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Chapter Fifteen

E lizabeth had never felt quite so small and foolish in her whole life. Her father’s study, usually a place of comfort and familiarity, seemed now to close in around her, its walls bearing silent witness to her mortification. How thoroughly she had misjudged everything, how completely she had fallen prey to her own pride and prejudice. It was almost unbearable to sit across from Mr. Darcy now, knowing what she knew.

Mr. Wickham lay dead, murdered, his blood quite literally on her conscience if not her hands. Had she not once encouraged his attentions? Had she not delighted in his slanderous tales about the very man who now sat so nobly before her? Elizabeth stole a glance at Darcy from beneath her lashes. His countenance was grave but composed, betraying none of the turmoil that must surely reside within him. He sat straight-backed, the very model of gentlemanly restraint.

The memory of her harsh words at Hunsford Parsonage returned to torment her. “ Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner .” The words echoed in her mind, each syllable a fresh cut to her conscience. How wrong she had been, how cruelly unjust. The man she had accused of ungentlemanly conduct was now offering himself as her salvation, standing steadfast while scandal threatened to engulf her family once again.

“ From the first moment I met you, ” she had told him, “ your arrogance and conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others made me realise that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry .”

And yet here he was, prevailing. Not through force or manipulation, but through a quiet, dignified constancy that put her own character to shame. Mr. Darcy deserved better than her, better than a woman who had been so easily deceived by flattery, so quick to believe the worst without proper evidence.

The room was unnaturally quiet. Her father sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his eyes sharp with concern behind his spectacles. Jane was beside Elizabeth on the couch, her gentle presence a balm to Elizabeth’s raw nerves. Colonel Fitzwilliam sat near the window, his military bearing evident even in this domestic setting, while Mr. Darcy remained seated in the chair closest to Mr. Bennet’s desk.

They had been discussing her fate, Elizabeth realised, as though she were not present. Or perhaps she had simply been too lost in her thoughts to participate. The spring sunshine streamed through the windows, casting long rectangles of light across the carpet, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. How odd that the world should continue so beautifully while her life seemed to hang in suspension.

A gentle pressure on her arm brought Elizabeth back to the present moment. Jane’s fingers squeezed gently, and her sister’s voice, soft with concern, said, “Lizzy?”

Elizabeth looked up to find all eyes in the room fixed upon her. Her father’s gaze was particularly penetrating, though there was only kindness in his expression.

“I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth said, her voice sounding strangely distant to her own ears. “I fear my attention wandered.”

Mr. Bennet leaned forward slightly in his chair. “No one could blame you for that, child,” he said, his tone gentler than was his custom. “I asked what you thought of Mr. Darcy’s suggestion. Or would you prefer to wait a little while and let the gossip die down?”

Elizabeth blinked rapidly, trying to recall exactly what Mr. Darcy had suggested. Marriage, surely. With Wickham dead under suspicious circumstances, and Elizabeth’s name connected to his, propriety demanded a swift resolution, and Mr. Darcy had already made the offer even before they found Wickham’s body. Hadn’t he?

“I... I am not certain what to think,” she admitted, the words feeling thick in her throat. “It is all rather sudden.”

Mr. Darcy’s expression remained unchanged, though something flickered briefly in his eyes. Compassion, perhaps, or understanding. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his deep voice carefully modulated, “I would not wish to press you for an immediate answer. I merely suggest that, given the circumstances, a union between us might prove beneficial to both parties.”

Beneficial . Such a cold, practical word for what should be the most intimate of connections. And yet, there was nothing cold about the way he looked at her. Those same eyes that had once seemed so proud and disapproving now held a warmth that threatened to undo her entirely.

“Mr. Darcy speaks sense, Lizzy,” her father said, removing his spectacles to polish them with his handkerchief. “There will be talk in Meryton; Mr. Burnley is a good man and a good friend, but he will not be able to prevent the wagging tongues.”

“What talk?” Elizabeth asked, feeling a chill settle in her stomach. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“Of course you haven’t, my dear,” Mr. Bennet replied, replacing his spectacles. “But in your last public conversation with Mr. Wickham, it was… observed by several persons of our acquaintance, that there was some manner of disagreement between you.”

