Page 22 of Undone

Elizabeth Bennet, by contrast, appeared entirely indifferent to pleasing him in that way. He had discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that he preferred it.

Beyond that, they spoke often of their families. He told her of his aunt and uncle, of his cousins, and of Georgiana, whilst learning in return more of the Bennets than he could ever have expected from so short an acquaintance.

During one such conversation, Elizabeth said, "Your sister sounds like someone I should very much like to meet."

"She would like you a great deal, I think, though it might take her some weeks to say ten words to you unprompted." Darcy found himself smiling at the thought, an easy, unguarded smile he was not entirely accustomed to wearing. "She is shy with strangers in a way I have never quite known how to remedy, though I confess I have not always tried very hard. I believe I prefer her as she is."

"Then I hope I may earn the ten words eventually." Elizabeth glanced at him, something warm in her expression that, these past weeks, he had come to anticipate without ever admitting as much to himself. "You speak of her very differently than you speak of anything else, sir. Softer, I think."

"She is the only immediate family I have left, and I fear I have not always done right by her." He spoke lightly, though something beneath the lightness was anything but. Elizabeth, he noticed, did not press him. She merely continued beside him in a companionable silence that asked nothing more than he had already chosen to give.

~

On the last day of October, the wind had turned colder than it had been all month. Darcy found Elizabeth already upon the ridge when he arrived, her cheeks touched with colour by the brisk air, her bonnet affording rather less protection than it ought.

"You will catch your death walking in weather such as this," he said by way of greeting. The words escaped before he had considered them, carrying an intimacy to which neither acquaintance nor propriety yet entitled him. Despite the chill, he felt warmth rise to his face.

"I have walked in far worse, sir, and lived to complain of it afterwards." Elizabeth fell into step beside him, seemingly unaware of his embarrassment.

He was relieved that she appeared not to have noticed the familiarity of his remark. Had she laughed, or even remarked upon it, he scarcely knew how he should have answered.

As so often happened between them, the awkwardness passed almost before it had settled. They talked of indifferent subjects as they continued along the ridge until Elizabeth said, "Will you attend Sir William's ball in a fortnight? The invitations arrivedyesterday. I presume Netherfield has received one as well. Sir William gives it every year to celebrate his birthday. Half the county contrives to appear, whether they receive an invitation or not."

"Bingley has already accepted on our behalf. I gather my wishes were never consulted."

"Then you are quite without choice." There was laughter in her voice. "I shall hope to see you dance, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy swallowed hard, realising the implication of her remark. "I fear I must disappoint you."

"You do not intend to stand up?" Elizabeth grimaced.

"I do not."

She regarded him curiously. "That is a singular resolution. Dancing is hardly so severe an exertion."

Darcy did not answer at once. His gaze drifted over the valley below, as though the familiar fields might furnish a reply where his own thoughts could not.

"There are circumstances," Darcy said at length, "which oblige me to avoid singling out any particular lady to dance with."

"Circumstances?" She stopped, compelling him to do the same. "Are they the same circumstances which kept you from dancing at the Meryton assembly?"

He lowered his eyes for a moment before answering.

"They are."

"Then tell me what they are. Properly, sir." Her voice softened, though her gaze remained steady. "I have walked with you these past weeks, Mr. Darcy, and I consider you a friend, just as I believe you consider me one. I would rather know the truth about my friend than be left to imagine it."

He was silent for several moments. How much ought he to reveal? He had resolved, from the first, to draw no one into the unhappy business. Yet Elizabeth had never sought hisconfidence from idle curiosity. If she asked, it was because she wished to understand.

He would have invited her to sit, for the whole of it would take some telling, but the cold discouraged any delay, and he found, in the end, that walking better suited such a conversation. It gave him somewhere to direct his eyes besides her face and occupied the silences between one part of his account and the next.

"It began not long after my father died," he said at last. "Five years ago now, though I did not understand for a long while that anything had begun at all. A barn burned upon one of my tenant farms that first winter. My steward declared a lantern had been carelessly left amongst the hay, and I had no reason then to think otherwise. The tenant was an elderly man with no sons to assist him in rebuilding. He surrendered his lease within the year, and two neighbouring tenants, unsettled by the loss, sought holdings elsewhere before I properly understood what had disturbed them."

"Those seem ordinary events, sir. What have they to do with dancing?"

"I am only just beginning my story, ma'am."

Elizabeth nodded, urging him to continue.