Page 14 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

T he next morning, Darcy rode to the edge of the frost-covered woods, the towering trees casting long-fingered shadows in the wintery afternoon light. He had gone riding, intending to gather his thoughts, but instead, he found himself lingering near the edge of the Bennet lands, drawn inexplicably to Miss Elizabeth's world.

He had resolved not to call upon the Bennets with Bingley this morning. To visit with Miss Elizabeth was a temptation he could scarcely resist, but he knew he could not speak freely, not of his suspicions about Mr. Bennet nor of the turmoil that gripped him daily. To be in her presence and not speak freely was becoming increasingly more difficult. Yet here he was, as though simply knowing that she was near might calm the storm within.

Suddenly, Miss Elizabeth herself appeared on the path ahead, walking briskly in his direction. She wore her dark blue cloak and carried herself with her usual unassuming grace. When her eyes met his, surprise flashed across her face, followed quickly by something he could not name.

“Mr. Darcy,” she greeted, inclining her head. “I see you are favouring our small corner of the countryside today.”

Darcy forced himself to maintain his composure. “Indeed. The quiet of the woods offers a welcome reprieve.”

Miss Elizabeth’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Do you require one?”

“I do.”

She waited—did she expect him to say more?

At last, she broke the silence herself. “I might have thought you preferred London’s diversions.”

“Perhaps once,” he admitted. “But I find I have little need or desire for such distractions now.”

Her brows arched slightly, her curiosity evident, though she said nothing. Instead, she gestured toward the path. “I would not like to invade your privacy, but you are welcome to walk with me if you would like company.”

Darcy had intended to avoid precisely this sort of encounter, yet the invitation was impossible to refuse. “It would be my pleasure.”

He dismounted and they fell into step.

“You are out and about a good deal these days, Mr. Darcy. I cannot help but wonder if there is some matter requiring your attention, or if we have simply won your approval at last.”

Darcy’s pulse quickened. Her words, though playful, struck far closer to the truth than she could have known. He glanced at her, weighing his reply carefully. “There are indeed matters that require my attention,” he said slowly. “But I find myself drawn to this place for reasons I cannot easily explain.”

Miss Elizabeth’s steps slowed, and she turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “You speak in riddles, sir.”

Darcy’s chest tightened. How could he answer without betraying too much? He looked away, his gaze settling on the horizon as he spoke. “There are times when one must act, but how to act is not entirely clear.”

Miss Elizabeth tilted her head, studying him closely. “A curious answer. I wonder if your silence shields you, or someone else?”

He met her gaze then, the intensity of her dark eyes stirring something deep within him. “Both, perhaps,” he admitted quietly. “But I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, my intentions are not to deceive.”

“Then why not speak plainly?” she pressed, her tone gentle. “You are clearly troubled, Mr. Darcy. If I may offer my ear—”

“No.” The word escaped him too quickly, too forcefully. Darcy saw her eyes widen slightly. “Forgive me. I only mean to say that it is not a matter I can share. Not yet at least.”

Miss Elizabeth regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, she smiled faintly. “Patience is not one of my virtues, Mr. Darcy, but of course I will respect your need for privacy.”

Darcy’s lips curved into a faint smile of his own. She was certainly more patient than he was himself. “It is more than I deserve.”

She frowned at that, but did not entreat him again.

They resumed their walk, the conversation turning to lighter topics such as wedding plans, his sister’s love of music, the latest gossip in Meryton, the small New Year’s dinner Longbourn would be hosting this evening. Yet Darcy’s mind kept working through the questions he could not answer.

As they approached Longbourn’s outer gate, Elizabeth paused, turning to him once more. “Whatever weighs upon you, Mr. Darcy, I hope you will find the resolution you seek. And though your family is with you, should you find you need a friend . . .” She hesitated slightly before continuing. “You may find one closer than you think.”

He bowed. “You are very generous, Miss Elizabeth.”

