Page 63 of Companions of Their Youth
“Oh Charles, what nonsense!” Miss Bingley snapped, “I daresay Miss Eliza is perfectly capable of assisting her sister. All her walking surely means that she is a strong, sturdy country girl.”
Jane spoke before Elizabeth could retort. “I should very much appreciate your arm, sir.” She gave Bingley a sweet smile. “I am afraid Elizabeth forgets herself, at times; her pace is much too quick for me to manage.”
Elizabeth stifled a giggle at the indecision on Miss Bingley’s face. The poor woman looked torn on whether she should accuse Elizabeth of an unladylike gait or defend her rival in order to keep Bingley by her own side instead of allowing him to accompany Jane. But before she could settle on an answer, Darcy stood and set his book aside.
“I shall join you as well,” he said calmly. “It will give me the chance to retrieve a volume for Miss Elizabeth.”
As the door shut behind the four of them, Miss Bingley’s voice—sharp and shrill—followed them up the stairs like a draft.
Elizabeth and Jane exchanged glances, and Bingley laughed quietly as they mounted the stairs. At the top, they said goodnight and parted company. Darcy promised to send the book shortly.
True to his word, a footman arrived within a quarter hour bearing two volumes. Elizabeth smiled at the gift but did not open either. The candle had already been blown out, and weariness tugged at her bones. She placed them beside her bed, nestled under the glow of moonlight, and drifted off to sleep.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth stirred before dawn, her limbs still heavy with sleep but her mind already alert. For a moment she lay motionless, blinking toward the dim window, trying to remember where she was.
Then she remembered—the books!
Eagerly, she sat up and reached for the two books she had left on the table the night before. Her fingers found the spines, and she read the titles. The first wasThe Mysteries of Udolpho, which elicited a grin. She had wanted to read the Radcliffe novel, but the Meryton lending library did not possess a copy of it.
The second volume was a thin treatise on crop rotation, its cover plain and worn. She let out a short burst of laughter, then clapped a hand to her mouth and glanced toward the adjoining door. Jane had not stirred.
He knows me well, she mused with amusement. She had, in fact, read that particular tract just last year, when their steward had offered it to her brother. Elizabeth had sneaked it from Mark’s room, then argued with him about the merits of fallow schedules for days. She gently laid the pamphlet aside and turned back to the novel, curiosity and anticipation bubbling anew.
Debating whether to begin her morning with the book or a walk, she looked towards the window. The garden was still wrapped in shadow. The sun had yet to crest Oakham Mount, and she deemed it too dim for a safe walk in unfamiliar grounds. So instead, she drew a chair to the window, nestled into it, and opened the book with reverence.
Something fluttered from between the pages and landed in her lap. She frowned. A folded piece of paper—a bookmark, perhaps? But when she picked it up and went to place it back in the book, she saw handwriting.
At first, a strange hope surged in her chest. Had Mr. Darcy left a note for her?
She looked more closely. The hand was narrow, slanted, and unmistakably feminine.
Disappointment struck hard and sudden. Of course it would not be from him.Why would he write to me?
But then, if it was from a woman… Is he courting someone in London, perhaps? Or even a mistress?
She knew she should not open it. She knew she should simply slip it back into the book, pretend she never saw it.
Her curiosity, however, overruled her sense of propriety. She drew a deep breath and opened it.
I will follow you, Darcy… follow you wherever you may go. There is no ocean too deep, nor no mountain too high that will be able to keep me from you. You are my destiny, from now until forever.
Elizabeth’s mouth went dry, and her eyes scanned it again.
The writing was elegant, even graceful, but something about it set her teeth on edge. There was nothing overtly improper in the words, yet the effect of them—so breathless, so cloying, so insistently possessive—made her skin crawl.
This was no sweet billet-doux. It felt more like a… declaration.
She folded it at once and stared down at her hands. Guilt and unease waged a small war in her breast.
What do I do now?
She glanced back at the book and set it carefully aside. The note she slipped into her pocket—she dared not leave it lying about, and she resolved to return it at the earliest opportunity. But for now, the garden beckoned. She needed the fresh air to clear her thoughts.
She slipped out of the room quietly, leaving Jane still in peaceful slumber, and made her way through the house to the garden paths. The mist was still lifting from the hedgerows, and the lawns were silvered with dew. She was just rounding a laurel hedge when a familiar figure appeared ahead.
Darcy.
