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“I cannot emphasise enough how uneasy I am that you were caught in such a dangerous situation,” he said. “I beg you both to come to Pemberley, until we are certain that tempers have cooled. I could have my carriage brought over tomorrow. Believe me, I am well aware of the terms of the will which require you to inhabit the place most of the year, but my dear father could never have intended such a tenure. In fact, I am certain it is illegal to command you to stay here during times of civil unrest.”

“It is completely unnecessary,” Elizabeth declared with feeling. The very notion of becoming his houseguest, with the morass of awkward emotions that seemed to accompany her every moment in his presence, was unacceptable. “We are completely safe here, are we not, Aunt? Did not Mr Hawthorne take excellent care of us? We are in good hands, I assure you.”

While he could not insist, she could tell that he would like to.

“Oh, now, Lizzy, perhaps it is a good idea,” Mrs Philips said. She had spent her entire life in Meryton; this new, more industrial world was far outside of her experience, and she must be longing for a return to her quieter life there. I must encourage her to go home, Elizabeth realised. As soon as is possible.

“I thank you, Mr Darcy, for your concern,” she said, giving her aunt a look that she hoped begged her not to argue. “We have been undisturbed at Meadowbrook, gratefully, and we are quite safe.”

Fortunately, Mrs Philips subsided.

At the call’s end, Elizabeth found herself walking out beside him, her aunt suddenly nowhere in sight.

“It was kind of you to call on us,” she said, hardly able to think of a thing to say. “We truly do appreciate your concern.”

“Did you receive my letter?” He blurted the question, as though it had been torn from him.

“Yes,” she said, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

Their gazes caught and held; she could not look away from his dark eyes. He lifted a hand to her cheek, kept it there. It ought to have been a shocking action, but in the moment, she only felt the connexion of his regret, an extension of the remorse expressed in his letter.

“Do you know how sorry I am?” he murmured lowly.

Sorry? Sorry that he had proposed so crudely, or that he had proposed at all? His ungloved hand was warm upon her cheek, his skin feeling somehow rougher than a gentleman’s ought. Could she accept his apologies? Would she rather, like Lot’s wife, spend her life looking backwards?

Somehow, she made herself speak.

“My response was hardly a civil one,” she replied. “Perhaps…perhaps the whole, um, episode, might be forgotten?”

His thumb glided across her cheekbone, the touch featherlight and yet, somehow affecting her entire frame. Then, as if remembering himself, he dropped his hand and bowed. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you. It is more than I had any right to expect.”

Without another word, he stalked to his horse; in one easy motion he mounted, and seconds later, he was out of sight.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

AN IMPATIENT INTERLUDE

Diana Stretton is a wonder, a worker of miracles, a marvel, Elizabeth thought. After one conversation, she had known she would hire the lady; she was a competent, no-nonsense sort of person—and also quite lovely. Possibly, it was her beauty almost as much as the illegitimate son which had presented a barrier to being hired by some of the local matrons. Her son, Michael, was a sturdy, good-natured lad and eager to be useful.

“Are you good with hair?” Elizabeth had asked, adding with a smile, “With such hair as mine, I warn you, it would be a trial to you all your days.”

Stretton had given an answering smile, a knowing one. “I think you will be satisfied, miss.”

Satisfied was not the word for it.

Elizabeth had shared a maid with all her sisters, all her life; in such a case, one had to be patient and learn to do for oneself as often as not. For the first time in her life, she now had her own maid.

Elizabeth’s hair was thick with a tendency to tangle and curl. Not since nursery braids had it been anything except an ordeal to be managed with frustration; the best Elizabeth had usually been able to achieve by herself was a severe restraint. But hair was not the maid’s only speciality; Stretton also used the barest application of cosmetics, the ingredients of which were created from her own receipts.

Elizabeth stared at her reflection in the mirror; it was softer somehow, her cheekbones higher, her eyes larger, her hair twisted into a complicated arrangement that framed her face in delicate curls.

I have been grateful for receiving my own home, she thought, and I do feel blessed to receive an allowance that will ever meet my needs, with a prospective sanctuary for any of my sisters who might, someday, wish it. I hope I am not so blind as to overlook this great miracle, the alleviation of a future dependent solely upon the charity of Mr Collins.

Suddenly, it seemed she was able to catch a more accurate glimpse of the woman she might now become. No longer need she fear her future or avoid looking towards it—it was clear and bright and not dependent upon capturing the attention of some random gentleman, who might or might not turn out to be a rascal. She would always be safe—or as safe as anyone could be, who lived in this fallen world. A new enthusiasm opened to her, and her problems seemed lighter and easier to bear.

It did not mean that she had none, however.

As the weeks passed and summer banished spring, Elizabeth found herself practically a prisoner in her new home.