With a final, lingering glance, she stepped through the gate, leaving him standing in the grey winter light. The burden of his secret weighed heavy on his heart, but her words carried a glimmer of hope. Perhaps one day she might forgive him for the truths he could not yet speak.

Mr. Darcy had not joined Mr. Bingley on his call yesterday, but Elizabeth was strangely relieved that he had made his appearance tonight. The dining room at Longbourn was warm and lively as the Bennets and their guests gathered for New Year’s Eve dinner. The fire crackled in the hearth, reflecting golden light off polished silver and delicate china. Mr. Bingley sat beside Jane, his admiration expressed openly, while Colonel Fitzwilliam entertained Kitty and Lydia with tales of military life.

Elizabeth was seated next to Mr. Darcy and found herself drawn into an unexpected debate over the influence of literature on society. She felt he might admire her, but likewise knew he could do nothing about it. Therefore, she ought not to pay him too much attention. But he possessed a quiet magnetism that made it difficult to refrain.

The topic of reading had been broached by Mary who, in her solemn tones, suggested that novels were frivolous indulgences compared to sermons or histories. Mary had long since deserted them for the pianoforte next door, playing while Miss Darcy had accompanied her to turn the pages, but the debate had carried on without her.

“Surely, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, “you cannot wholly side with my sister’s dismissal of novels as mere trifles? To do so would suggest that literature offers nothing of value to a thoughtful mind.”

Mr. Darcy paused as he set down his wineglass, his expression thoughtful. “I do not dismiss novels outright, Miss Elizabeth. Some, indeed many, are poorly conceived and lack intellectual merit. One cannot ignore their power to influence, but that influence is often a poor one. What benefit, I wonder, is there in engaging the imagination at the cost of reason?”

Elizabeth’s brows rose. “At the cost of reason? You speak as though a well-told story could itself overthrow society. What are we, Mr. Darcy, without the imagination? Do sermons or histories often move us to tears or inspire us to dream?”

Darcy’s lips quirked slightly. “Some sermons might indeed move me to tears, though perhaps not in the way that you mean,” he replied drily, drawing a chuckle from Papa nearby. “But let me offer this: if novels do stir such strong emotion, can they not also manipulate? Lead astray those who lack discernment or seek only sensation?”

“And do you fault the novel for its misuse, or its readers for their lack of judgment? Shall we criticize society for its reluctance to educate most of its citizens?” Elizabeth countered, her voice light but firm. “After all, a poorly chosen meal can make one ill, but we do not condemn all food as a danger to health.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed outright at this.

Mr. Darcy, however, held Elizabeth’s gaze. “A fair point. Yet would you not agree, Miss Elizabeth, that the mind ought to be nourished as deliberately as the body? Ought we not seek out the most wholesome fare?”

Elizabeth smiled, unflustered. “And who, sir, shall decide what is wholesome? Taste is an individual thing, is it not? A novel may be as rich as any history, perhaps richer, for it teaches us without pretence. It conveys truths that numbers and dates cannot.”

“And what truths might those be?” Mr. Darcy asked. Elizabeth could not decide what it was that made her find the question genuine, but she did.

“The truth of character, Mr. Darcy,” she told him. “The ability to stand in another’s shoes for a time, to better understand those who act differently than you would yourself. The essence of joy, sorrow, love, folly.” Elizabeth leaned forward. “Novels, at their best, hold up mirrors to human nature. Do they not reveal to us the most vivid portraits of the human heart?”

Mr. Darcy regarded her solemnly for a moment, the conversation falling into a brief but charged silence. When he spoke again, his look was unmistakably admiring. “Then perhaps I have been too quick to judge.” His lips curved faintly. “You defend the novel with such eloquence that I feel almost compelled to abandon my history books entirely.”

Elizabeth returned his smile. “I should not wish you to do so, Mr. Darcy. Only to make a little room for stories that may surprise you.”

Her father had been following the exchange with quiet amusement. “Well argued, Lizzy. It seems you have proven novels a worthy pursuit, in moderation, though I suspect Mr. Darcy will choose his next one with great care.”

