Page 17 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

E lizabeth walked beside Jane—behind her parents and in front of her younger sisters—just as she had each Sunday for as long as she could remember. She took solace in the routine, all her family strolling together to hear the service and Mr. Brown’s short, pithy sermons. But today, she took a few extra breaths and steeled herself for the change that was coming.

Today, Jane’s betrothed would be joining them in the Bennet pew.

Change did not frighten Elizabeth. She hoped she was braver than to mourn the loss of her eldest sister to a man who loved her so well as Mr. Bingley. But Jane’s impending departure still made her melancholy, and it was a struggle, at times, to conceal it.

As they came around a bend in the path, the entire Netherfield party came into view, standing on the other side of the little church-gate. Even Miss Darcy and her companion were there, so Elizabeth thought they must not have been waiting long.

“Good morning to you all,” Mr. Bingley said cheerfully, and offered Jane his arm.

Just like that, Jane was swept away, and Elizabeth was left alone.

But to her surprise, not for long. Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy stepped into the place where Jane had been. Mr. Darcy’s posture was as straight and composed as ever, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. He seemed entirely indifferent to the jovial mood around him, but as they walked on, Elizabeth noted how he occasionally glanced toward Jane and Mr. Bingley, a faint softness flickering across his features. Was it approval she detected? A glimmer of satisfaction? She was not sure, but the idea that he might now approve what he had seemed to scorn when he first arrived last autumn was strangely satisfying.

Miss Darcy stepped around her brother. “Good morning, Miss Elizabeth. Are you well?”

“I am, Miss Darcy. And you?”

Miss Darcy smiled and nodded. “This is very exciting for me. I have never heard the banns called for someone I know so well as Mr. Bingley.”

As they entered the small chapel, the party filed inside, filling an entire pew. The tiny building, with its simple wooden beams and plain windows, had never seemed so full. Longbourn’s villagers craned their necks to catch glimpses of the Netherfield gentlemen, whispering amongst themselves, and Elizabeth fought the urge to smile at their fascination. Jane was well loved by them all, so it was Mr. Bingley who was under review, little though he appeared to notice. His attentions were all for his Jane.

The service began with the usual prayers and hymns, the familiar cadence of Mr. Brown’s voice lulling the congregation into a comfortable rhythm. But eventually, they reached the moment that Elizabeth had anticipated, and perhaps—just a little—dreaded.

Mr. Brown began to speak.

“I publish the banns of marriage between Charles Michael Bingley of St. Mary’s Parish, Scarborough, and Jane Eleanor Bennet of Longbourn Parish. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking.”

The congregation rustled faintly as the words echoed through the small chapel. Elizabeth kept her gaze forward, her hands folded tightly in her lap, as though by sheer force of will she could restrain the emotions swelling within her.

Jane’s future was assured, but it would take her away from Longbourn, from the mornings they spent together, the tasks they shared, the quiet moments of whispered conversation. At first, Jane would only be a few miles away at Netherfield, but Elizabeth could not believe that they would remain so close forever. The extended Bingley family lived much farther north, and it would not be easy to begin their lives together so close to Mamma. Elizabeth’s chest tightened, and she told herself sternly not to be selfish.

When the final hymn was sung and the service concluded, the villagers gathered to offer their congratulations to Jane and Mr. Bingley, the crowd swelling around them. Elizabeth remained next to the pew, letting others speak their well-wishes as she observed Jane nearly glowing with contentment.

After a minute, as she stood and moved in the direction of the churchyard, seeking a quiet moment to collect herself, she became aware of a presence beside her. She turned her head and was startled to find Mr. Darcy standing there. His expression was unusually gentle.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said softly.

“Mr. Darcy,” she replied, her tone cautious but polite.

He held the door, and they strolled into the churchyard, the hum of voices from the crowd fading as the heavy door slowly shut behind them. It was he who broke the quiet, his voice low and steady. “Your sister appears exceedingly happy.”

Elizabeth nodded, her heart squeezing at the thought. “She is.”

“And you?” he asked, glancing at her briefly before his gaze returned to the path ahead. “You are quieter than usual.”

A fortnight ago, Elizabeth might have concluded he thought her boisterous, like her younger sisters, but now she was simply surprised by his observation. Was it so apparent? She mustered a smile, though she doubted its sincerity. “I am happy for my sister.”

“I suspected as much,” he replied, gazing straight ahead, “but that is not what I asked.”

Elizabeth turned to look at him, then—really look at him. Rather than his usual reserve, she sensed genuine concern, and she thought his perception merited an honest answer.

