Page 61 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
She knelt carefully at the water’s edge, dipping her fingertips into the cool surface. A bird landed a few feet away, tilting its head at her in what she could only interpret as mild curiosity. She smiled to herself.
Somewhere behind her, Aunt Gardiner shifted on the bench, though she made no move to interrupt. Elizabeth knew her aunt too well to mistake her silence for ignorance. She had undoubtedly seen where Elizabeth’s gaze had drifted before, had marked the way her expression clouded at thoughts she did not wish to voice. She was grateful that neither her aunt nor Jane had pressed her to reveal her thoughts, for until today she had not been sure herself.
She loved Mr. Darcy, and he had said he admired her. But did heloveher?
Fitzwilliam Darcy had always considered himself a proud man. A man of careful deliberation, of rational choices, of calculated steps.
That was, until the moment he found himself being smuggled out of Rosings Park like a fugitive in nothing more than a banyan hastily tossed over his shirt and breeches. He had been confined to his chambers for twelve days and still could not wear a coat. Every one he owned was cut too tight to wear over the bandage on his back.
Fitz half dragged him down a side corridor and then stopped, holding up a hand.
“This is absurd,” Darcy muttered.
“This is necessary,” Fitz corrected, his tone maddeningly cheerful.
Darcy did not respond. Aunt Catherine had been entirely against the notion of him leaving his room even for a stroll up and down the hall. Fitz had allowed her to believe that they had acquiesced to her superior medical knowledge.
She still complained that Darcy was a terrible patient.
It was only through his cousin’s ridiculous determination and perhaps a bit of Darcy’s own desperation that he had allowed himself to be pulled into this farce before his aunt could descend upon him with some fresh outrage.
Fitz had come up with a plan. He would escort Darcy to the garden without alerting his aunt, who prided herself on knowing everything that was happening inside the house. So they were skulking down the servants’ stairs and hurrying down the main hall, through the library doors, and out into the rose garden.
Simple. Efficient. Not at all beneath his dignity.
They had nearly reached the side entrance when Fitz suddenly grabbed his arm and hauled him unceremoniously into an alcove.
Darcy inhaled sharply at the sudden movement. “Fitz—”
A hand clamped over his mouth. “Shh.”
He wrapped his fist around one of Fitz’s fingers and peeled it away.
“Ow,” Fitz hissed, and shook out his hand. “I am trying to help you, you arse.”
From down the hall they heard Aunt Catherine’s marching tread, accompanied by the swish of heavy skirts and the unmistakable sound of exasperated muttering.
Darcy froze.
“He did not eat it?” Lady Catherine’s voice carried toward them. “Ungrateful, stubborn boy.”
Darcy rolled his eyes. He had not consumed a single bowl of the gruel she insisted he eat. It had become a daily ritual for her to order it and for him to send it back to the kitchens. Fitz’s grip on his shoulder tightened in silent mirth.
They remained motionless as Lady Catherine swept past, only daring to breathe again once the sound of her footsteps faded down the corridor.
“Go,” Fitz whispered, giving him a small but firm shove toward the door. “Before she comes back and decides to lock you in your room. You know that once she has hidden the key on her person that no one will attempt to retrieve it.”
Darcy did not need to be told twice. He stepped out into the garden, inhaling deeply as the cool morning air washed over him. He was still bruised, still aching, but the sense of freedom he felt and the pleasure of the spring sun in a fragrant garden was better medicine than any other he had taken. He paused at the open gate, steadying himself against the stone wall as his eyes swept the garden.
Then he saw her.
Elizabeth.
She stood at the far end of the path, her back turned toward him as she looked up at the windows. He held his breath.
Was she looking for him?
She wore a simple gown, pale blue with a darker, long-sleeved spencer, and though her posture was easy, he could see the stiffness in her gait, the careful way she moved.
