Page 59 of Companions of Their Youth
But Wickham’s face still haunted him. The thought of anyone presuming they were alike—of anyone mistaking him for such a man—made his very soul recoil.
And yet Miss Elizabeth had only asked a simple question. A kind one, even. And he had answered with ice.
She did not appear again that day except at dinner, where Miss Bingley monopolized every conversation. Darcy had half-hoped for a moment to approach Elizabeth privately, to explain himself in some civil manner, but it had not come.
The next morning, he rose early and took a hard ride across the fields. The exertion was bracing, the cool wind clearing his mind, but not his conscience. The memory of her face—confused and hurt—remained with him.
It was just as he returned to the house, boots still muddy and coat damp from a patch of morning mist, that he caught sight of her once more.
She was walking alone across the lawn, her bonnet tilted back slightly, face turned toward the sun. Something in him lightened at the sight.
He veered toward her.
“Miss Bennet,” he called out.
She turned, blinking against the light, and her lips curved faintly when she saw him. “Mr. Darcy. I must compliment your punctuality. You seem determined to keep the same schedule as the dew.”
He approached, slightly breathless—not from exertion, but from the sudden need to say it plainly. “I came to offer you an apology.”
Her brow lifted.
“I spoke poorly yesterday,” he said. “You asked a kind question, and I gave a harsh reply. That was unfair of me.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, watching him carefully. “It was a clipped ‘no,’ as I recall. I was not overly wounded.”
“But I was wrong,” he said. “The memory you touched upon is one of betrayal. I reacted without thought, and I regret causing you discomfort.”
For a moment, she was silent.
Then, her expression softened. “Thank you. I do understand. We all have our ghosts.”
He exhaled, a true breath this time, the tension leaving his shoulders. “I had not meant to be sharp.”
“Then I shall not hold it against you.”
A smile touched her mouth, and she gave a sidelong glance to his boots. “Although, if I might be permitted to tease—you are certainly a bold man to come offering apologies while wearing half the field on your trousers.”
Darcy looked down and gave a huff of self-deprecating laughter. “Indeed. I ought not to be seen by anyone respectable in such a state.”
“And yet, here you are. Does this mean you think I am not respectable?”
He made to protest, then saw the smirk on her face and twinkle in her eye. He smiled ruefully.
She turned to walk, and he fell into step beside her, boots squelching faintly in the soft grass. The breeze tugged at her hem as they approached the house.
“May I escort you to the door?” he asked.
“You may,” she said with mock gravity. “Though I warn you—I shall deny knowing you if the housekeeper faints at the sight of your dirt on her cleaned floors.”
“An excellent plan,” he replied dryly. “Though if she does faint, I suppose you will have to offer her tea and reassurances. Your sister is sleeping, after all, and I doubt Miss Bingley would think of it.”
“Then I suppose I must take the risk.”
And though they said no more, Darcy felt the warmth of her company, her forgiveness, and her wit lingering in the space between them—more healing than the morning air.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth descended to dinner that evening with a lighter heartthan she had carried the night before, even after spending a day ensconced with Jane. The change in her spirits surprised even herself. She had not expected Mr. Darcy to approach her that morning—still less to apologize with such frank civility. He had not only acknowledged his sharpness but gone further, sharing enough of his past to make clear that it had cost him something. That, above all, lingered with her.
