P&P The Untold Stories: Darcy Walking in the Grove

“I Shall Never See Her Again.”

10 April 1812

Dawn’s dew rolled off the polished leather of Darcy’s boots with each meticulous step. He had paced this path in the grove twenty-three times already, but in such a straight, methodical trail that there was but a single line of steps between the ancient oak and the sapling beech tree. From the one, he could see almost to the very doorstep of Rosings and be forewarned if his cousin or some emissary of his aunt’s were to set out in search of him. From the other, he could glimpse the lane that led to Hunsford parsonage.

He paused and flicked the watch from his pocket. If Elizabeth Bennet was going to walk the grove according to her usual habits today, she would have already been and gone by this time. And that was where he ought to be by now—gone on a fast coach for London. Not wandering aimlessly through the trees, tapping a scandalous letter against his thigh and waiting for a woman who wanted nothing to do with him.

But he could not make himself go… not yet.

He pivoted on the ball of his foot to make another pass toward the beech tree and back. One more time… if she did not appear, he would go, and count this entire morning as a pointless misadventure. He oughtn’t be here anyway. Ought never to have put himself in her way as he did, ought never to have let his feelings run on without restraint.

But it was too late now for such regrets. Elizabeth Bennet had found some flaw in his constitution and exploited it, somehow without being at all aware that she was doing so. Perhaps it was that which stung the worst—the knowledge that he alone was responsible for his downfall. It was no flirtation on her part, as he had once believed. If he had learned anything yesterday, it was that. She had no designs upon him, so any power she held over him, he had surrendered without any sort of struggle.

Darcy reached the oak once more and cast a long look toward Rosings. His carriage was being readied in the drive now, and he had promised himself that if Elizabeth did not appear, he would give up this ridiculous idea. But… He sighed and glanced once more at the beech.

He had also promised himself that he would warn her, at least. His own happiness was lost, but if he could do something to open her eyes to the expert falsehoods that had first slandered him in her sight, then perhaps he would have done her some small service. Perhaps Wickham’s regiment would have gone from Hertfordshire by the time she returned, but hang it all, she was so blasted assured of her rightness, so hideously vulnerable to deceit when delivered by a silver tongue…

Oh, who was he trying to fool? The truth of it was that he ached for one last glimpse of those fine eyes that sparkled and snapped when they looked his way. One last chance to caress her cheek with his gaze and hope that the parting of her lips, the slow blink as she lifted her face to his, meant that she found something worthy in him. But she did not—she said she did not, and Elizabeth Bennet was nothing if not a woman of honesty.

Darcy’s boots slipped through the tall grass again, once more tracing the path toward the beech tree. But this time, it was not emptiness that rewarded his searching gaze as he strained to peer beyond the gate, into the lane. It was that pale bonnet he knew so well, the trim pelisse just beyond the bars and the slip of glove resting hesitantly upon the gate.

Darcy stopped, his breath dying in his chest. Angels above, but she was lovely. She had not seen him yet, for she was tipping her face to peer through the gate at the bluebells in the park. Surely, she would enter and walk among them! He would move gently to her side, greet her quietly, and ask if she was well after such a night as she must have passed. He certainly hoped she fared better than he had…

But her glove fell from the gate, and he saw her shoulders lift in a resigned breath. She was not going, was she? So soon, without even pausing for a moment to admire the flowers she had been waiting for all these weeks? Darcy left his straight line between the trees, his hand raised and her name upon his lips.

The sudden motion caught her attention, for she tipped her face toward him just enough to prove that she had sensed his presence, but she was hurrying away. She could not be… did she truly hate him so much? He lengthened his strides.

“Miss Elizabeth!” he called.

She froze, her entire body flinching, and her face bowed. After an instant’s pause, she drew back her shoulders and turned again toward the gate, a guarded look in her eyes.

Darcy’s hand was upon the gate now, his fingers prepared to work the latch. Dare he walk the lane beside her? He had no intention of recanting anything he had said the day before… well, save for that rather embarrassing misapprehension of her sister’s feelings. That matter was already done away with in his letter, for he did address her reproofs on that point. But for the rest…

Words jumbled in his mouth. He wanted to confess how he loved her still, would do anything to hear a different answer than the one she had already given. But that was impossible, for a gentleman owed it to a lady to respect her answer, however little he might like it. And his own dignity would not suffer a repetition of yesterday’s humiliations.

Her gaze had already enveloped him, taking in the traveling cloak he wore, the water streaks over his boots, and the fact that his hair was no doubt hopelessly mussed under the edges of his hat after such a long morning of waiting. She flicked her eyes over every detail of his attire, then fixed them once more on his face as she lifted a brow, waiting for an explanation.

“I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you,” he began. His mouth opened once more, framing better words, lasting words… but all that came out was, “Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?”

And then, with a slight bow, he turned back toward that solid oak and Rosings beyond, his steps heavier with each stride. He would not look back, would not grant himself the pleasure of one last glimpse or permit himself to think on her with any degree of hope.

That was a luxury he no longer deserved.

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