Chapter Text
The journey to Pemberley was as uncomfortable as Elizabeth had imagined it would be. Miss Bingley, clearly embarrassed by her fainting spell the first time she had laid eyes on Elizabeth, alternated between cold displeasure and a suspicious look that lingered far more than Elizabeth would have liked.
Bingley treated her much the same as he treated any other young lady who happened to be his sister, and apart from being slightly taken aback with her appearance the first time he saw her, he had apparently accepted it. He mostly rode outside and when he joined them, it was clearly because his wife was with them and he could not keep away from her for too long.
As much as this pleased Elizabeth, his attentions towards Jane did nothing to alleviate the awkwardness of the rest. Jane herself endeavoured to ease the atmosphere by filling it with conversation, but between Elizabeth’s attempt at not being overtly teasing and impertinent and Miss Bingley’s sullen monosyllabic responses, they were never very long. The three days could not pass quickly enough.
But pass they did, and the third afternoon, the barouche stopped suddenly as it reached high ground. A moment later Bingley peered through the window, grinning, and invited them to descend to take in the view. Only Miss Bingley demurred, being familiar with it already.
It was indescribable; a scene of so magnificent, of such natural beauty, that it was laughable to say that it complimented the great house in its middle.
Elizabeth could not help thinking that it explained Darcy’s character better than any friend could. She certainly had never been able to see into him. She could not help wondering how he would act with her. She did not dare to hope for warmth in his manner, and feared the distance her new situation in life would inevitably create between them.
She dimly heard Bingley whispering to Jane, “I wanted your sister to see it the first time as it should be seen,” and she forced herself to turn to them.
She turned, a smile thinly drawn on her face, and said the first thing that came to her head, “I have yet to see a place for which natural beauty has done more, and has been less spoiled by awkward taste.” She feared her voice trembled when she spoke unmasking her confusion, when she had hoped her articulacy would protect her.
Once again inside the barouche she felt unequal to meeting anyone’s eyes and so she resolutely lost her gaze in the passing landscape.
Not much later the carriage drew close to the entrance of the house and stopped. Bingley jumped out immediately to hand his wife and sisters down. When Elizabeth stepped down and raised her eyes, she found Darcy standing to receive them, a young girl at his arm.
Darcy’s face seemed bloodless, and though he greeted Bingley, Jane, and Miss Bingley with some warmth, it disappeared like snow on the first spring day when he turned to her. Elizabeth could barely look at him, she could only guess at how badly he thought of the charade.
Jane did the honours, with a smile on her face which, unaccountably, irritated Elizabeth. How could she not know what a disaster this was turning out to be? “Mr. Darcy, Miss Darcy; my younger sister, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Elizabeth raised her eyes to his, and almost extended her hand in greeting. Even though the movement was aborted before it begun, she saw Darcy note it and stiffen.
Her curtsy was performed gripping the skirt of her dress, and she could not look at him again.
“Delighted,” said Darcy, bowing, and Elizabeth though she heard the girl—Miss Darcy—saying something as she curtsied, but it was almost inaudible and certainly incomprehensible.
Elizabeth reciprocated with as much grace as she could manage, but the words stuck in her throat and had to be forced out.
They proceeded into the house and were immediately showed to their rooms to refresh themselves and rest. Elizabeth let the maid help her change into a fresh dress but did not even glance at the bed. To sleep now would be impossible.
The knowledge of Darcy being in the same house filled her with restless energy; her certainty that he did not want to see her filled her with dread. Why had he invited her? He could not have felt obliged to do so; he should have avoided it if he did not want to see her.
She was angry with him for a moment, but it could not last. She should have guessed he would not want to see her and stayed in London; he had not been the one in the wrong. The responsibility of lessening the burden of the consequences for everyone involved was hers and her father’s; there was no hope the latter would take them, so in the end, they were hers alone.
Her father certainly expected she would stay in London, and she had not waited for his answer to her letter. She would have not delayed the Bingleys, and her aunt and uncle had had certainly no problem in trusting her to her sister; Elizabeth suspected that they would have done it even if they could have suspected Mr. Bennet would have objected.
Her father had never forbidden her to go to her sister, had never said she was not to see the Bingleys or Mr. Darcy, but she knew she was breaking the spirit if not the letter of the plan. She could not return to Longbourn because she was not to be seen by people who could wonder at her similarity to her brother until enough time had passed.
