Page 31 of Darcy's Legacy Tortoise
“Yes. I’m afraid deep inside, we all are afraid,” said Jane. “I hide it behind charitable opinions. I reason that if Miss Bingley did not see me on the street, then it would hurt less than her deliberate cut. You, on the other hand…”
“Will breathe fire and roar.” I went to the writing desk in the corner and sat down and took a piece of Mrs. Gardiner’s stationery—plain cream, unpretentious, smelling faintly of the lavender she kept in the drawer—and I dipped the pen.
The nib hovered over the paper for a long time. I thought of all the things I could write: explanations, justifications, carefully constructed paragraphs that demonstrated my reasoning and acknowledged my errors with appropriate nuance.
But in the end, I wrote three lines.
Mr. Darcy,
Please come to Gracechurch Street. Not for the tortoise or the children. For me.
Elizabeth
I folded it, sealed it, and gave it to Sarah to send. Then I sat at the desk, hands pressed flat to the wood, holding still, waiting for the shaking to stop. And it did.
CHAPTER TEN
BASKING UNGUARDED
Darcy
The terrarium satin the corner of the library, empty, like a perpetual accusation. The box was clean, with fresh sand, and the water dish was filled. The housekeeper had offered to remove it twice, and twice I had said no.
I was unsettled, waiting for a miracle I had no business hoping for.
I merely existed, counting the days. Today was the ninth with no word from Gracechurch Street. Bingley had called on me twice. Incandescent both times—he was engaged to Jane, the sun was shining, the universe had aligned itself to his satisfaction. He spoke of wedding dates and settlements and whether Rose would consent to be a bridesmaid, and I listened, and smiled, and did not ask the question that pressed against the back of my teeth every moment he was in the room.
I did not ask about Elizabeth.
Not because I did not wish to know. I wished it so badly that my stomach had taken ill, but if I were to do what she asked—to stop the control and the planning, to give her time withoutcontriving to accidentally meet—then I could not have news, because having news of her would start the planning and the arranging. It would provide me with a plot, some form of action toward my goal, or, in this case, perhaps further from it than I could ever know. For if Miss Elizabeth caught me lurking at Gracechurch Street, jumping out from behind every Cheapside bush, she would slam the door shut and mortar it tight.
Action was my default, so I drove my curricle in Hyde Park, wore out my boots in Mayfair, loitered at Cheapside’s corners. But I never crossed the threshold. She wanted time, and time was all I could give.
Even if the time eventually ran out.
Instead, I brooded. I remembered every look, every conversation, every gesture from that moment in Meryton when she had caught my eye—and to my credit, that was well before Bingley pointed toward her, urging me to dance with her as if she were any young lady I had never met.
No, I had seen her when we entered, standing with her sisters, appearing not to gawk. Her eyes had flashed over the Bingleys, and like a well-aimed arrow, her gaze homed in on me—standing a bit stiffly, because the noise was too bright and the sound was too hot, and the feathers, turbans, fans, boots, and waistcoats too crowded.
I knew she was different, and I could not approach her as just anyone. I would first ascertain her family, inquire about her background. And then, I would watch her and study her. Admire her safely from a distance.
But when Bingley pushed me—I was affronted, unready and perplexed. Did he not see the impropriety of requesting a set from a young lady I had not been formally introduced to? That I had not called on her father? And indeed, he hadn’t been present at the assembly, and I asked myself later, what kind of father of five young and vivacious daughters did not personally overseethe young men who might approach them. The way Sir William Lucas did, protectively while being sociable.
But I had only myself to blame. I spoke with arrogance and cruelty, and for that, forgiveness seemed out of reach. Perhaps I deserved to haunt the library, circling Sir Bertram’s empty terrarium for the rest of time.
“Sir.” My butler stood at the door. “The morning post.”
He set a salver down with several items which I sorted through without interest: a letter from my steward, an invitation from Lady Meynell that I set aside for the fire, a bill from the bookseller. And then, beneath the bill, a folded piece of cream stationery that smelled, faintly, of lavender.
I knew the hand. I had seen it once, on a note she had written to Mrs. Gardiner about the children’s supper, and I had memorized the slant of her letters without meaning to, the way I had recall the angle of her chin and the shade of green she wore when she wished to be noticed.
Mr. Darcy,
Please come to Gracechurch Street. Not for the tortoise or the children. For me.
Elizabeth
I was on my feet, my heart bolting out the door. My cravat was loosened, but I did not call my valet. Elizabeth wanted to see me. I had no idea of the reason. The note was too short. She could be calling me to a formal dismissal. She was within her rights, and she had offered me no clue. Nothing with which to prepare or strategize or rehearse.
