Darcy stood alone again with the pea and the note. “I did not mean you as a declaration,” he muttered, and immediately felt foolish for speaking to a vegetable.
He went to bed early. He slept poorly. He rose before the sun and was cross with himself for it.
By the time his carriage was ready, Taylor had knotted Darcy’s cravat twice. Darcy considered whether one might appear too eager by arriving before ten. In the end, he arrived at five minutes before the hour and was shown into the parlour.
Mrs. Gardiner rose at once. Her expression was composed; her eyes missed nothing. “Mr. Darcy,” she said. “How good of you to call.”
“Mrs. Gardiner.” Darcy bowed. He felt, absurdly, as though he were presenting himself for judgement. “May I inquire after Miss Bennet?”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “She will be down soon.”
As if summoned by their voices, Elizabeth appeared in the doorway. She was wrapped in the same soft shawl as the day before. Her hair was up in a pretty chignon, and her complexion was rosy with health. She looked athim with those fine, lively eyes, and Darcy felt the room narrow until there was nothing in it but her.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said.
He bowed. “Miss Bennet.”
Mrs. Gardiner made a small sound that might have been approval or amusement. “I shall return in a moment,” she said, not bothering to give them a reason for her departure.
Darcy was alone with Elizabeth. He remained standing because he had forgotten how to move.
Elizabeth gestured towards the chairs. “Will you not sit? You look rather grave.”
Darcy took the chair he had occupied the day before, and Elizabeth sat opposite him. She sat with her spine straight, the ends of the shawl gathered in her hands, eyes bright as she waited for him to say something.
His gaze flickered, against his will, to the small table beside him.
There was no saucer upon it now. He had brought it back, under his arm like contraband, and had left it in his carriage because he could not decide whether walking into the house with a saucer under his arm would make him appear mad. But he reached into his pocket and removed the peas, dropping them back on the table.
Elizabeth’s eyes followed his glance, and her mouth twitched.
“You received my message,” she said.
“I did,” Darcy replied. He heard how stiff it sounded and disliked himself for it.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened upon the edge of her shawl. “Did you think it a jest?”
Darcy hesitated. “I did not know what to think,” he said.
Elizabeth’s smile softened. “That is fair.”
She was quiet for a moment, as if searching for words. Darcy waited because he truly did not know how to proceed.
Finally she said, “I did not wish to send your sister a proper note. Proper notes invite proper responses, and proper responses are often . . . unsatisfactory.”
Darcy looked down at his hands. They lay upon his knees, long fingered, controlled. Hands that had held a pistol in a hollow, hands that had grasped her arm when she stumbled, hands that wanted, just now, to pull her nearer.
He closed his fingers to prevent them from betraying him.
“What is right,Princess,” he said, “is that you should be restored to your own people, and that I should trouble you no further.”
Elizabeth’s laugh was very soft and not at all merry. “That is very noble of you, Mr. Darcy.”
He looked up. “It is not nobility. It is sense.”
“Sense,” Elizabeth repeated, as if tasting the word. She leaned forward. The movement drew his attention, helplessly, to the shadow beneath her collarbone, to the pulse in her throat.
He forced his gaze back to her face.