Page 97 of Dear Friend

She had barely taken two steps when she glanced towards the staircase and found Darcy watching her from above. There was something in his expression she could not immediately place, a guilt in his eyes that made the uneasiness already gathering within her deepen. Her indignation rose afresh, and as Darcy began descending the stairs towards her, Elizabeth set off to meet him.

Chapter Thirty-Three

23rd November 1811

Netherfield

Darcy

Darcy spent most of the day resisting the temptation to go to Longbourn. The impulse had begun shortly after breakfast, when waiting until evening suddenly appeared intolerable, and more than once he considered walking towards Oakham Mount in the hope that Elizabeth might take her usual path. Twice he nearly ordered his horse and went directly to Longbourn, but each time he stopped himself. To appear before her without warning, merely because his own nerves could no longer endure the secret, would be selfish. If she reacted as badly as he feared, she might refuse to come to Netherfield altogether, and he would have deprived her of the evening as well as burdened her with the truth.

He would wait until the ball. He would dance with her first, speak to her as he had hoped to speak to her all week, and afterwards approach Mr. Bennet, who had promised to attend. Darcy intended to tell him everything, from the first letter mistakenly opened at Willowbrook to every deliberate choice which had followed it, and then ask for his assistance in speaking to Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet might think very little of him by the end of the account, but Darcy could no longer pretend that his own wishes ought to determine how the matter was handled.

At least he had one piece of good news to carry into the confession. Julia Harding had been found alive. Elizabeth had suffered too long from uncertainty over her friend, and whatever became of Darcy afterwards, that uncertainty could finally be ended.

By evening, however, the plan which had appeared reasonable that morning seemed considerably less so. His valet helped him into a black coat, and Darcy realised only when the man stepped back that it was the same one he had worn to the Meryton assembly. He looked at himself in the glass and wished he had not noticed. He had first stood before Elizabeth in that coat already knowing things about her no stranger had any right to know, and tonight he meant to wear it while confessing precisely how that knowledge had been obtained.

“The guests have begun to arrive, sir,” the valet bowed.

Darcy nodded and dismissed him, though he did not immediately go downstairs. From his window he watched carriage lamps appear along the drive, each conveyance stopping beneath the portico before surrendering another party to the house. He found himself examining every carriage with an agitation he would have despised in another man, until at last a familiar equipage came into view and every other thought deserted him.

The Longbourn carriage had arrived.

Darcy stepped nearer the window as Mr. Bennet descended, followed by his wife and daughters. He caught only a glimpse of Elizabeth before she disappeared beneath the portico, but it was enough to send his pulse into uncomfortable disorder. She was here. There would be no further opportunity to rehearse explanations or imagine better circumstances in which to give them.

He remained where he was long enough to draw several slow breaths before leaving his chamber. He had faced grief, responsibility and unpleasant business without allowing his nerves to master him, yet the short distance between his room and the staircase required more determination than he cared to admit.

Darcy finally left his room and had just reached the upper landing when he saw Elizabeth below.

The sight of her almost made him smile, but then he noticed Caroline standing with her near one of the tall windows. Darcy slowed, his hand coming to rest upon the banister as he watched them. Elizabeth’s fan had gone still in her hand, and when Caroline said something more, her brows drew together before she shook her head. Darcy took another step towards the stairs, but stopped when the colour began to leave Elizabeth’s face.

His hand tightened around the banister.

He could hear nothing above the noise from the entrance hall, yet he no longer needed to hear. Something was wrong. Caroline spoke for another minute before touching Elizabeth's arm and walking away with all the composure of a woman who had merely exchanged some commonplace observation. Elizabeth remained where she was, opening her fan before closing it again almost immediately.

Darcy's stomach turned.

He knew before she looked at him.

He could not have explained the certainty. Perhaps guilt had trained him to expect discovery in every altered expression, or perhaps he had simply learnt Elizabeth well enough to recognise hurt even at a distance. When she finally turned and lifted her eyes towards the staircase, the anger and disappointment in them confirmed everything his conscience had already supplied.

Darcy descended at once. Elizabeth came towards him, and they met near the foot of the staircase, far enough from the ballroom doors to escape immediate notice.

“Elizabeth.” He attempted a smile, but it died almost before it formed.

“Mr. Darcy.”

The formality of the address chilled him. “What has happened?”

Elizabeth glanced towards the ballroom, where another party of guests was being announced, before looking back at him. Her face had regained some colour, though the hand holding her fan remained tightly closed around it. “I have no intention of embarrassing Mr. Bingley in his own house, nor my father before his neighbours. Jane has looked forward to this evening exceedingly, and I shall not spoil it for her. Whatever passes between us, I intend to remain calm.”

Darcy felt the warning in every carefully chosen word. “Elizabeth, what is it?”

“Do you have in your possession a letter written by me to Julia Harding?”

For one terrible moment he could only stare at her. The confession he had spent all day arranging had somehow arrived before him, stripped of every explanation with which he had hoped to soften it.

His fingers flexed uselessly at his side. “Yes.”