“To the delight of novel readers everywhere,” Elizabeth replied teasingly.

A quiet admiration lingered in Mr. Darcy’s gaze. “Perhaps, Miss Elizabeth, you will recommend one that will live up to the argument you have made this evening.”

“Perhaps, sir,” she said softly, a slight flush touching her cheeks. “I shall take that as a challenge.”

He shook his head. “It is only a request, madam.”

The debate had drawn to a close, and Darcy could not help but feel as though he had lost. She had a clever mind and there was a sweet archness to her manner that prevented offense. That she could spar with him so deftly while smiling so beguilingly was yet another of her myriad charms.

The sitting room was a cacophony of laughter and conversation, though while he had been sparring with Miss Elizabeth he had not noticed over much. Now Darcy simply answered questions politely when asked and contributed a word or two when decorum required, but he was mostly preoccupied. This house, this family, had the power to unsettle even the most composed of men.

It did not help that Mr. Bennet had been watching him for much of the evening, his expression placid but his comments pointed. Darcy had caught that calculating gleam in the elder man’s gaze more than once.

“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said suddenly, breaking Darcy’s thoughts. “Has my Elizabeth so unsettled you? I had thought gentlemen of your mettle”—he gestured vaguely at Fitzwilliam, who was mid-story— “were made of sterner stuff.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam is the storyteller of our party, I assure you,” Darcy replied, offering a slight smile. “I would not attempt to compete.”

“Sensible of you,” Mr. Bennet said with a smirk. “Still, I do wonder why you have fallen into a blue study. I trust my daughter’s notion of good conversation has not inspired it.”

Darcy hesitated. A less observant man might not have noticed his distraction, but Mr. Bennet was not Sir William Lucas. The question, though innocently delivered, probed far deeper than Darcy found comfortable.

“Forgive me, sir,” Darcy said at last. “Your hospitality and Miss Elizabeth’s conversation are most appreciated.”

Mr. Bennet studied him and was ready to speak again when Miss Elizabeth prevented him.

“Perhaps Mr. Darcy is solving the world’s problems, Papa,” she teased lightly, her smile dancing in her eyes. “Or drafting his next missive to improve society. I believe we should leave him to it.” And then she wandered away to do just that. She had intervened to spare him her father’s jests. Darcy could not help but be grateful.

Mr. Bennet, however, was not one to let something go if it piqued his interest. He tilted his head slightly as he regarded Darcy. “Most men do not appreciate my Elizabeth’s quick wit.”

Darcy straightened. “I have always valued good company, sir.”

Fitzwilliam, who had finally finished his story and glanced up from Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty, glanced between Darcy and Mr. Bennet with mild alarm, clearly sensing the shift in tone.

“I can see that, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet replied, lifting his brows. “Yet such qualities, admirable though they may be, are not always enough to recommend a lady to a husband. Some gentlemen are known to consider other matters of significance before forming an attachment. A family’s history, for example, or its bloodlines.”

Darcy’s spine stiffened at the word.

“Bloodlines?” Fitzwilliam echoed as he stepped closer, his easy manner faltering.

Mr. Bennet smiled, the picture of geniality. “Why, yes, Colonel. It is a delicate matter for certain gentlemen. Would you not agree, Mr. Darcy?”

The room suddenly felt much warmer. It was a dangerous game Mr. Bennet played, these offhand remarks laden with meaning, their true target concealed beneath a mask of levity. Was Mr. Bennet warning him away from Miss Elizabeth? Or was it something more? Did he suspect? Did he know ?

For a moment, Darcy could not speak. He reached for his wineglass to gain time, though he was not thirsty. As he sipped, he chastised himself for drawing a hasty conclusion. Of course the man did not know why they had come. How could he?

Finally, he replied in a carefully even voice. “As you say, sir, bloodlines are important matters and deserve consideration. But there are other qualities equally worth observing.”

“Ah.” Mr. Bennet’s gaze flicked to Elizabeth, who was now laughing with Jane over something Mr. Bingley had said. “Indeed, there are.”