Her father could not have guessed Darcy knew already, but he should have foreseen that she would tell Jane; she had never been able to see her sister suffer. If he thought she would be so altered that this last fact would not hold true anymore, then he did not know her at all.
When she had had hoped—an unreasonable hope, she knew now—that Darcy wanted to see her, deciding to go to Pemberley had seemed the best decision she could make. She could not leave Jane now, and the thought of resuming her friendship with Darcy at the end of it made the prospect of the journey that much sweeter. Now, though, she wished she had looked ahead and been realistic. She should not be here.
She could not stay still, could not remain seated.
The room was spacious, but she could pace one way and the other only so many times before the walls closed on her, suffocating.
Leaning against the cold window pane offered little comfort, though she considered going outside alone for a moment; the idea of loosing herself in the grounds was attractive, but she did not want to chance coming upon Darcy unawares.
The library was discarded for the same reason.
She turned away, went to the mantel and fingered the small ornaments there. They said nothing about Darcy, except that perhaps he had kept Pemberley’s rooms as his mother had had them; but no, the furniture had to be newer, perhaps his father’s choices?
Turning to the bed, she considered again trying to sleep, but the notion was ridiculous. There was no way she could.
Perhaps, if she asked, one of the footmen would be able to direct her to a solitary place in the house or the grounds.
Finally decided, she let herself out of her room into the hallway.
She had not made three steps when a hurried maid stopped in her tracks at her sight.
“Miss Bennet! I beg your pardon, I was about to see if you wanted refreshments. I can bring them to your room, or you can join Miss Darcy and Mrs. Annesley in the drawing room.”
She acquiesced, conscious that she could not avoid the hostess without appearing rude, and mindful the maid had not named Darcy himself.
In the drawing room, Miss Darcy seemed to take timidity to its extreme. She could hardly speak, and those words that crossed her lips could barely be made out by a bemused Elizabeth. Before, she would have not believed two siblings more dissimilar than Bingley and Miss Bingley could have existed.
Miss Darcy was tall, her features similar to Darcy’s, though in a woman they were less handsome than patrician. He figure was formed and graceful. Her whole attitude, however, was another matter entirely. Only what Elizabeth could only guess to have been a very expensive deportment education seemed to prevent Miss Darcy from cringing into as small a space as possible.
Mrs. Annesley seemed to take it as a matter of course, prompting her pupil with many a significant look to send for refreshments, ask Elizabeth how she had rested, and comment on the weather.
“I do think the weather is quite fine,” answered Elizabeth, at a loss of how else to pursue the conversation. She had never felt so, except with the lady’s own brother, and that for very different reasons.
“My brother said that if you were anything like your brother you would delight in the weather we are having lately, and be outside at every opportunity.” Miss Darcy seemed to regret the low words the moment they left her lips and looked down.
“Indeed, Mr. Darcy is quite right, I do like walking out; especially in grounds as fine as Pemberley’s. The little I saw of them was very pleasant.”
A short silence later Miss Darcy looked at Mrs. Annesley for a moment; after her nod of encouragement, she turned to Elizabeth again, and said, hesitatingly, “You must miss your own gardens…”
“I do! I must say, I felt it much more while in town. London cannot compare to the country.” Elizabeth was rewarded, then, with a small smile.
“I am sure it is not the same; perhaps Pemberley, being situated farther north than London…”
“Will serve to assuage my homesickness? I think you must be right, though I doubt Derbyshire can be as untamed as the beautiful wilds of Scotland.”
“I am afraid we cannot allow that observation to go unchallenged, can we, Georgiana?”
The three ladies startled, perhaps Miss Darcy most of all, or at least most visibly. Elizabeth was, for her part, profoundly moved at the sound of his voice, teasing and full of laughter like it used to be.
Miss Darcy herself smiled when she realized it was her brother, but only coloured in response, and looked away.
At the ladies’ silence, Darcy walked into the room from the doorway to stand beside his sister’s chair. “It is obvious, Miss Bennet, you have not seen Derbyshire at all. Cannot the peaks be called wild and untamed as well as beautiful?”
“I am sure they can, by others that have seen them; as you have correctly surmised, I have not. But in any case, the matter is not if one can apply those qualities to them, but how they compare in those matters to Scotland.”
He smiled, amused, and let his weight rest on his elbow, leaning upon the high back of the chair. “And you seem to be sure they cannot.”
She looked up at him. “I am not sure of anything; I am ready to be convinced by sufficient evidence of either case.”
