Darcy sighed. “With my parents, I felt guilt that I was not at home. I was still at school when we lost my mother. She was with child again after my sister Georgiana, and neither she nor the babe survived the birth.”
Miss Elizabeth murmured her condolences.
“When my father was struck down, I was already in the army and far from home. With each of my friends or fellow officers, there was always the sense that I might have done more, performed better, moved faster, that I might have saved them. Even . . .” He hesitated, but felt Miss Elizabeth might benefit from the stark truth. “I have even felt the guilt of surviving when my friends did not.”
She frowned. “I am sorry for that. You must know your friends would not begrudge you.”
Unlike many soldiers Darcy knew, he was not often hounded by nightmares or vivid memories of battle. He supposed that because he and Fitzwilliam had always been able to speak of such things that they had been spared the worst of it. The guilt, though . . .
“Knowing here,” he said, touching his temple, “is not the same as knowing here.” He placed a hand over his heart. “You never move past it, but you learn to livewithit.”
“I wonder if Papa feels the same,” she said, thinking aloud.
“I cannot tell you,” Darcy replied, “but it would be difficult to live as he has and entirely avoid it.”
“His fears make more sense in this light,” Miss Elizabeth said, lowering her head. “My own feelings rather pale in comparison.”
“It does no good to compare your suffering to another’s,” he warned her.
“Another lesson from the military?” she inquired. She smiled, but Darcy could see she was still affected.
“I do not know about a lesson,” he responded. “Though I believe that a sense of guilt when a loved one passes is very common. Knowing it is nonsensical does not prevent the feeling.”
She nodded, and the lines in her forehead vanished. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
Easing her anxiety gave him a great sense of satisfaction. “You are quite welcome, Miss Elizabeth.”
Chapter Four
“Imaginethedanceasa geometry problem,” Elizabeth said to Mr. Darcy. “It is all forms, or shapes, you know. There are straight lines, triangles, circles, rectangles. See it in your mind’s eye, and it will be easier to train your feet to follow.”
“You wish me to imagine a geometrical pattern on the dance floor?” Mr. Darcy asked, bemused.
Elizabeth shrugged. Over the past fortnight, they had stumbled through several of her amended patterns, and none of them had worked. The others had stopped joining them, so they simply left the doors open and danced without music. Mr. Darcy did better when he was not under scrutiny, and Elizabeth believed he was becoming more comfortable, however tortured their progress had been. “Do you have a better idea?”
“I could forgo this exercise entirely. That would be a better idea.”
She laughed a little. “Come, sir, all it requires is a little imagination.”
He huffed. “I am used to fact, not flights of fancy, madam.”
“Oh, dear,” Elizabeth said teasingly. “When you begin to call me ‘madam,’ I know my time with you is nearing its end.”
He shook his head at her. “Why have you taken on this task? Are you Sisyphus in disguise, or simply too stubborn to admit defeat?”
“I hardly think teaching you to dance is akin to a Greek tragedy, sir.”
“It is laborious and yet futile. The comparison is apt.”
“Ah, but it isnotfutile. You are already the master of two very popular dances, and now we must only teach you one more.”
He rubbed the back of his head. “Mastered is an exceedingly generous description.”
Elizabeth stopped to put her hands on her hips. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, exasperated. “You are a graduate of the Royal Military College. My father informs me that Colonel Le Marchand’s course of study was, to put it politely, harsh—brutal, even. A man who can successfully complete such an education can certainly learn a few country dances.” She reached out impulsively to give one of his hands a quick, reassuring squeeze. “I have faith in you.”
Mr. Darcy stared at her hand for a moment, and when she released him, his gaze rose to meet hers. At first, Elizabeth thought he was upset, but when she lifted an eyebrow in silent question, it occurred to her that this did not feel like anger. What it was, precisely, she could not tell, but the blazing intensity in his eyes drew her into their depths.
She took a small step forward before she realised what she was about. “Now,” she said, forcing herself to look away, “we will try again.”