“Jane has always been the best of sisters, the most constant presence in my life. While I would not wish to keep her to myself when such happiness awaits her, I cannot pretend I will not miss her.”

Darcy was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “It is a natural sentiment, I think, when siblings are so devoted to one another.”

Elizabeth studied him, struck by the understanding in his words. For all his reserve, it was clear he knew something of what she felt. His own connection to Miss Darcy, she realised, was likely just as profound.

“Do you feel it too?” she asked before she could stop herself. “When Miss Darcy contemplates her own future, do you feel both pleasure and sadness?”

His gaze flicked to hers, startled, but he did not shy away. “It is not easy to imagine such a separation. But Georgiana’s happiness must always come first.”

Elizabeth believed him. Mr. Darcy might be reserved, but he was also someone who deeply valued the people he loved.

They reached the edge of the churchyard, where a small bench was nestled beneath an ancient oak tree. After a pause, Elizabeth sat down. Mr. Darcy did as well, though he left a proper amount of space between them. He gazed back towards the church.

“Change is inevitable. But I have found that there is a certain pattern to it, a way in which it sweeps through our lives, disconcerting at first, but making us stronger as we learn to live in a new way.”

Elizabeth turned to him with a smile. “That was almost poetic, Mr. Darcy.”

He grunted. “Do not tell Fitzwilliam.”

This made Elizabeth laugh. “Thank you. I dearly needed a little levity this morning.”

He smiled, then, more broadly than was his wont, and Elizabeth noted that he had dimples in both cheeks that made him appear boyish. Perhaps that was why his smiles were always so small and contained.

They fell into a companionable silence, and Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted. She glanced at Mr. Darcy, who for once seemed relaxed. Or perhaps it was only that he was not standing with his hands clasped behind his back and his posture as rigid as the ancient stones of the churchyard wall.

“I recall,” he said suddenly, “when Miss Bennet fell ill at Netherfield. You did not hesitate to walk three miles across the fields to come and nurse your sister. Your dedication to her was evident. You put her comfort above your own.”

Elizabeth was surprised by the change in subject, but perhaps he felt they had strayed too far from their original conversation. “Dear Jane,” she said fondly. “Who could do less for her? Though I am sure I scandalised you, Mr. Darcy, appearing as I did in muddied boots and petticoats.”

“I was not scandalised ,” Mr. Darcy said, and Elizabeth caught a slight emphasis on the last word.

She felt her cheeks warm, though she was not certain why.

“I was impressed by your care for your sister.”

She studied Mr. Darcy’s countenance, noting again the shadows beneath his eyes. Before she could stop herself, another thought flitted through her mind: Who took care of Mr. Darcy? Miss Darcy, for all her sweetness, was still so young. Who comforted Mr. Darcy when he was unwell? Who helped him carry his burdens, or tended to him when he was weary? The notion that he might require such a thing was a new one, and she quickly pushed it aside, unwilling to dwell on it too long.

Mr. Darcy, for all his flaws and complexities, was no longer a man she could easily dismiss. She ought to feel perturbed or perhaps even ashamed that she had not seen him as anything but a villain before. She did not, but her understanding of Mr. Darcy had completely altered.

The churchyard was quiet around them, and for a moment, it seemed as though the world had narrowed to just the two of them. Elizabeth felt a curious sense of peace.

The spell was broken by a few parishioners leaving the sanctuary, and Mr. Darcy offered his hand to help her to her feet. She hesitated only briefly before taking it, his touch, warm and steady through his gloves, sending a little shock up her arm. Her breath caught.

“Do you feel a little better?”

She smiled. “I do.”

He nodded and though he did not smile, Elizabeth thought he seemed pleased. “Shall we return to the others, then?” he asked.

Elizabeth nodded, her hand lingering in his for just a moment longer before she released it. As they walked back inside, she found herself glancing at him from the corner of her eye, her thoughts tangled and uneasy.

After church, Darcy rode towards Meryton, Fitzwilliam close behind.

Mrs. Long’s information about Mr. Bennet and his father had been confirmed by the other families as he and Fitzwilliam made their rounds. It had taken several days, and they were just now returning from the last visit. Despite it being Sunday, Mr. Robinson had been pleased to see them and had invited them in for tea. Bingley was noticeably grateful that Darcy was making himself more amiable with his neighbours, but he was, for obvious reasons, spending most of his own time at Longbourn.

As he and Fitzwilliam rounded a bend, Darcy’s gaze caught on several children gathered outside the front door of a little house just down the lane from the high street. At their centre stood Miss Elizabeth Bennet, her face smiling and warm as she handed out small packages to them from the basket that hung over her arm. A small boy clung to her skirts, his face cast up to her, eyes wide with gratitude as she leaned over to offer him a kind word. The scene, so simple, so natural, struck Darcy with a force that made him draw up sharply.

