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Darcy helped Mrs. Bennet into the carriage. Mr. Bennet came to the steps, the novel beneath his arm.
“Is that mine?” Elizabeth asked.
“Mr. Darcy has not yet determined which of us requires it most.”
“I have read it,” Darcy said. “I can undertake to survive the loss while the question is settled.”
Mr. Bennet offered it to his daughter. She took the book, but did not release her father’s hand at once.
Darcy moved away to speak to the coachman. The arrangements required no further instruction. He asked after the road nonetheless, allowing the father and daughter a little time without an audience.
When he returned, Elizabeth had put her arms about Mr. Bennet. Her father kissed her forehead and said something too low for Darcy to hear.
She nodded, then laughed through the tears upon her cheeks.
“Do write, Papa.”
“I shall expect an answer.”
“You always have one.”
“Not always upon the subject I have chosen.”
He entered the carriage. Elizabeth stood beside Darcy while it moved away, keeping her hand raised until her mother could no longer see it.
They remained outside after the carriage turned.
Darcy wished to offer something which would ease the loss. He could invite her family again; he meant to. He could make future journeys comfortable. Neither would put her father back upon the step this morning, and she knew it as well as he did.
After a while she took the handkerchief from her pocket.
“I had thought I should be more sensible.”
“Why?”
“I knew they would go. I have been talking of the journey all week.”
“Knowing it would happen does not oblige you to enjoy it.”
She looked at him, then took his arm.
“No. I suppose it does not.”
They went inside. Sir approached them hopefully, but Elizabeth shook her head.
“Not yet. You have had Papa walking whenever he meant only to sit down. You may allow me a little peace.”
The dog accompanied them to the library and lay beside the chair she chose. Elizabeth set the rescued novel upon her lap without opening it.
“Will you stay?” she asked.
Darcy drew a chair close to hers and sat down.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, and for a little while neither of them attempted to find anything else which must be said.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
ELIZABETH HAD WRITTEN the date and nothing else.