The pause that followed was unbearable. Darcy stepped back. He felt Fitzwilliam’s eyes on him and glanced at his cousin, whose gaze asked what he was about. But he could not remain here, knowing that Mr. Bennet could see through him even if Miss Elizabeth did not.

The walls of the room seemed to press in, the combined warmth of fire and bodies stifling his breath. He tugged at the hem of his waistcoat. “You will excuse me,” he said, his voice as composed as he could make it. “I find myself in need of fresh air.”

Mr. Bennet merely smiled, that infernal gleam still bright in his eyes. “By all means, Mr. Darcy. I dare say the cold night air will do you some good.”

Darcy gave a faint bow and strode from the room, his steps precise though his mind churned. Mr. Bennet was too clever by half. Whether he suspected something was amiss or merely delighted in making Darcy squirm over his admiration of Miss Elizabeth, Darcy could not be sure. But one thing was certain: if Mr. Bennet meant to unnerve him, he had succeeded.

The door to the house closed behind him with a satisfying click. Darcy drew in a breath, the frigid air burning in his lungs. He had needed this distance, this silence.

The frosty darkness enveloped him, bracing after the stifling cheer of the sitting room. Snow lightly dusted the ground in uneven patches, and the stars above were scattered like diamonds against a black velvet sky. He breathed deeply, exhaling a cloud of mist that lingered before him.

Mr. Bennet’s veiled barbs echoed in his mind, each one a reminder of how close they had come to the truth.

His gaze drifted to the windows of the house. Light illuminated the glass panes, golden and inviting.

Darcy turned away to sweep his hat from his head and rake a hand through his hair. The chime of the bells from Meryton rolled across the countryside like distant thunder. The New Year had begun. Best to return before his absence caused remark. He made his way back to the house, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. As he reached the door, it flew open suddenly, and there stood Elizabeth.

“Mr. Darcy?” Her voice was surprised but not displeased. “Papa thought you might still be out here. Come inside, for it is bitter this evening.”

Before he could reply, Miss Lydia’s shrill voice rang out from down the main hall. “It is him! It is Mr. Darcy! And Lizzy saw him first!”

“What are you on about, Lydia?” Elizabeth called over her shoulder, frowning as Darcy stepped inside.

Miss Lydia appeared in the doorway, her face flushed with triumph and mulled wine. “Why, do you not see? He is the First Footer! The first dark-haired man to cross the threshold in the New Year. And it is you, Lizzy, who greeted him, so it must mean good luck for you!”

“Lydia, that is not the story . . .” Miss Elizabeth said, but her sister was already gone to tell everyone what she had seen.

Miss Elizabeth glanced up at him, her cheeks the colour of the holly berries that graced the garlands. Her expression hovered somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

The cold air was no longer performing its office. He forced himself to look away.

“I do apologise, Mr. Darcy.” She spoke under her breath. “My youngest sister enjoys making a fuss over the least things.”

He shook his head at the signs of her embarrassment. “There is no need, Miss Elizabeth. I should have recalled the tradition and not stepped out of doors on this of all nights. I am only sorry I do not have any bread, coal, or salt to offer you. And even if I had whiskey, I do not think your father would prefer it to port or brandy.”

She tilted her head, eyes alight with humour. “Do you put stock in such superstitions then?”

He considered her for a moment, laughter from the sitting room spilling into the hall like music. “I am not a man given to superstition,” he admitted quietly. “But in this case, I hope it proves true and that you do have good fortune this year.”

Elizabeth’s gaze lingered on his, her smile softening. “Thank you. I hope the New Year is kind to you as well.”

He was not at all sure that it would.

“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth.” He offered her the faintest of bows before stepping further into the house. Whatever Mr. Bennet’s game might be, and whatever truth he and Fitzwilliam might uncover, Darcy could not deny the feeling that had taken root within him—that this house, these moments, and, above all, this woman—were becoming more significant to him than any other truth he might seek.

The clock chimed its final note. The year had turned, and with it, perhaps, his fate.