He had not expected to see her again today. She had been wistful, even sad after the service, but she was not one to remain so for long. She found ways to be happy instead—would that he could learn how to do the same.

“What is it?” Fitzwilliam asked, stopping beside him.

Darcy shook his head slightly, his eyes still on Elizabeth. “She is remarkable,” he said quietly, the words escaping before he could contain them.

Fitzwilliam followed his cousin’s gaze. “Miss Elizabeth? She is indeed charming.” His voice dropped so that no one but Darcy could hear. “But I fear your attention to her is rather sudden.”

“It is not,” Darcy admitted softly.

“Ah,” Fitzwilliam replied with mock seriousness, “could it be her singular wit or her kind heart that has captured your interest? Or . . .” He raised a brow. “Perhaps it is her connection to Mr. Bennet?”

Darcy stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“You are not a man prone to sentiment, Darcy. You have admired women before, but you would never have considered someone like Miss Elizabeth Bennet—pleasant as she is—if not for the peculiar circumstances we now find ourselves in. Convince me otherwise.”

Darcy’s gaze snapped to his cousin. He was appalled by the accusation. “Do you believe me to be calculating in my affections? I was drawn to her before any of this came to light.”

Fitzwilliam shrugged. “You are the last man who would intentionally seek out a woman for nothing more than her connections. But I would wager that somewhere in that formidable brain of yours, the thought has crossed your mind: what if marrying her resolves this entire debacle? If the Bennets are connected to the Darcys, marrying her could bring Pemberley back to her family line. Or, say that the worst happens, and you lose your standing? Perhaps you could run Pemberley for Mr. Bennet and simply pay him a percentage of the property’s income? No one need ever know.” He shook his head. “You say you were drawn to her before you went to London. But you left her behind, Darcy.”

He had gone to London for the journal. But were he scrupulously honest with himself, he had also meant to forget Miss Elizabeth. To try, at any rate. Darcy turned away. Was he truly so contemptible? Had he allowed such calculations to influence his regard for Miss Elizabeth? His regard was true, of that he had no doubt. But would he have returned to Hertfordshire without this . . . complication?

“Let us say you marry the girl. I will even allow that you could be happy. But what happens if Miss Elizabeth learns that her father is the rightful heir to Pemberley? Do you think she would be pleased with her marriage? Or would she suspect that you only married her for material gain?”

Darcy’s silence was answer enough. It would crush her. And that would crush him.

But Fitzwilliam was not yet done. “You would never recover her trust. You would lose her, Pemberley, and every ounce of happiness you thought you had. It is a house built on sand. And the waves will come. Sooner or later, they always come.”

Darcy’s hands clenched at his sides, the weight of his cousin’s words bearing down on him. “Do you think I do not know?” he snapped.

Fitzwilliam’s expression eased slightly. “Very well. But you must remember what matters most. Until and unless we can determine that Mr. Bennet has no claim, you cannot approach her. And meanwhile, consider this: if he has no claim, would you approach her at all?”

Before Darcy could respond, they were interrupted.

“Mr. Darcy. Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Darcy turned sharply to see Miss Elizabeth approaching, her hands tucked inside her cloak against the chill.

She ought to have a muff.

Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks were flushed, which made her dark eyes appear more luminous. Darcy’s pulse quickened, though he schooled his features to hide any perturbation.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a bow. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” she replied, her gaze flicking between the two men. “It is a fine day for contemplation, it seems. You both appeared quite lost in thought.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Merely discussing the pleasures of the local countryside.”

Miss Elizabeth’s brow arched, and Darcy noticed the faintest hint of scepticism in her expression. “How curious,” she said lightly. “I had not thought Meryton would provide food for such sober reflections.”

Darcy found himself unable to meet her gaze directly, his thoughts racing. Had she overheard? Or was she simply as perceptive as ever, noticing the tension that hung between him and his cousin?

Miss Elizabeth’s attention shifted to Fitzwilliam, her tone turning playful. “I know that Mr. Darcy has been quite severe upon us. What of you, Colonel? Have you any critique of our modest village?”

Fitzwilliam smiled. “On the contrary, Miss Elizabeth, I find your village delightful, and its inhabitants even more so.”

Miss Elizabeth’s laugh was gentle, but Darcy detected a faint edge to her amusement. As her gaze flicked briefly to him, he felt the spark of her curiosity. She knew something or at least suspected that there was something to know.

