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Sam wished to show them where he meant to keep the food safe from Sir. This required a demonstration upon a shelf inside the door, and a decision from Elizabeth that it was high enough. Only then could they leave.
Darcy kept the dog beside him until they reached the orchard path. Sally walked behind with Mrs. Bell’s account of the loose chair leg, which she intended to convey to the carpenter. Elizabeth thanked her for remembering it.
“The chair would not have suited you nearly so well,” Elizabeth told Darcy.
“I am pleased to have justified the choice.”
“You were very good about it.”
“It was a stool, Miss Bennet. I have faced greater trials.”
“I meant that you allowed him to offer it.”
Darcy had no reply ready. He had accepted the seat because refusing would have disappointed the boy and embarrassed his grandmother. It was a small thing, and yet her recognition of it pleased him more than thanks for the repair.
When they reached the house, Elizabeth went to find Mrs. Reynolds about the basket. Darcy took Sir to the back entrance himself. The dog leaned against his leg while a servant fetched water, apparently certain that the afternoon had ended well for everybody.
“You will have no support from me if she leaves you behind tomorrow,” Darcy told him.
Sir wagged his tail.
At dinner, Elizabeth asked Jane whether she wished anything taken to Mrs. Bell. Jane had nothing to send but her good wishes; Charles offered to contribute the piece of cake which Sir would otherwise obtain from him. Caroline observed that the dog appeared to have made a very profitable afternoon of it.
“He has obliged me to begin a collection,” Elizabeth said. “I shall see what he can do for the rest of us when he has settled his debts.”
Darcy smiled, and she saw him. Her own smile lingered for a moment before she turned to Jane.
He took that memory upstairs with him.
He ought not to have done so. A pleasant walk and a laugh over a small stool were slender grounds for the degree of expectation with which he considered the following morning. He had known lively women before. He had certainly known women who wished to please him. What unsettled him was how much he wanted to please this one when she appeared determined to keep her distance.
Perhaps she knew of Georgiana and found his attempts at ordinary conversation indecent beside what he concealed. Perhaps she did not know, and he had supplied the accusation himself because it never left him for long.
Either possibility should have discouraged him. Neither prevented him from recalling the way Elizabeth had looked up from beside the bench, sunlight upon her cheek, to entrust him with carrying the basket the next morning.
He undressed, dismissed his valet, and put out the candle. For some time he lay awake. At last the day’s occupations loosened their hold upon him, and he fell asleep.
In his dream, Elizabeth stood beside an open window at Pemberley.
He knew her before she turned. The line of her neck, the dark hair gathered above it, the familiar gown she had worn that evening—all were as he remembered them. When she faced him, she was smiling.
“You have been a very long time,” she said.
“I did not know you were waiting.”
“I think you did.”
She came toward him. Her hand rested against his coat, and when he covered it with his own, she did not draw away. He could feel the warmth of her fingers through the thin glove.
“Elizabeth.”
She lifted her face at the sound of her name. He bent toward her slowly enough to see her smile change, to feel her hand tighten upon his sleeve before his mouth met hers.
She kissed him willingly. There was no careful reserve, no withdrawing glance. Her other hand rose to his shoulder, and he drew her nearer with a relief so great that he wondered, even in the dream, how long he had been waiting to hold her.
The room darkened.
He lifted his head. Her glove was gone. The hand against his coat was bare, and his coat itself had changed beneath it. The window behind her had grown narrow, its panes broken into small divisions. Smoke hung beneath the beams overhead.
