Page 46 of Look on the Heart (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #10)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mr. Darcy faithfully courted Elizabeth for the remainder of her stay in Kent. Their daily walks became a cherished ritual, and though they had spoken no further affirmations of love, a steady certainty took root between them—one neither had known before.

As the day of her departure neared, he, too, planned to return to London. Lady Catherine, he reported, had protested his decision most vehemently, declaring that his business in Kent remained unfinished.

“She insisted I ought not to leave until I had secured a betrothal to my cousin,” Darcy said dryly as they strolled along one of the winding paths near the parsonage. “I regret to say I disappointed her.”

Elizabeth suppressed a smile. “And does Lady Catherine know the reason she will be disappointed?”

“She does not,” he admitted, a faint smirk curving his lips. “Yet soon enough, she shall. The colonel’s efforts to win our cousin’s affection have borne fruit. Anne blossoms under his care, and I believe she will accept his proposal when he offers it.”

Elizabeth’s smile deepened. “I am very pleased for Miss de Bourgh. Every lady deserves a happy ending.”

Darcy gave a low laugh, though it held little mirth.

“Yes, a life away from an overbearing mother who speaks unkindly of her daughter.” He exhaled.

“I ought not to speak ill of my aunt, but it grows ever harder to remain silent. She has spent years belittling and restricting Anne, stifling her at every turn.”

Elizabeth nodded, turning thoughtful. “I understand you perfectly. Whenever Lady Catherine speaks ill of Miss de Bourgh—or of you—I must restrain myself from leaping to your defense. Your cousin is far more than the pale shadow her mother has tried to make of her. And as for you, sir…” she hesitated, casting a brief glance at him before continuing.

“Your character is such that no outward appearance can diminish it.”

Darcy’s glance touched her—warm, unreadable—but no words followed.

Encouraged, Elizabeth pressed on. “Her words remind me of my own mother. For as long as I can remember, she has spoken thoughtlessly, often cruelly, without regard for the pain she causes. I used to excuse it: ‘She is my mother,’ I told myself. ‘She does not mean it so harshly.’ But hearing your aunt has made me realize how easily we excuse what ought not to be borne, simply because it is familiar. ’Tis a frightening thing, is it not?

How one grows accustomed to unkindness, even from those who ought to love us best? ”

A silence settled between them—not awkward, but contemplative. At last, Darcy spoke.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “One tells oneself it is simply the way of things—that nothing can change. But sometimes, one must choose to be the change.”

Elizabeth’s heart swelled. There was something remarkable about him—this man who had once kept silent in the face of cruelty but now sought to speak when others would not. In that moment, she knew she had been right to trust and forgive him, and that she would always choose to stand beside him.

After a pause, she angled her head, her manner light and untroubled once more. “And tell me, sir, what of your aunt? Has she resigned herself to being thwarted, or will she soon follow me to Longbourn and attempt to prevent my own happy ending?”

Darcy smiled, a gleam of mischief mingling with tenderness as he cast her a sidelong glance. “Knowing my aunt, I suspect we have not yet heard the last of her protests.”

Elizabeth laughed, and as they walked on, the path ahead seemed clearer than ever before.

Elizabeth and Maria would depart on the morrow.

Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam planned to do likewise.

A few days earlier, at the end of one of their morning walks, Mr. Darcy had asked whether she and Miss Lucas might prefer to ride to London in his carriage.

A maid could come as a chaperone. Elizabeth had agreed, and a note was promptly sent to her uncle, informing him of the change of plans.

The residents of the parsonage were invited to tea one last time before Elizabeth and Miss Lucas departed.

They had often dined at the great house, where Lady Catherine’s pronouncements and exclamations continued to serve as both vexation and entertainment.

Her frequent remarks on Mr. Darcy and Miss de Bourgh’s appearances were often followed by declarations of how well-suited they were to one another.

Elizabeth, hearing such talk, felt a curious mix of jealousy and anger, though she wisely held her tongue in the face of the lady’s relentless opinions.

The appointment for afternoon tea began like so many other she had attended during her stay in Kent.

They walked to Rosings Park beneath a warm sun, the breeze cool enough to make the air perfectly delightful.

A servant announced them into the opulently appointed drawing room, where the residents of Rosings were seated about the room.

The servants had already laid the tea service, and the delicate china rattled faintly as Miss de Bourgh reached for her cup.