“It was nothing of consequence,” she said weakly. Just Wickham being cruel, in a horrible preview of what their marriage would be, she had assumed. He’d taunted her with her inability to escape the trap he’d set for her, all the while couching his menace in honeyed words which an observer might think loving. Elizabeth, however, had been unable to hide her fury and distress. It had been all she could do not to slap his smirking face.

“Perhaps not to you,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected, his tone kind but serious. “But in the eyes of society, a quarrel followed by a violent death casts suspicion, however unfounded it may be.”

“No one would truly believe Lizzy capable of such a thing,” Jane protested, her fingers tightening around Elizabeth’s.

“Of course not,” Darcy said firmly. “But scandal does not require truth to flourish. It requires only opportunity and malice, both of which are in ample supply in any community. The best thing to do, in my opinion, is for Miss Elizabeth to safely and respectably remove herself from the situation entirely… which leads us back to my offer.”

“You are very kind, sir,” she said quietly. “But I would not wish you to sacrifice yourself upon the altar of my reputation.”

Darcy’s eyes widened slightly, and he leaned forward in his chair. “Miss Elizabeth, pray do not think of it as a sacrifice,” he said, his voice low but fervent. “I assure you, my motives are not solely altruistic.”

A flush of warmth spread across Elizabeth’s cheeks as she caught his meaning. Despite everything, despite her misjudgement and their difficult history, his regard for her remained unchanged. It seemed impossible, yet the evidence was before her in the earnestness of his gaze.

“I cannot think clearly,” she admitted. “Everything has happened so quickly.”

“Of course it has,” Mr. Bennet said gently. “No one expects you to make such a momentous decision without proper consideration.”

Elizabeth felt a rush of gratitude toward her father, whose usual detachment had given way to genuine concern for her welfare. She looked around the room at the faces turned toward her: Jane’s sympathetic, her father’s concerned, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s respectfully attentive, and Darcy’s... Darcy’s face was a study in controlled emotion, his eyes never leaving hers, as though trying to communicate something beyond words.

“I thank you for your consideration, Mr. Darcy,” she said finally. “I confess I find myself at something of a loss. My judgment has proven faulty of late, and I hesitate to trust my own instincts in a matter of such importance.”

“Your judgment is sound, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy replied without hesitation. “You were misled by deliberate deception, not by any deficiency in your discernment.”

The words, meant to comfort, only served to remind Elizabeth of how thoroughly she had been taken in by Wickham’s charm and false confidences. She had prided herself on her ability to read character, and yet she had been blind to the truth that had been before her all along.

“I do not know what to do,” she whispered, more to herself than to the room at large.

“Then perhaps,” Mr. Bennet suggested, “you might simply consider what you want.”

What she wanted. It seemed such a simple question, yet Elizabeth found she had no ready answer. Her thoughts and feelings were too tangled, too confused by recent events to form any coherent desire. All she knew with certainty was that she did not wish to bring further pain or embarrassment to those she loved, nor did she wish to bind Mr. Darcy to her out of mere obligation or pity.

Elizabeth had always prided herself on her decisiveness as well as her discernment. From choosing which book to read in her father’s study to forming opinions about new acquaintances, she had trusted her judgment implicitly. That certainty had been her compass, guiding her through the complexities of society with confidence, if not always with perfect accuracy. Now, however, that compass seemed hopelessly broken, its needle spinning without direction or purpose, leaving her adrift in a sea of doubt and regret.

How had she arrived at this juncture? Each decision that had seemed so clear, so righteous at the time, now revealed itself as a misstep leading her down a treacherous path. She had been so certain of Wickham’s good character and Darcy’s bad, so convinced of her ability to discern truth from falsehood. That certainty had led her to confide in Wickham, to sympathize with his tales of mistreatment, even to encourage his attentions to some small degree. It had led her to reject Darcy’s first proposal with a vehemence that now made her cheeks burn with shame.