For now, he could only bow politely as she excused herself. Her elder sister was stepping out of the little house, and a man he did not recognize but who appeared to be a footman was watching Miss Elizabeth. He was carrying four more baskets, two over each arm.

As she curtsied and returned to her party, Darcy turned back to Fitzwilliam.

He would uncover the truth about Mr. Bennet’s lineage. As for Miss Elizabeth, he must bid farewell to any desire to make her his own. For he was damned if he did ask and damned if he did not.

Elizabeth turned away from Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam with deliberate calm, determined to shake off the strain she had observed between them. She had no inclination to intrude upon their private conversation. Unlike Lydia, she did not eavesdrop. Not intentionally, at any rate. Yet, as she approached Jane, her mind persisted in replaying the sight of what had been a brief but charged encounter.

“Was that Mr. Darcy I saw?” Jane asked. They strolled down to the Simmons house on the corner and knocked.

“It was,” Elizabeth replied before the door was flung open by a boy who was half her height. She smiled. “Master Davey, good day to you.”

“Have you come with the apples?” he cried, jumping up and down. “Is it the apples?”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said, feigning confusion and peering into the basket she held. “I am not certain. Were you expecting apples?”

“The spice-ed ones!” he nearly howled as his mother put a hand on his shoulder. She was a young woman, but she was pale and appeared tired. Not so tired however, that she could not be embarrassed by her son. “Davey Sebastian Simmons, you apologise to Miss Elizabeth this instant!”

Davey stopped hopping and glanced up at her with an adorable pout. “Sorry, Miss Elizabeth.”

Jane reached into the basket and extended a small jar of honey to the boy. “Is this it?” she asked innocently.

He took the jar. “No, Miss Bennet, this ain’t it. But I thank you. Honey is nice too.”

The words were all correct, but they had the sound of a dirge. Elizabeth shook her head. “Next year, then, Davey. Here, take this basket for your mother.” She handed over the basket, and Mrs. Simmons smiled at them.

“Please put everything on the table, Davey.”

“Yes, Mum,” the boy said. He took the basket and offered them a sad little bow before he disappeared inside. A few moments later there was a shout. “There are apples!”

His grandmother, Old Mrs. Simmons, could be heard saying, “Do not you dare open that jar, Davey Simmons. Those apples must be shared.”

“But there are two jars!” the boy exclaimed.

Jane smiled and whispered to his mother, “Actually, there are three. He loved them so much last year.”

Mrs. Simmons bent down to lift a toddler into her arms. “Thank you so much.”

“There is no need for thanks,” Jane assured her. “Your father worked at Longbourn for twenty years, and many still rely upon your mother for her excellent nursing skills. It is our honour to do this small thing for you.”

“And even if that were not the case, it is a very great pleasure to bring these apples to a boy who loves them so much,” Elizabeth added with a warm smile.

They said their goodbyes, and Jane took Elizabeth’s arm as they strolled to the next house. “Mr. Darcy has not been to town much since his arrival at Netherfield. I wonder why he came today.”

Elizabeth schooled her features to mask her interest. “That is true. He and his cousin were engaged in some deep discourse. I did not remain to investigate.”

Jane glanced at her sister, with affectionate amusement. “You mean to say you resisted the temptation to uncover the source of their debate? That is unlike you, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth chuckled as she turned her attention to the next villager. “Tempting as it was, I thought better of it. He and his cousin seemed at odds. It is strange, for the colonel seemed rather stern. Rather different than his previous manner.”

“He is a military man, sister,” Jane teased lightly. “I must presume he is not always as pleasant as he is when he calls on us.”

They walked two streets over to knock on Mrs. Lawton’s door, greeting her and offering one of the baskets.

“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” the woman said, as her young daughter removed two jars and clutched them to her chest. “This will be such a treat for our supper on Twelfth Night.”

“You are most welcome,” Elizabeth replied.

After they said their farewells, Jane smiled. “I think you enjoy this as much as the children do.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Undoubtedly. There is something gratifying in seeing such eager smiles over the simplest gifts. It makes all the work in the heat of the kitchen worth it.”

“I know Mamma does not like us to work in the kitchen, but this is different.” Jane’s voice grew firm, as it always did when she knew herself to be in the right. “It is a part of a gentlewoman’s responsibility to care for those who require it, and these are all families with some connection to Longbourn.”

Elizabeth nodded at her sister but did not reply. Some of those they had visited today were families with a very tenuous connection to the estate, but they, too, received Christmas baskets, albeit a few days after the current tenants. After a warmer than usual autumn Papa thought a very long winter was in store, and every small bit of aid would help. He had himself shot more regularly in the autumn and allowed the tenants to shoot as much as needed to provide for their families too.