Both his sister and Mrs. Annesley watched them, the one in alarm, the other with barely disguised curiosity. Elizabeth felt their eyes, but could not look away from Darcy now that he was speaking to her, in much the same fashion as he had done when they had been friends.
“You are? It is bizarre indeed, to find someone who does not have a particular appreciation for their own home, to the detriment of all others.”
Elizabeth smiled. “On the contrary, I find that for many people, the grass is always greener on the other side of the country.”
“And you count yourself among them?”
“I do not, as I said. I only believe the truth.”
Darcy only raised an eyebrow at that, once again unimpressed. “Ah, and you think you can determine it from, as you say, the evidence. You are not an idealist, then.”
“I? Why would you think so? I am a pragmatist.”
“Is that your personal definition of the empiricism?”
“No, that is the position of those who think too much philosophy does not help one to decide which county is prettier.”
His laugh was sudden and rich and the refreshments came in before he could answer. With their arrival, Darcy sat, at his sister’s side, and only participated further by asking for tea.
Elizabeth could not look at him now they were silent, and so she turned to his sister. “Do you often stay in town, Miss Darcy?”
“I do,” she said, and immediately hid herself looking into her cup of tea. Elizabeth regretted then her banter with Darcy, as the girl seemed now more timid than ever.
“And do you prefer the town or the country? Despite my liking the country best, this was my first time in London, and I found it fascinating.”
“I… very much prefer Pemberley.”
“Her education necessitates she be in London.” Darcy was serious, but his eyes were merely interrogative when Elizabeth looked at him.
At Miss Darcy’s silence, Elizabeth ventured, “Pemberley must be very lonely, too, when your brother is not in residence.”
“It is,” said Miss Darcy, quiet as a mouse, but more surely than before.
“Well, I do plan for us to be in residence here much more in the future.”
There was a silence then, no one quite knowing how to continue, until Darcy asked, “And where does Bingley hide himself now?”
“Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Bingley are resting,” answered Miss Darcy, quietly.
“And so it is. I should have guessed it; now that he is married, Bingley cannot tear himself away.”
“It is the natural course of the thing, Mr. Darcy,” observed Mrs. Annesley, smiling slightly. “Recently married gentlemen have no time for the same old pursuits that occupied them when unmarried; they cannot hold the same charm now. It is lucky that in the usual run of things, men get married more or less at the same time as their friends.”
Darcy stood up then, abandoning his tea to go to stand at the window. “No time! I cannot think he will stop hunting, or playing billiards, nor any of the other things that gave him pleasure before. I cannot think of any one married man that has done so.”
“Not for ever, no. But while the marriage is new…”
Elizabeth could not stop herself from smiling. “Newly married is redefined with every couple, I should think, then, because my sister has been married for more than a year.”
Darcy turned, and looked at her. “Indeed, more than a year. It seems I lost two friends that day; one to travel, and one to marriage. What news of your brother, Miss Bennet, if you do not mind me asking?”
Elizabeth looked down. She did not know what he wanted. Did he delight in making her lie? Was he—whom abhorred disguise—looking for reasons to hate her?
She could not look up while she spoke. For some reason, talking about Edward directly was worse that speaking of Scotland as if it were her home. “No news, I am afraid. My father is waiting for word from some friends from the continent, but he had no news the last time he wrote.”
“Many English countrymen have been imprisoned in France; Napoleon claims they number in the ten thousand,” said he, serious.
“Indeed. My father does not lose hope, but he also told us not to expect too much. War is like this, I am afraid. But…”—she looked at Miss Darcy, whose large scared eyes stared alternatively at her brother and herself— “this is no talk for the drawing room. ‘Tis too depressing; my brother would have wanted us to speak of other things.”
“He would,” said Darcy, turning away again.
Miss Darcy wrung her hands, and looked down, silent. The mood was thoroughly ruined, thought Elizabeth, resentfully. Why did Darcy want to make everyone and himself miserable? Was that why he had invited her, to prove thoroughly his point? She should tell him there was no need; she knew perfectly well how low it had been of her to deceive everyone—how low it made her feel to deceive everyone now.
But no, he had been warm before; as scared as it had made Miss Darcy, their banter had been the same, and Darcy had not appeared angry.
Perhaps he does not know what to feel, thought Elizabeth to herself. She certainly did not know either, and had been thinking about it all year. He had had only about a month to get used to the idea. Perhaps he had invited her on a whim, and only now he regretted it. She could not blame him in that case, the situation was complicated enough for everyone.
On an impulse, she decided to try to extract everyone from the uncomfortable situation.
