Page 44 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
Aunt Gardiner studied her for a moment. “Is your concern borne only of gratitude, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth felt a rush of warmth creep up her neck. She had not allowed herself to ask that question.
Was it gratitude? Was it the natural regard of one who had endured a harrowing event beside another?
Or was it something else entirely?
“I do not know,” she admitted, her voice quiet.
Jane’s fingers tightened around hers.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, her mind returning to those hours beneath the rubble, to the steady cadence of Mr. Darcy’s voice, the warmth of his presence beside her, the moment he leaned towards her and began to ask her a question.
She had felt, in those hours, something profound happening between the two of them, but of course there had been more pressing issues to attend. She had been frightened, injured, vulnerable. He had been steadfast, protective, unfaltering.
Was her forced idleness giving her too much time to think? Was she imagining a connection that had only existed due to their exceptional circumstance? Had she mistaken his kindness for something more? He had said he wished to marry her, but had that all been naught but a dream? Or had he assumed hemustwed her, as Lady Catherine had implied?
It troubled her.
Elizabeth was not accustomed to doubting herself, yet now, in the enforced stillness of her recovery, her mind turned over every memory, every word, searching for certainty where none could be found.
She exhaled, turning her head toward the window. Perhaps, in time, she would know the truth of Mr. Darcy’s sentiments. But for now, she could do nothing but wait.
“I have been wrong about him,” she told her aunt. “Oh, not completely wrong, but in the most significant ways.”
Aunt Gardiner nodded, as though she had suspected as much. “People are often not what they first appear, my dear, and you now know a great deal more about his character than you did before.”
Elizabeth looked toward the window, the golden afternoon light spilling across the floor. “Yes.” She hesitated, fingers tightening around the fringe of the blanket.
She had believed Mr. Darcy to be proud, aloof, and indifferent to all but his own consequence. Yet she had seen him bruised, bleeding, his fine coat in tatters—and his care for her had never wavered. She had once thought him unfeeling, and yet his stories suggested he was instead a man beset by feeling but required by circumstance to suppress it.
“What is it that you know now, Lizzy?” Jane asked.
“I know,” she said, her voice quieter, steadier, “that I have not judged him fairly.”
Aunt Gardiner tilted her head. “And why do you think the knowledge of your misjudgement troubles you so?”
Elizabeth hesitated, her fingers curling against the blanket. “Because it was not a small error,” she admitted. “I did not merely misunderstand him—I resented him; I ridiculed him. I was so determined to think ill of him that I refused to see what was before me.”
She looked down. “I have always prided myself on my discernment. And yet, where Mr. Darcy was concerned, I was blind. I allowed myself to become prejudiced against him.”
Aunt Gardiner regarded her thoughtfully. “You cannot fault yourself alone, however. I believe he made a very good job of hiding himself.”
“He must not be able to trust those he does not know well, or he would have no reason to conceal himself in such a way,” Jane said. “Poor Mr. Darcy.”
That was not how Elizabeth would describe him, but the idea that he did not trust easily—well, that made sense to her.
“And now that you see more clearly,” her aunt asked, “what is it that you find?”
“A man I admire.” Elizabeth hesitated, her heartbeat quickening. “And perhaps a man who I might come to—” She broke off, unable to say it.
A small, knowing smile touched her aunt’s lips. “I see,” she murmured.
Jane’s eyes were suspiciously shiny. “You have never spoken this way before, Lizzy.”
“No,” Elizabeth admitted. “For I have never felt this way before.”
A soft silence stretched between them.