It was a longer walk to the next house and they lapsed into silence.

Jane looked behind her, and Elizabeth turned as well. A familiar figure approached, his stride purposeful and his expression alight with a mixture of relief and joy.

“Miss Bennet!” Mr. Bingley called, his voice carrying easily over the nearly empty lane. “Miss Elizabeth.”

Mr. Bingley nearly tripped over his own feet as he hurried to Jane. He came to a halt before her, bowing so gallantly and making Jane blush so deeply that Elizabeth was required to squelch a laugh. They truly were well matched.

“Mr. Bingley,” Jane said, her voice welcoming. “You have ventured far from Netherfield this afternoon.”

“I had the pleasure of calling at Longbourn,” he explained, “and Mrs. Bennet directed me here. I am most fortunate to find you both.”

Elizabeth caught the way Mr. Bingley’s gaze lingered on Jane, his expression open and adoring. There was an intensity in his look, a heat that she had not noted before. Jane was entirely caught up in it.

Feeling like an intruder in so intimate a moment, Elizabeth glanced away.

But it intrigued her, that look. The way Mr. Bingley had looked at Jane just now was the same way Mr. Darcy looked at her. The same way he had done since . . . well, since the night they had all met at Lucas Lodge and he had followed her about listening to her conversations. She thought back to moments she had dismissed as criticism or disdain: the quiet attentiveness he displayed when she spoke; the slight, irritating smirk he had displayed while they argued at Netherfield; and, most recently, the peculiar softness in his expression as he observed her delivering baskets.

Her thoughts spun into a whirlwind, disorienting her. Mr. Darcy, who had been so critical of her family—could he truly regard her with something akin to affection? The idea was absurd, yet the evidence, unbidden and unwelcome, began to create a more comprehensive portrait in her mind.

“Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Bingley’s voice broke through her reverie. “Are you well?”

Elizabeth blinked, realizing she had been silent for too long. “Quite well, thank you, Mr. Bingley. Merely lost in thought.”

He seemed satisfied with her response and turned his attention back to Jane. “Miss Bennet, I hope you are not too fatigued from your exertions today.”

Jane’s smile was radiant as she shook her head. “Not at all, sir. Lizzy and I were just saying that it is an insignificant effort for such gratitude in return. To bring such happiness with so small a thing as a Christmas basket.”

Tomorrow would be Twelfth Night, so Epiphany basket, really, but it hardly mattered. Only Jane would consider an entire week of canning in a terribly hot kitchen was a small effort, but Elizabeth agreed that the work was nothing to the joy it brought, not only to the receiver, but the giver. These were her favourite days of the year.

Elizabeth glanced over at Jane and Mr. Bingley. Their connection was undeniable, their mutual admiration almost a living thing. She longed to have something similar with a good man, but she had begun to believe that her heart was Mr. Darcy’s. She had not been able to protect it, but despite what he felt—and she could not be sure she had read his regard correctly—would Mr. Darcy ever act upon it? He must be expected to pursue a woman who had been born to his rarified sphere.

He was a gentleman, and she a gentleman’s daughter. So far, they were equal. But she was not foolish enough to believe that others would agree. His own family would certainly protest such a connection.

Mr. Bingley and Jane continued their conversation, their voices soft and their smiles frequent. Elizabeth stepped slightly aside, though as they did not lower their voices, she was still close enough to hear their conversation.

“I must commend you, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Bingley was saying. “Seeing you here today . . . Well, it is no wonder everyone in town speaks so highly of you.”

Jane’s blush deepened. “You are too kind, Mr. Bingley. It is my family’s good fortune to be in a position to assist others.”

Mr. Bingley extended his arm to Jane. “May I escort you and Miss Elizabeth back to Longbourn?”

Jane hesitated briefly, her gaze flicking to Elizabeth. “We have a few more houses to visit, but afterward we should be very happy to accept.” She looked at Elizabeth, contrite. “That is, if Lizzy does not mind.”

Elizabeth forced a smile. “Not at all.”

Jane took Mr. Bingley’s arm, and as they began to walk away, Elizabeth watched them with a mixture of affection and bewilderment. Her sister’s happiness was clear, but the realisation that had dawned upon her about Mr. Darcy lingered, bothering and persistent.

Elizabeth’s hands tightened around her basket. The afternoon’s chill seemed sharper now, and the questions swirling in her mind refused to quiet. She wanted Mr. Darcy’s behaviour to mean something. But it never could. Could it?

For the first time in years, she felt utterly unsure of her footing.