Page 21 of Undone

Elizabeth found herself smiling. It occurred to her that Mr. Darcy's interest was not merely politeness. For a gentleman who had scarcely spoken to anyone at the Meryton assembly, he seemed remarkably willing to prolong a conversation once it had begun.

He was quiet for a moment before beginning again. "Your father mentioned, when he called at Netherfield, that he spends much of his time reading. Is that a taste you share?"

"He does not exaggerate." Elizabeth laughed. "Books have always been something of a refuge in our house, and Papa's library the only room into which five daughters and a great deal of noise cannot always follow him. I have had the good fortune to inherit the taste, and, according to my mother, rather too much of it."

"I cannot think that a misfortune."

"You would not say so, I think, had you ever attempted to draw me from a book before I had finished it. Jane has long since abandoned the effort. She simply waits until I emerge of my own accord."

"I suspect Miss Bennet possesses great wisdom."

"She does."

They continued slowly along the ridge without speaking, yet the silence no longer required either of them to fill it. The morning had grown warmer as the sun climbed above the eastern horizon, the last wisps of mist lifting from the fields below until Hertfordshire stretched before them in quiet familiarity. Elizabeth had stood upon Oakham Mount more times than she could count, yet she found herself looking over the countryside with renewed appreciation, as though good company had altered the prospect as much as the morning light.

By degrees they reached the place where the path began its descent and, by silent agreement, came to a halt.

"I ought to return," Elizabeth said at last. "I fear I have been absent rather longer than I intended."

"Then I shall not keep you longer."

"You have kept me no longer than I was content to remain."

She smiled as she said it, then immediately wondered whether the admission had been wiser left unspoken.

Darcy's expression softened. "I am glad to hear it."

For a moment neither moved.

At last, Elizabeth curtsied. "Good day, Mr. Darcy."

"Good day, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth had gone several yards down the path before she looked back. Mr. Darcy had not yet begun his own descent. He stood where the ridge gave way to the hillside, looking out over the valley below. Whether he had heard her turn she could not tell, but, as though prompted by some instinct, he glanced in her direction and inclined his head.

She returned the gesture before continuing towards Longbourn.

Their conversation lingered pleasantly in her thoughts all the way home. They had spoken of little consequence, of counties and books and forgotten maiden names, yet she found she preferred this quieter Mr. Darcy to the gentleman she had firstmet at Meryton. She could not yet say she understood him, but she found herself wishing to do so.

Nine

Hertfordshire

October, 1811

Darcy

Darcy had intended only to apologise to Elizabeth Bennet. Somehow, without ever consciously deciding to do so, one chance morning conversation had become two, then three, until their meetings upon Oakham Mount had settled quietly into the routine of their mornings.

Whatever resolution had governed him after leaving London had not failed in one dramatic moment. It had simply yielded, one quiet conversation at a time.

Fortunately, no private invitation had yet brought him and Elizabeth beneath the same roof in circumstances that required him to single her out in company. Their acquaintance remained confined to the hillside, where neither had reason to think anything improper of two neighbours pausing to converse before continuing their walks.

Every meeting strengthened a truth he had become increasingly unable to deny. He admired Elizabeth Bennet. What had begun as respect for her understanding had become an attachment he had neither sought nor resisted. Each walk left him wishing it had lasted a little longer, and each parting made him impatient for the next.

In the fortnight since their acquaintance began, he had learned that she preferred walking to riding, though she rode tolerably well when the occasion demanded it. Hehad learned that her father's library containedFordyce's Sermonsonly because propriety required some appearance of moral instruction upon its shelves. He had learned that she considered Cowper superior to Scott, defended the opinion with considerably more spirit than the subject perhaps deserved, and had never once, in one-and-twenty years, permitted anyone to conclude an argument whilst she remained persuaded herself to be in the right.

He found he could not properly account for how much he now knew of her, given how little of it had been offered deliberately. She spoke with an ease that never appeared calculated, never pausing to consider whether her opinions might recommend her to him. That very absence of design distinguished her from nearly every other young woman of his acquaintance, many of whom had once seemed always to measure their words against what they imagined he wished to hear, before the rumours of his ill fortune had rendered such efforts unnecessary.