And now Wickham was dead, murdered, while the man she had so thoroughly misjudged sat before her, offering salvation from a scandal she had helped create. The irony was bitter indeed.

“I,” Elizabeth began, then faltered as all eyes turned to her once more. She took a deep breath and tried again. “I find myself in an unusual position. For someone who is usually quite decisive, I am in despair. Every decision I have made of late seems to have been wrong.”

The words tumbled out, halting and unpolished, so unlike her usual articulate manner. Elizabeth raised her eyes to meet Darcy’s gaze, finding there not judgment but something far more devastating: understanding.

“I cannot in good conscience make another decision of such magnitude when my judgment has proven so faulty,” she continued. “And yet, indecision is itself a kind of decision, is it not? One that affects not only my future but the reputation of my family and your own good name, Mr. Darcy.”

Mr. Darcy rose immediately from his chair and took two steps toward her before seeming to recollect himself. He paused, his tall figure framed by the afternoon light from the window, casting a long shadow across the carpet.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low and serious, “I would not for the world have you rushed. You must take as much time as you need.”

The simplicity of his statement, the utter lack of pressure or expectation, caused Elizabeth’s throat to tighten with emotion. This was not the proud, unbending man she had accused of ungentlemanly behaviour. This was someone else entirely, someone whose consideration ran deeper than mere courtesy. She felt a surge of gratitude so profound it momentarily overwhelmed her uncertainty. He understood. More than that, he was willing to place her comfort above social convention, her happiness above his own immediate interests.

“That is very generous of you, sir,” Mr. Bennet said, regarding Darcy with newfound respect. “Most men in your position would insist upon a swift resolution.”

“I am not most men,” Darcy replied simply, his eyes returning to Elizabeth. “And Miss Elizabeth is not most women.”

The statement hung in the air, its implications resonating through the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam cleared his throat gently, a small smile playing about his lips as he observed his cousin.

“Perhaps a compromise might be reached,” the colonel suggested. “Certain preparations could be made without any binding commitment.”

Darcy nodded, seizing upon the suggestion. “Indeed. I will send to my solicitor to make arrangements for the special license, but it is not binding until vows are said. Having it in hand will provide flexibility and privacy, should Miss Elizabeth eventually decide to accept my proposal.”

Elizabeth understood the practical advantages of such an arrangement. The special license would allow them to marry quickly and discreetly should the scandal grow too great to bear, while still providing her the time she needed to examine her feelings properly. It was a thoughtful solution, balancing pragmatism with respect for her autonomy.

“And how does one obtain such a license?” her father inquired, his academic curiosity apparently piqued.

“They must be granted by the Archbishop of Canterbury,” Colonel Fitzwilliam explained. “Though in practice, the application is handled through the Faculty Office. Darcy’s solicitor will manage the details.”

“It is not an inexpensive proposition,” Darcy added, anticipating the question that Elizabeth could see forming on her father’s lips. “But that need not concern anyone here. I will bear all costs associated with the license.”

“That is quite unnecessary,” Mr. Bennet began, but Darcy raised a hand in polite demurral.

“Please, sir, allow me this. It would be my privilege.”

Elizabeth watched this exchange with growing wonder. There was no condescension in Darcy’s offer, no hint that he considered the Bennet family beneath him financially. There was only a sincere desire to smooth the path forward, to remove obstacles rather than create them.

“Very well,” Mr. Bennet conceded, recognising the sincerity behind the offer. “We are in your debt, Mr. Darcy.”

“Not at all,” Darcy replied. His eyes found Elizabeth’s again, and she was struck by the intensity of his gaze. “Does this arrangement meet with your approval, Miss Elizabeth? I would have your explicit consent before proceeding.”

The question was so direct, so respectful of her agency, that Elizabeth felt a curious lightening of the burden she had been carrying. He was not demanding or presuming, merely offering a path that she might choose to follow when she was ready.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I believe it does. Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for your understanding and patience.”

A brief smile transformed his features, rendering him momentarily so handsome that Elizabeth felt her breath catch. It was gone almost instantly, replaced by his usual composed expression, but the memory of it lingered in her mind.

