Page 23 of To India with Mr. Darcy

D arcy adjusted his cuffs with deliberate care, surveying the entrance ahead. He’d hovered in the hallway for too long, thinking about how he’d rather be anywhere but here. But Bingley had wanted to throw a tea party at Netherfield, inviting all the neighbours, and so here they were. Music and conversation drifted from within the drawing room, punctuated by the clatter of porcelain and the too-bright laughter of polite society doing what it did best—being seen, and seeing.

He hesitated, not only because he wanted to go elsewhere. He wondered whether she would be there. Longbourn wasn’t too far away, after all. It would be entirely normal to invite the Bennets.

But would Elizabeth deign to attend?

The question had lodged itself in his thoughts the moment he’d received Bingley’s invitation, and it had refused to dislodge itself since. It had danced in his mind the entire morning. Elizabeth Bennet. Miss Elizabeth Bennet . He didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be.

The world was different at sea, and affections formed aboard ship were not always made to survive the transition back to English soil. But what of his own affections? He had tried to dismiss them, explain them away. The sea made a man foolish. The wind could loosen the tongue, salt could blur the senses. He’d been taken in by the drama of the voyage, the isolation, the proximity. He had warned Bingley of this very thing.

And yet, days had passed since their return. Days of quiet reflection and long, dull hours filled with routine. And she was still there, in every corner of his mind, and in his dreams too. He hadn’t stopped thinking of her.

With a deep, preparatory breath, Darcy stepped through the entrance, nodding absently to a footman. The space was bright with afternoon light, warm with the hum of conversation. Lace gloves, trailing ribbons, and glinting brooches filled the room, along with the occasional flash of a gentleman’s polished shoe. Tea was already being poured, and polite laughter tinkled like a chandelier in motion.

He scanned the room quickly. Bingley was stationed near the hearth, speaking animatedly with an older gentleman Darcy vaguely recognised from Meryton. Caroline Bingley was near the piano, though thankfully not seated at it. Several familiar faces from the neighbourhood were scattered in loose knots of conversation.

But not hers.

His heart, traitorous thing, sagged. He ought to be relieved. He did not like crowds. He liked them even less when they held the possibility of emotional volatility. And yet, there it was again. That flash of insistent disappointment.

He crossed to a window, away from the centre of the gathering, standing with one hand braced against the sill. Outside, the garden was in full spring bloom. Behind him, the room carried on. He let it drift around him like wind through trees, present but unimportant. He heard Bingley’s laugh, the clink of teaspoons, a waltz beginning on the pianoforte.

And then, just behind him, he heard low, whispery voices. There were two women who Darcy did not recognise seated on a nearby settee. They perhaps did not mean to be overheard, but they made no great effort to avoid it either.

“…all the same, I thought it unbecoming. The way they said she carried on aboard ship.”

“Indeed,” replied the second, her voice honeyed with condescension. “They say she was quite free in her manner. Almost familiar. You know how girls of uncertain upbringing can be.”

“Oh, entirely. There’s always a touch too much eagerness. Too much confidence. I suppose it’s to be expected. Her mother, after all—”

A soft laugh.

“Exactly. And one can only imagine what liberties she took with the officers. It’s not as though anyone was there to chaperone her properly.”

Darcy froze.

The back of his neck prickled with heat, his fingers tightening around the edge of the windowsill. He did not turn. He didn’t make a sound. But the words landed like stones, one after the other, dull and bruising. They were speaking of Elizabeth Bennet, he was certain of it.

Elizabeth, who had stood steady through storm and sickness. Elizabeth, who had carried herself with strength and wit and grace under circumstances most of these women would never have survived. He clenched his jaw, his stomach curdling at the casual cruelty of it. A small, poisoned thing whispered that he had done this, that his own failure to defend her during the voyage, to protect her name with more than silent admiration, had helped give breath to this nonsense.

Their laughter rang again, light and brittle. Darcy turned sharply from the window, not wishing to hear any more. The voices of the two women faded into the general hum of conversation, but their words lingered, souring the air around him. He moved away, needing distance, and nearly collided with Miss Caroline Bingley.

“Mr Darcy,” she said brightly, linking her hand through his arm before he could dodge her. “You do look rather out of sorts. Surely you’re not finding the company dull?”

“I find it familiar enough,” he said shortly.

Caroline tittered. “Indeed, yes. And much improved by your presence, I’m sure. Though I daresay not all have made quite such a graceful re-entry into society. I assume you have heard all about it?”

He said nothing, though his jaw ticked. Was the whole town gossiping about her? Surely not.