“As we were saying before, Miss Darcy, the day is very pleasant. Do you think I could walk out for a little while? Not very far, to be sure, just a little before dinner.”
“Of course!” said Miss Darcy, and then, a brief look of panic to Mrs. Annesley later, “Do you want me to accompany you?”
“Oh, do not worry! I will not get lost. I will stay within sight of the house. I do not want to trouble you.”
Before Miss Darcy could get encouragement from Mrs. Annesley to say it was no trouble, Darcy intervened. “Do not worry, Georgiana, I will walk with Miss Bennet myself, and take care she is back safe and sound for dinner. That is, if she does not mind?”
Elizabeth looked at him, doubtful of his intentions, but dutifully said, “Of course, I do not mind.”
And so they went out.
Darcy offered his arm for her to lean on while they walked, which made Elizabeth supremely uncomfortable at first. Throughout their friendship, she had never stood so close to him, and certainly not for such duration
He, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned. She reminded herself it was nothing new; she had never been able to know what he was thinking with any accuracy. For all she knew, he felt as awkward as she with the situation.
Of course, it would have served him right, as this time, it had been entirely his choice. She wondered if he wanted to talk freely now, and whether she should begin. She thought not; she said to herself it was not cowardly to want to wait and see what he wanted before acting.
“So your brother is imprisoned, is he? What was he doing in France?”
She hesitated, but then answered him in kind—if he wanted to keep up the charade when they were alone, it was his choice. She could not blame him if it was how he wanted to make clear to her that they were not friends anymore—she could only try to hide the hurt in her voice. “He was travelling. He liked France very much the first time, and then decided to stay for a few months more before returning to England. He was not wise, there were already rumours of war.”
Darcy did not answer. He looked ahead, and then looked down at her and ahead again. He appeared to want to speak, and then said nothing. Taking advantage of the silence, Elizabeth was decided; there was no other moment more ideal for what she wanted to do, and she could not not say it.
“I—if you will pardon me, Darcy—Mr. Darcy—” she trailed off, embarrassed.
She could not believe it of herself, to be making those mistakes still. It had taken some time to stop herself from addressing Bingley as Edward would have done, but she thought she had put it behind her, as she had the instincts to offer her hand to ladies to go to dinner, and to ask them to dance.
He did not say anything, did not look at her, and from that she drew strength to begin again.
“I am afraid I must betray a confidence. My brother would want to apologize to you, if he were here, for his last letter. He would have wished your last communication had been happier, I am sure.”
“He said that, did he?”
Elizabeth could not help looking at Darcy with incredulity, but no, there it was, amusement on his gaze, as plain as the beautiful day around them.
“He did—we were in constant communication before he disappeared.”
Darcy bit his lower lip, and suddenly stopped walking and said, “I can now better appreciate what it must have cost you to talk to me about it! This is ridiculous. We both know who you are.”
“We do. I thought you wanted—”
“I did not—I only wondered how to broach the subject. And you do not help matters…”
“I do not help matters?”
“Indeed,” he said, and started walking again, looking ahead. “I thought—more than a year ago, I thought I had gotten used to the idea. And now, here you are, in a dress, and seem like another person, and at the same time, exactly as I remember you…”
“The dress does need some getting used to. It makes me feel—” She was about to say naked, but caught herself. “Unprotected somehow.”
He looked at her, for a long moment, and looked away again. “You do not seem more timid.”
“You though I would?” She could not help being amused.
“No, indeed, though I considered the possibility. It is a difficult situation, the one you are in. I expect little time to pass before you receive a proposal.” He looked at her steadily for a second, and Elizabeth looked away, but before she could wonder and laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea—indeed, no man she had met since becoming a woman had been able to stand her awkward manners for long—he changed the subject. “How did you like the Continent?”
“I liked it well enough. I missed—England, I believe, and my friends. It can be lonely, travelling alone.”
“Indeed, it can.” He looked at her for a moment, and then, serious again, said, “You were not in France when the seizing occurred, did you?”
“I was not… I heard there would be trouble, and thought it prudent to buy passage, but I never actually took it.” She looked away—she disliked talking about the deception with Darcy, waiting to hear what he would say about it, unwilling to change the subject for fear he would think her deceiving him.
He cleared his throat, and changed the subject again. “I wanted—I did not want to give you the impression I was avoiding you.”
“You did not.” She was truthful—she had not known what to think.
“I—we should not be too free with ourselves.”