“Then it is settled,” he said. “I will let you know when I have the license in hand. At that point, the decision will rest entirely with you, Miss Elizabeth. There will be no obligation to proceed until or unless you are completely certain.”

The tension in the room seemed to dissipate somewhat, like mist burning away in the morning sun.

“I believe that concludes our business for today,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, glancing at Darcy. “We should not impose upon the Bennets’ hospitality any longer.”

“Yes, of course,” Darcy agreed, though Elizabeth thought she detected a reluctance in his voice. “We have much to arrange.”

They rose to take their leave, the colonel offering polite farewells to Mr. Bennet, Jane and Elizabeth in turn. When it came time for Darcy to bid Elizabeth goodbye, he hesitated, as though there were more he wished to say but could not find the words.

“I shall call again tomorrow, if I may,” he said finally. “There are matters regarding... regarding the investigation that you should be apprised of.”

Elizabeth nodded, suddenly reminded of the grim circumstances that had precipitated this entire situation. Somewhere in Meryton, Mr. Burnley was conducting an inquiry into Wickham’s death, questioning witnesses, examining evidence. The thought sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

“Until tomorrow, then,” she said.

Darcy bowed. “Until tomorrow, Miss Elizabeth.”

She watched as he and the colonel departed, their figures disappearing down the drive visible through the window. There was something reassuring about Darcy’s straight back and purposeful stride, a solidity that contrasted sharply with her own inner turmoil.

For the first time since Wickham compromised her, Elizabeth felt a small measure of peace. Not because her path forward was clear, but because she had been granted the time and space to find that path for herself. Mr. Darcy, whom she had once accused of ungentlemanly behaviour, had proven himself more considerate, more truly gentle in spirit, than she could have imagined.

Elizabeth stood beside her father’s desk, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between them. Jane’s hand rested lightly upon her arm, a silent reminder that she was not alone in this burden. They had managed to keep the dreadful news from their mother thus far, but Elizabeth knew the fragile peace could not last. The house was too small, the servants too talkative, and Mrs. Bennet’s curiosity too insatiable for such a significant event to remain concealed for long.

“Papa,” she said quietly, “we cannot continue with this deception. Mama will discover the truth, and it would be far better if it came from us rather than gossip from the neighbourhood.”

Mr. Bennet sighed deeply, removing his spectacles to polish them with his handkerchief. “Yes, I suppose you are right, Lizzy. Though I confess I have been enjoying these last moments of relative calm. Your mother’s nerves are likely to be most severely tried by this information.”

“It would be unkind to keep her in ignorance any longer,” Jane added.

“Very well,” Mr. Bennet conceded, replacing his spectacles and closing the book before him with a resigned air. “We shall tell her together. Though I advise you both to prepare yourselves for a scene of considerable proportions.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth suggested, “we might administer a few drops of her tonic beforehand? As a preventative measure?”

Mr. Bennet’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “An excellent strategy, Lizzy, though I fear all the tonics in England would be insufficient to the task.”

As if summoned by their conversation, the study door swung open with a forceful push, and Mrs. Bennet swept into the room, her countenance already flushed with agitation.

“Mr. Bennet! Oh, there you are. And Lizzy and Jane too! Well, I am glad to find you all together, for I am determined to know what is happening in my own house!” Her voice rose steadily as she advanced into the room. “All these strange comings and goings of Mr. Darcy, and Colonel Fitzwilliam! You cannot keep it from me any longer, I demand to know what is happening in my own house. Why has Mr. Darcy called twice in as many days? And why are you all looking so grave?”

She directed this last question primarily at her husband, who had retreated behind his desk as though it might provide some barrier against his wife’s interrogation. Mr. Bennet sighed and closed the ledger he had been pretending to examine.

“Perhaps you should sit down, Mrs. Bennet,” he suggested mildly.

“I will not sit down! I am the mistress of this house, and I will not be treated like a child who must be protected from unpleasant news, nor will I be confined to my own home! Something is amiss, and I insist upon knowing what it is.” Her voice rose steadily in both volume and pitch as she spoke, her handkerchief fluttering in her hand like a distress signal.