She took his silence as encouragement. “I speak, of course, of Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” she confirmed. “It is difficult to avoid the talk, you know. I’ve heard no fewer than three accounts this afternoon of how very at ease she was during the voyage. Apparently quite fearless when it came to the company of gentlemen. Charming, some might say, if one were feeling generous. Others might call it bold.”

Darcy stopped walking. He turned to look at her, full and direct, and she faltered at the sudden change in his expression.

“I would caution you, Miss Bingley,” he said, his voice low and cold, “against repeating idle gossip that maligns the character of a gentlewoman who conducted herself with nothing but grace and honour during a difficult and often dangerous voyage.”

Caroline blinked. “I only meant—”

“I know precisely what you meant,” he said.

She flushed, flustered. “Well. There’s no need to be so defensive, Mr Darcy. I was only remarking—”

“And I have replied,” he said, cutting her off cleanly. “If you will excuse me.”

He stepped away before she could gather her thoughts for a retort, leaving her to stare after him in stunned silence. Darcy moved quickly, needing air. Needing to see her.

He passed Bingley in the corridor, who looked up from his conversation with a smile. “Ah! I was wondering where you’d gone. You’ll be pleased to know the Bennet sisters are here after all. They’re in the garden, I believe. Miss Elizabeth needed a breath of air, or so Jane said.”

Darcy’s breath caught.

She is here.

Relief surged through him, an emotion so immediate and powerful that it was impossible to hide. She had come. She had not hidden herself away, not despite the tension that lingered between them or the cruel whispers that were now flitting from room to room. He didn’t pause to ask permission or make excuses. He simply turned towards the garden doors and went in search of her.

Darcy stepped out into the garden. He spotted her almost at once— Elizabeth —standing beneath a flowering cherry tree with her back to him, one hand lightly grazing the pale pink blossoms above her head. Her bonnet dangled from her fingers, forgotten.

He paused for a moment, watching her. She looked utterly unbothered by the house behind them, by the whispers within it. But he knew her well enough by now to suspect that her composure was not the whole story.

He cleared his throat gently as he approached. “Miss Bennet.”

She turned, calm and unsurprised. Her smile, though soft, filled his heart with warmth. “Mr Darcy.”

They stood for a moment in the dappled light, the wind stirring the hem of her gown, looking at each other as if lost in the memories of all that was aboard the Belmont .

“I heard what was being said,” he said at last. “Inside.”

She pursed her lips in amusement. “Ah. The tales of my scandalous voyage.”

“It’s unconscionable,” he said, voice hardening. “You deserve better than to be reduced to idle gossip and baseless speculation. Especially when it is so obviously untrue.”

Her lips quirked, not quite a smile. “I’ve learnt, Mr Darcy, that society has very little appetite for truth and a voracious hunger for exaggeration. Particularly when it concerns young women who speak too plainly or laugh too freely.”

He stared at her, wishing he could quieten all those voices. “You don’t deserve to be spoken of in that way. It is beneath contempt.”

Elizabeth shrugged, glancing back at the blooms overhead. “Let them talk. I was there. I know who I am. That’s what matters.”

Darcy felt a slow, helpless swell of admiration. Her poise, her resilience, her refusal to be cowed by small-mindedness—it all undid him a little more each time he saw her, no matter how much he told himself he should not care.

“You’re braver than I am,” he said quietly.

She looked back at him. “I very much doubt that.”

They stood in silence, not awkward but weighty, full of all the things they’d experienced together. All the things they felt.

“I’m leaving for Pemberley tomorrow,” he said, more abruptly than he meant to.

Elizabeth blinked. “Oh.”

“Yes,” he went on, carefully. “My steward writes that matters require my attention. I had not intended to stay so long at Netherfield.”

“I see,” she said after a long pause.

“I…” He hesitated. “I have enjoyed seeing you again. I did not expect to. I thought that, after everything, it might be too difficult.”

She tilted her head slightly, examining him. “And was it?”

Darcy managed a breath. “Not in the way I feared.”

For a moment, he thought she might speak, might say something, ask something. Her lips parted as if she would, but then she simply gave a quiet nod.

“I wish you safe travels, Mr Darcy,” she said gently.

He tried not to let the disappointment show. He told himself it was foolish to have hoped for anything. Still, it ached.

“Thank you,” he said. “Good day, Miss Bennet.”

She curtsied, the motion graceful and contained. “Good day.”

Darcy bowed and turned away, every step heavy. Behind him, the garden rustled in the breeze, and Elizabeth remained beneath the cherry blossoms, still and quiet, watching him go.