“I understand.” She did, she thought she did, even as she wanted to send the world to the devil.
He stopped, but she could not look at him, even as he moved to stand in front of her, even as she felt his gaze on her face. She coloured, but she could not look at him; she could not show him that she did not want to understand, that she had hoped—against all rational thought—that he would still want to be her friend.
“I think you do not.” His voice was low, intense. “It may be my fault—I am not explaining myself. I do think we ought to be careful, but, I meant what I said then. I am still your friend, if you will have me.”
And then they were called, a footman sent to tell them the hour for dinner neared, and they should go in.
Elizabeth had no time to answer, had not raised her gaze quickly enough to catch Darcy’s expression before it changed to his usual serious mien. She could not know if it had been so all the while, could do no more than catch his eyes and smile, a more shaky version of her usual one, before accepting his arm again and walking the path back to the house.
Dinner was a quiet affair, Bingley and Jane living inside their happiness as if it were a bubble, Miss Bingley with her despair settled around her like a cloak, Miss Darcy too timid to talk much with so many around, and Elizabeth herself, always wanting to turn to Darcy but always stopping herself just before.
She caught him watching her sometimes, when she turned to him, and once or twice he smiled in sympathy, prompting her to reciprocate.
Elizabeth tried to speak for everyone else, but she found herself falling into introspective silences—thinking… The reason sat not four feet from her, spoke seriously to Mrs. Annesley, and looked at her every now and again.
Sleep that night came late and was not entirely restful. She did not know why she was worried now. Everything had turned out as she could have wished. Her sister knew and understood. Darcy—incredibly—wanted still to be her friend. She could not guess why her mind could not rest, and returned once again to his look at this or that moment. Her head was full of him.
The next day, Elizabeth was left to her own devices. She woke up late, having had a poor night, and Jane was too wrapped up in her child to notice anyone else, except perhaps her husband.
Elizabeth refused to search out Darcy; it would be the opposite of careful, even if she could not understand why it would matter when there were only their two families present. If she did not care at all for her own reputation, she knew Darcy did for his.
She did not know what to do; she was restless. She could not read; she did not know where Darcy was to avoid him.
The house was almost completely quiet, but for the faint sound of a pianoforte. She followed it, knowing, by Darcy’s proud account of his sister’s dedication, who she could expect to find practicing.
She found Miss Darcy alone in a music room, her eyes closed, oblivious to the world. Elizabeth slipped quietly in, not wanting to disturb her and drifted to the window seat, looking over the magnificent grounds. The music was delightful, and Elizabeth let herself be transported to other worlds by it.
A gasp, clear against the room’s sudden silence, brought her down to earth again.
Elizabeth turned. Miss Darcy sat still at the pianoforte, pale, looking at her quite fixedly. She looked down the moment Elizabeth met her gaze.
“Miss Darcy, I hope you will excuse my intrusion. I could not rest and the sound drew me here. You play beautifully.”
Miss Darcy blushed. “You are too kind.” She spoke so softly that Elizabeth had to strain to hear her.
“I see you are thinking me similar to Mrs. Bingley; that will not do. If you knew me better you would know that I am never too kind. I rather err on the other side.” But she immediately saw that her lively response had rather frightened her timid interlocutor, and she softened her tone. “I do love your playing. It is been several months since I have had the opportunity of hearing an instrument or an interpreter of this quality.”
“The pianoforte is a gift from my brother.”
“He is very good.”
Miss Darcy did not speak, and trailed her fingers over the keys, nervously. Elizabeth did not know quite what to do. She should go, surely, and leave the girl alone…
She was so painfully shy, when her brother was anything but. She had not guessed she was like this from her brother’s description; she had imagined a softer copy of Darcy, a headstrong girl, a little egoistic and spoiled, perhaps, but with good principles. How could this Miss Darcy have made trouble for her guardians? It was inconceivable.
But surely they could keep each other company, while everyone else was God knew where. They could play, for example; Elizabeth missed the piano.
“The sound is magnificent, I am sure it would even make my playing tolerable to hear. May I try it?”
Miss Darcy scrambled to her feet in haste and Elizabeth was sure she could almost hear an “Of course,” but not quite.
“Oh, no, do not go on my account. Would you be so kind as to turn my pages? I could not remember anything right now. Unless it would bore you, of course.”
Miss Darcy acquiesced, and Elizabeth sat beside her.
Soon enough she reached a place in which the fingering was too complicated for her to play at an adequate velocity and was forced to slow and eventually stop.