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who nodded almost imperceptibly. They had known this moment would come eventually. Their mother could not be kept in ignorance indefinitely, not with the whole of Meryton likely already buzzing with rumours.

“Mama,” Elizabeth began carefully, “there has been an unfortunate incident in the village.” She paused, searching for words that might soften the blow, but found none adequate to the task. “Mr. Wickham has been found dead.”

Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened, the colour draining from her face so rapidly that Elizabeth feared she might faint. “Dead? Mr. Wickham? But he was so young, so handsome... How can this be? Was it an illness?”

“Murdered,” Mr. Bennet added helpfully from behind his desk, his tone far too casual for the gravity of the statement. “Stabbed.”

“Papa!” Jane exclaimed, giving her father a look of rare reproach.

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, wishing her father had exercised a bit more discretion in his delivery of this information. When she opened them again, it was to find her mother swaying alarmingly, her handkerchief pressed to her lips.

“Murdered,” Mrs. Bennet whispered, the word seeming to hover in the air between them, heavy with implication. “But who would... why would... oh my poor nerves!” This last came out as a wail as Mrs. Bennet collapsed back into the chair she had declined moments earlier, her free hand pressed dramatically to her forehead. “I cannot bear it! First Lizzy being compromised, now murder! What will become of us? We shall be shunned by all of society!”

“Mama, please,” Jane said soothingly, moving to kneel beside their mother’s chair. “You must try to remain calm. No one in this family has done anything wrong.”

“A man has been murdered, Jane! A man who very nearly became your sister’s husband! How can I possibly remain calm ?” Mrs. Bennet’s voice had risen to a pitch that threatened to shatter the delicate crystal figurines on the mantelpiece.

Elizabeth, recognising the signs of an impending hysteric fit, rose and crossed to the small cabinet where her father kept his brandy. She poured a small measure into a glass and brought it to her mother.

“Drink this, Mama,” she urged, pressing the glass into her mother’s trembling hand. “It will help steady your nerves.”

Mrs. Bennet accepted the glass automatically, but made no move to drink from it. “But what has this to do with Mr. Darcy?” she demanded querulously. “Why should Wickham’s death bring him to our door?”

Elizabeth hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. There was no connection between Mr. Darcy's presence and Wickham's death; at least, she believed firmly that there was not. To explain Mr. Darcy's reasons for being in Hertfordshire, however, would require divulging information about both Mr. Darcy's prior dealings with Wickham and his proposals to her, something she was reluctant to do with her mother in such a state. She could not begin to predict how Mrs. Bennet might react to such intelligence.

“Mr. Darcy has been assisting the authorities with their inquiries,” she said finally, choosing her words with care. “As he and Mr. Wickham were previously acquainted, his knowledge has been valuable to Mr. Burnley.”

It was not precisely a lie, though it was far from the complete truth. Mr. Darcy had indeed been providing information to the magistrate, but his presence at Longbourn had more to do with protecting Elizabeth than with advancing the investigation.

“But that doesn’t explain why he should be here ,“ Mrs. Bennet persisted, her natural shrewdness penetrating Elizabeth’s attempt at evasion. “Unless... unless there is some connection between you and this horrible business?”

Before Elizabeth could formulate a response, Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened with a new and terrible realization. “Oh! You were seen arguing with Mr. Wickham! Mrs. Long mentioned it when she called yesterday, but I thought nothing of it at the time. Oh, Lizzy! Are you suspected of this dreadful deed?”

This last question emerged as a shriek. The brandy in Mrs. Bennet’s glass sloshed dangerously close to the rim as her hand began to shake violently.

“Of course not, Mama,” Jane interjected firmly, taking the glass before its contents could spill onto their mother’s dress. “No one who knows Lizzy could possibly think her capable of such a thing.”

“But people will talk,” Mrs. Bennet moaned, clutching at her chest. “They always do. And once they begin... oh, I feel faint! My smelling salts, quickly!”

