Page 3 of Shadows Of Rosings Park: Part 2

ELIZABETH

Darcy arrived before the week was out.

On the second morning after her return, Elizabeth saw him from her bedroom window at half past seven, a lone rider on the lane, the set of his shoulders unmistakable even at distance. He rode as he did everything: straight-backed, deliberate, commanding the horse with his knees and hands, the horse simply another creature that existed to obey him. Her hand went to her cheek. The last bruise was covered. The concealment was complete. She was armoured. It made no difference. Her pulse climbed anyway.

"Miss Elizabeth," Sarah said from the door, "there's a gentleman below stairs asking for you. Your father has shown him into the library."

"Thank you, Sarah. I shall be down presently."

She dressed with the controlled urgency of a woman preparing for battle, a pale green gown, the colour chosen because it flattered and because it drew the eye from the fading shadow beneath her powder. Her hands shook as she pinned her hair. She had expected more time. Three days of grace before the performance began in earnest, three days to practise her smile in the mirror and build the character she would now inhabit, the fortunate girl, surprised by love, grateful for attention. She had not expected him at her door before breakfast, smelling of horse and cold air and the sandalwood that clung to everything he wore, the same scent she had first noticed in the parlour at Rosings, now lodged in her memory like a splinter she couldn't extract.

She descended the stairs. Through the library door she could hear two voices: her father's dry and careful, Darcy's deep and measured. The contrast was like hearing two different instruments play the same melody, both precise, both guarded, both saying far less than they knew.

She knocked. Entered. Both men rose.

Her father's face was a study in careful neutrality, the expression he wore when he was thinking dangerous thoughts and keeping them behind his teeth. Darcy's face was Darcy's face, composed, watchful, revealing nothing except the brief flash of something dark and intent when his eyes found her. His gaze swept her from collar to hem and back in the time it took to blink. He was checking the marks. She was certain of it. And for one unguarded moment, half a breath, no more, his expression held something that was not control or assessment but raw, helpless concern, the look of a man staring at damage he could not undo. Then it was gone, shuttered behind the familiar severity, and she wondered if she had imagined it.

"Ah, Lizzy," Mr. Bennet said. "Your betrothed has arrived at half past seven. His ardour, it seems, doesn't observe calling hours. He informs me that he has secured the use of Netherfield and intends to remain in the neighbourhood until your nuptials."

"That's most attentive of you, sir," Elizabeth said, her voice admirably steady.

"I find that separations breed misunderstanding," Darcy replied, and something in his measured tone gave the reasonable words a sharpness Elizabeth could not have explained to an observer.

"Mr. Darcy has expressed a desire for a private interview with you," her father continued. "I have reminded him that while you're engaged, propriety still imposes certain limits."

"I merely wish to walk with Miss Elizabeth in your garden, sir. I assure you we shall remain within sight of the house."

Mr. Bennet's gaze moved between them. Elizabeth could see the calculation behind his eyes, the weighing of courtesy against instinct, of social obligation against paternal suspicion. He knew something was wrong. The specifics eluded him.

"Pray don't trouble yourself, Papa. A turn about the garden would be refreshing."

"Very well." Her father paused. "But remember, Lizzy, that you're not obliged to walk anywhere — or with anyone — against your inclination."

The emphasis was deliberate. A lifeline, thrown in public, daring Darcy to pretend he had not heard it. Elizabeth saw the challenge land: a fractional tightening of Darcy's jaw, there and gone.

"Your concern does you credit, sir," Darcy said. "Miss Elizabeth's welfare is my primary consideration."

They walked out through the kitchen garden and into her mother's roses. Cool April light made everything look newly made. Elizabeth could smell wet earth and lavender and, beneath it, the warm animal scent of Darcy's ride. He matched his stride to hers. This large, impatient man had slowed himself to accommodate her, and she refused to ask why that mattered.

He waited until the house was behind them before he spoke. The social mask came off like a coat being shrugged.

"You haven't written. I had hoped to hear from you."

"I've been home two days, sir."

"Two days in which you might have written twice." His hand found her wrist. The touch was light but deliberate, not painful, yet impossible to ignore. "Elizabeth."

She raised her eyes. In the morning light his face was severe: sharp planes, dark eyes, the mouth set in a line that suggested he had held his jaw clenched for the entire ride from Netherfield. She could see a small scar above his left eyebrow, the one she had first noticed on the woodland path at Rosings. She fixed these details in memory with the same defensive care she brought to everything about him: noticing, recording, refusing to feel.

"Have you forgotten our arrangement?"

"How could I? My presence in my father's house, Charlotte's sanctuary at Lucas Lodge — all contingent upon your continued benevolence."

Something moved in his face. Not anger. Her answer had crossed some expectation he had formed of her, and he was revising it. "Then you understand that your behaviour reflects upon those you profess to care for."

"I understand perfectly the nature of our bargain. I shall perform my role as the besotted bride with all the conviction you could desire. Though I confess, sir, the role would be easier if the playwright had given me better lines."

The remark surprised him. She saw it in the fractional pause before his mask reassembled.