Page 111 of Companions of Their Youth
He smiled again—wide, charming, warm. “With such neighbors as yourself, Miss Elizabeth, how could I not?”
∞∞∞
The morning air was sharp, but bright, and Darcy was grateful for the briskness that kept his mind alert. The previous night’s rest had once been shallow at best. The latest note was folded and tucked into the inner pocket of his waistcoat in order to show it to Elizabeth. His ire was still piqued at discovering that morning at breakfast that he had missed an opportunity to see her the evening before at a card party. Miss Bingley had insisted everyone remain home the entire day, claiming she and Mrs. Hurst were being neglected. She also had failed to inform them of Mrs. Philips’s invitation until the morning afterwards.
They rode to Longbourn at an early hour. Fitzwilliam, unusually quiet beside him, stared often down the road behind them, as though a rider might gallop from London at any moment bearing orders that would allow him to remain. If no such missive arrived, then his cousin would need to leave at first light the following day.
Even Bingley was unusually quiet, an uncustomary frown on his face. He, too, had been less than pleased with his sister’s deception the previous night, and Darcy was glad to see that the young man was finally seeing her for her true colors. Eventually, however, his scowl gave way to a smile.
“You are very merry this morning,” Darcy observed dryly
“Why should I not be?” Bingley grinned. “A fine day, and we are going to call upon angels.”
The three men were met cordially at the door and shown into the drawing room, where Mrs. Bennet greeted them with wry civility and informed them the young ladies were at their lessons. “But,” she added, “the gardens are fair this morning if you wish for a stroll. I believe my second daughter is already out there. Jane and Kitty will be happy to show you the way.”
Darcy’s heart gave a strange thump at the suggestion.
As they prepared to step outside, Bingley paused. “Oh—before I forget. I ought to let you know—my sisters will soon make an announcement. We have chosen a date for the ball. November twenty-sixth. That should give Cook enough time to prepare the white soup.”
Mrs. Bennet uttered a little squeal and clapped her hands in delight before ushering her daughters and the gentlemen outside. They stepped out into the crisp sunlight, and Darcy spied Elizabeth near a large bush. She came over to them just as Fitzwilliam offered his arm to Kitty with a bow and a wink. “Will you escort me to your favorite shrubbery, Miss Kitty?”
She giggled and led him away, and Jane and Bingley followed suit, only in a different direction.
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. She was now standing just beyond the rose arbor, the wind tugging a few errant curls loose from her bonnet. She turned toward him with a smile that made the frost feel like sunlight.
“I am glad you are here,” she said softly.
Darcy inclined his head and fell into step beside her. They walked in silence for a moment, their footsteps crunching faintly on the path.
“There was another letter,” he said suddenly, reaching into his coat and withdrew the folded paper. “This arrived the day before yesterday while I dressed for dinner.”
She took it, her brow furrowing as she unfolded it carefully. Her lips parted as she read.
“I will finish what we have begun,” she read aloud. Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled ever so slightly. “This is the same handwriting as before.”
He nodded. “Same paper, same scent. Postmarked London.”
“But it was hand-delivered?” she asked.
He nodded again.
She drew a breath and looked around the garden instinctively, her gaze sharpening.
“Whoever she is,” Darcy murmured, “she must be near. To have brought it so quickly. And bold enough to approach the house. To know I am here.”
“But there have been no new arrivals in the neighborhood. None that could have handwriting like this, that is. Believe me, my mother would have known.”
He exhaled tightly. “Then she is hiding.”
She paused, then asked hesitantly, “Are you… are you really so certain that the author is not… not a man?”
He blinked at her. “A man?”
“Yes.” She glanced up at him. “I do not mean to be indelicate, but perhaps… perhaps a gentleman who misread a friendship?”
It was as if the air changed. Darcy took a single step back, spine stiffening. “I beg your pardon,” he said sharply. “What are you implying?”
“I am only asking you to consider it. The note… the intensity, the fixation—it could be anyone.”