Her hands trembled beneath the weight of the room’s oppressive silence.

Lady Catherine had yet to speak—a dangerous sign in itself.

Her lips were pressed into a severe line, her eyes alight with a fire that promised imminent eruption.

Then, with all the imperious force of a queen pronouncing judgment, she fixed her gaze on Colonel Fitzwilliam and declared, “I know all, Fitzwilliam!”

Every occupant of the room flinched, even if only slightly, as though each had sensed what was to come.

The colonel, to his credit, did not waver. He set down his teacup with a deliberate air and met his aunt’s eyes, revealing no intention of retreat. “Then there is little need for pretense, Lady Catherine. I love Anne, and I intend to ask for her hand in marriage.”

A strangled sound escaped Lady Catherine’s throat—part scoff, part gasp of utter outrage. “It is not to be borne!” she cried. “Anne, a married woman? And to you? It is both preposterous and impossible! She is meant for Darcy!”

Lady Catherine’s self-contradictions would have inspired humor had not her words been so insulting.

Elizabeth, seated beside Charlotte, darted a glance toward Darcy, whose countenance remained composed, but the tension in his hands—clenched tightly around his saucer and teacup—betrayed his inner agitation.

“Indeed, she is not,” Colonel Fitzwilliam countered coolly.

“Anne has reached five-and-twenty. She has inherited Rosings, Aunt. It is hers by right. And when she is my wife, we shall settle here, while you—” he paused, and though his delivery was gentle, his words were merciless—“shall retire to the dower house.”

The effect was instantaneous. Lady Catherine surged to her feet, her hands clenched into fists.

“You ungrateful boy!” She whirled on her other nephew, her face darkened with fury. “This is your doing, Darcy! Had you done your duty and married Anne, as your mother and I intended, none of this would have come to pass!”

Darcy, who had remained silent until now, rose as well.

His tall frame stood in calm defiance of his aunt’s outrage.

When he spoke, his speech was measured, yet firm.

“I never intended to marry Anne, nor was there ever any agreement to do so. My mother did not wish a marriage of convenience for me.”

“Nonsense!” Lady Catherine spat. “She is plain, and with her…infirmity, who else would have her?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam bristled. “Infirmity? You speak of a congenital mark as though it were a curse. I say it is nothing. It does not lessen her intelligence, her kindness, or her beauty.”

“Beauty?” Lady Catherine scoffed. “Her appearance has ever been a trial! But she and Darcy—yes, they might overcome even that, for their misfortunes are similar. He, too, bears the mark. Who else would take a man so deformed?”

A cold silence fell over the room. Darcy’s visage was unreadable, yet Elizabeth saw the faintest flicker of pain in his eyes—a wound reopened by his aunt’s cruelty. She could not remain silent.

“You forget yourself, madam,” Elizabeth said, her declaration clear and unwavering.

All eyes turned to her. “Mr. Darcy is a man of honor, of integrity. He is generous to those in his care, loyal to his friends, and possessed of a heart that values virtue over vanity. He is to be admired, respected, and—most of all, loved.”

Lady Catherine rounded on her, eyes narrowing. “Loved? And who, pray, would love such a man?”

Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I would…I do.”

A collective gasp was heard. For a heartbeat, Darcy forgot to breathe. Elizabeth’s words had reached some part of him long guarded, and though his lips parted slightly, he uttered no reply—only watched her, astonishment and longing warring in his gaze.

Lady Catherine’s reply, when it came, dripped with venom. “You? A mere country miss, with neither connections nor fortune, would set yourself against my will?”

Elizabeth smiled, though steel glinted beneath it. “Pray, remember, your ladyship, that your will holds no dominion over my heart, nor over Mr. Darcy’s.”

“I will not be interrupted in this manner!” Lady Catherine cried. “You have no regard for duty, for propriety! You—”

But Elizabeth did not back down. “And you, madam, forsake the value of love and individual worth to satisfy your vanity and thirst for control,” Elizabeth retorted, her utterance unwavering.

“You have no notion of what duty truly is, Lady Catherine. It is not forcing a daughter into an unwanted marriage, nor is it seeking to bend others to your will for your own comfort. True duty lies in upholding what is right—even when it defies expectation. It is found in love, in kindness, in loyalty.” She turned her gaze upon Darcy, her eyes softening. “And in choosing one’s own happiness.”