smaller with each stride.