Elizabeth moved swiftly to retrieve the small vial. As she pressed it into Mrs. Bennet’s outstretched hand, she found herself experiencing an unexpected sensation: gratitude. The chaos of her mother’s reaction, the immediate practical necessities of managing a hysteric fit, left her no time to dwell on her own tumultuous emotions. It was, in its way, a relief.

“Perhaps we should send for Mr. Jones,” Jane suggested.

“No,” Elizabeth replied quietly. “I think the brandy and smelling salts will suffice. She is upset, but not truly ill.”

Mrs. Bennet, apparently overhearing this exchange despite her supposed semi-conscious state, opened her eyes to glare accusingly at her daughters. “Not truly ill? When my child may be implicated in a murder? When our family name may be ruined beyond repair? I am surprised my heart continues to beat at all under such strain!”

“No one has implicated Lizzy in anything, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said, finally emerging from behind his desk to join the family grouping.

“And what has all this to do with Mr. Darcy? Why was he here?” Mrs. Bennet continued to demand answers.

“Why, to propose to Lizzy.” Mr. Bennet dropped the bombshell, causing both Jane and Elizabeth to cast looks of reproach in his direction as their mother’s shrieks began anew.

Elizabeth sighed, wishing that her father had kept the secret a while longer, but recognising that further evasion would only prolong her mother’s agitation. “Mr. Darcy believes that a connection between our family name and such a scandal might be damaging,” she admitted. “His offer is motivated partly by a desire to shield me from malicious gossip.”

“Only partly?” Mrs. Bennet seized upon the qualification instantly. “What is the other part?”

“I believe,” Jane said gently, coming to Elizabeth’s rescue when Elizabeth froze in panic, “that Mr. Darcy holds Lizzy in genuine regard. He would not offer marriage solely as a matter of protection.”

Mrs. Bennet fell silent at this, her brow furrowed in thought. Elizabeth could almost see the calculations taking place behind her mother’s eyes: weighing the potential scandal against the prospect of a daughter married to one of the wealthiest men in England.

“Ten thousand a year,” Mrs. Bennet murmured, apparently arriving at her conclusion. “And Pemberley.” She took a deep breath, then took the brandy glass Jane still held and drained the contents in one swallow. “Well, Lizzy, you must marry him, of course. As soon as possible.”

“Mama!” Elizabeth said exasperatedly. “I have not yet decided whether to accept Mr. Darcy’s proposal.”

“Not decided?” Mrs. Bennet echoed incredulously. “What is there to decide? On one hand, scandal and ruin. On the other, wealth and security. It seems perfectly clear to me.”

“There is rather more to marriage than wealth and security, Mama,” Elizabeth replied, though she knew from experience that this concept often eluded her mother.

“So you say,” Mrs. Bennet sniffed. “But neither love nor principle will keep a roof over your head or food on your table.”

“That is quite enough, Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Bennet interjected, his tone sharper than usual. “Elizabeth will make her own decision in her own time. The matter is not open for debate.”

Mrs. Bennet opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it again, apparently recognising the unusual firmness in her husband’s voice. Instead, she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and settled for a martyred sigh. “Very well. But when we are all cast out of society, living in some hovel and depending on the charity of my brother Gardiner, remember that I warned you.”

Jane caught Elizabeth’s eye over their mother’s bowed head, her expression a mix of sympathy and weary familiarity. How many times had they weathered similar storms together? How many crises had they managed, side by side? There was comfort in the routine of it, in the practiced way they worked in tandem to soothe their mother’s fears and calm her nerves.

As she mechanically offered reassurances and adjusted pillows behind her mother’s back, Elizabeth found her thoughts returning to the real heart of the matter: a man was dead, murdered, and her name was somehow entangled with his. Somewhere in the village, Mr. Burnley was investigating, questioning, piecing together the final hours of George Wickham’s life. And Mr. Darcy, the man she had once despised and now hardly knew how to categorise, was preparing to obtain a special license that might bind their lives together forever.

The future stretched before her, uncertain and fraught with complications she could never have anticipated. But for now, in the immediate present, there was only her mother’s distress to manage. It was, in its way, a merciful reprieve from the weight of her own thoughts, and for that, at least, Elizabeth was grateful.