She tried the piece a second time and faltered at the same place. This time, she was truly bothered by it, because it was a song she could have performed before without a hitch, and she refused to think she had lost so much proficiency in a few months. Looking over the troublesome part, she went through it slowly, barely touching the keys, concentrating.
Once satisfied, she began again at a normal pace; when she stumbled at the same place as before she had to swallow strong words. It would not do to scare Miss Darcy further. She threw her a self deprecating look and said, “As you see, Miss Darcy, perhaps you were wise to try to leave. It is been even longer since I have played.”
“Oh, no, not at all. Perhaps…” she stopped. Her voice was not strong, but it was a little surer than it had been at the beginning of the encounter.
“Perhaps?”
“Perhaps I could help you. I looked and I think I know why you are having trouble with it.”
“Of course; I would be in your debt!” Elizabeth was surprised, but gratified, and though the offer did not mean that Miss Darcy was at all outgoing after that, they got along quite well, and by the time they decided to stop for refreshments, they were trying out duets.
The days that followed were more or less the same, so that Elizabeth quickly accustomed herself to seeing Darcy at meals, to playing the pianoforte in the afternoon, to spending her time alone or with Miss Darcy. She would have not believed it before, but it was soon quite a routine.
She found it vexing that amongst this quiet life, living in the same house as Darcy, and seeing him two or three times a day, she still found it in herself to miss him.
During one such afternoon, she was sitting on a bench by the stream, after abandoning the pianoforte for the library and finally the library for the outdoors, when a voice interrupted her.
“What are you reading?”
She closed the book, keeping a finger in between its pages, and turned it up to show him the title. He moved to stand a little closer, and his shadow fell over her. The sun was behind him, and she could not make out his face.
“The Complete Angler! That is my father’s acquisition, I think.”
“I had not read it before. I find the endeavour of attempting to explain the practical arts in a written form to be interesting by itself. Have you read it?”
“Of course…”
Elizabeth smiled, playfully. “That is, of course you have read it because you have read every book in your library?”
He watched her; she could feel his eyes on her face even though she could not make them out. “Of course I have read it because it is about fishing. Are you enjoying it?”
She thought she heard amusement in his voice, and leaned back a little, attempting to look at him. “It is entertaining enough. Do you remember the tale at the beginning? An angler, a hunter and a hawker…”
“Yes, I think so, why?”
She looked at one side, smiling. “Nothing in particular, it reminded me of you. The hawker accused the angler of being a dull fellow.”
“Pray, when I have accused so any fellow man?”
Looking up at him again, she wished she could see his expression. “You have not, to my knowledge. You are an angler… you would be the one accused, in any case.”
His voice was steady. “Ah, I see; I am the dull fellow.”
Elizabeth decided to change the subject; he would not be able to understand how she had seen him at first, how she had changed her mind, so soon after. “That is not what I meant and you know it. How could I laugh at someone enjoying the sport? I was thinking of how little we understand the pleasures of our fellow men. Few would be able to appreciate how much I enjoyed...”
“You enjoyed what?”
Had Darcy’s voice been a little softer, or had she imagined it? “Our fishing together, of course.”
There was a silence, then, and Elizabeth looked down. She thought that perhaps she should not have said it, it had perhaps violated the terms of their friendship, but she did not know what they were anymore. “And now you see why I hesitated to speak. I have offended you.”
“You have not. I was thinking. Is that why you come out to read this book by the water?”
Now she was amused. She had not thought she was that transparent, had not thought to wonder at her own desire to be outside and by the stream while reading it.
“It could be so, now that I think of it. It was just a very nice place with a pleasant prospect to seat and read.”
“It is a very pleasant prospect,” he said, and sat by her, looking out at the water. “It is also quite filled with trout at this time.”
She looked sidewise at him, not knowing what he wanted. “Do you want me to regret the fact I cannot fish anymore?”
He rested his elbows at the bench’s back and leaned on them, looking straight ahead. “Who said you cannot? It is true we ought to be careful, and you certainly cannot do it here, within plain view of everybody, but I am not everybody. And no one will question me if we disappear across Pemberley’s lands for half an afternoon.” He did not straighten up, only looked at her turning his head slightly. “What say you to an afternoon of fly-fishing?”
She almost demurred—she thought she should be more offended by his sudden amiability after days and days of distance; of only offering her his arm at meals, and making polite, boring talk at dinner. She found she could not.
She smiled—she feared, too widely for indifference—and said, “I say I would be delighted, if you could contrive it.”