Page 28 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious “Miss B”

As they made their way towards the supper boxes, Darcy noticed how natural it felt to have Elizabeth at his side, how right this gathering seemed.

Bingley and Jane walked ahead, lost in their own conversation, whilst the Gardiners followed behind, pointing out various attractions to one another.

For once, their little party felt like a family rather than an arrangement of convenience.

They dined on the Gardens’ famous wafer-thin ham and syllabub, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine.

Elizabeth exclaimed over every new wonder—the cascade with its artificial waterfall, the rotunda where couples danced beneath the stars, the Grand Walk where the ton paraded in their finest attire.

“Would you care to explore the darker walks?” Darcy asked as the Gardiners settled into comfortable conversation with Jane and Bingley. “They are quite beautiful in the evening light.”

Elizabeth’s eyes met his, and something passed between them—an understanding, perhaps, that this evening held possibilities beyond mere entertainment.

“I should like that very much,” she replied.

They excused themselves from the party and ventured into the network of smaller paths that wound through the gardens’ more secluded areas. Here, the lamps were fewer and more intimate, creating pools of golden light amongst the shadows. The sounds of the main thoroughfares faded to a gentle murmur.

“I confess,” Elizabeth said as they walked along a path bordered by fragrant lilacs, “I had never imagined anything quite like this. It seems a world apart from ordinary life.”

“It is meant to be,” Darcy replied. “A place where the usual rules of society are… softened, shall we say. Where one might speak more freely than in a drawing room.”

She glanced at him sideways. “And what would you speak freely about, Mr Darcy?”

They had reached a small clearing where a bench sat beneath an ornamental arbour. Beyond it, the Thames wound its way through the darkness, dotted with the lights of passing wherries. Darcy gestured towards the seat, and Elizabeth settled beside him, her silk skirts rustling.

“I would speak of regrets,” he said finally. “And of wishes that I perhaps have no right to voice.”

“What sort of regrets?”

“That our courtship began as a deception. That every moment we have shared has been shadowed by the knowledge that it is temporary.” He turned to face her more fully. “And my greatest regret—that I may have allowed pride to prevent me from acknowledging what I should have recognised long ago.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught slightly. “And what is that?”

“That what began as convenience has become something far more precious.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “That the thought of ending our arrangement, of returning to mere acquaintance, has become unbearable.”

The silence stretched between them, filled only with the distant strains of a violin and the gentle lapping of water against the embankment. Elizabeth’s hands lay folded in her lap, and Darcy noticed how her fingers trembled slightly.

“I find myself sharing those same regrets,” she said at last. “These weeks have shown me… that is, I have discovered…”

“What have you discovered?”

“That I do not wish this to end either.” The words emerged in a rush, as though she had been holding them back for weeks. “That somewhere amidst all our pretending, I have ceased to pretend at all.”

Joy flooded through Darcy’s chest like sunrise breaking over a landscape, he reached for her hand. She did not pull away but instead allowed their fingers to intertwine.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured.

“Yes?”

“May I?” But the question was answered before he could finish it, as she leaned closer, her face tilted up towards his.

Their lips met, tentatively at first, then with growing certainty as the last barriers between them crumbled away. This was no performance for watching eyes, no calculated gesture of their charade. This was honest and real and filled with the promise of everything they had not dared to hope for.

When they finally drew apart, Elizabeth’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Whatever happens now,” she whispered, “I am glad we have had this moment of truth.”

“There will be many more such moments,” Darcy replied, lifting their joined hands to brush a kiss across her knuckles. “I promise you that.”

They might have remained there longer, lost in their newfound understanding, but the sound of raised voices from the direction of the main walk drew their attention. Through the trees, they could see a commotion near their supper box.

“We should return,” Elizabeth said, though her reluctance was clear.

As they approached their party, the cause of the disturbance became apparent. James Morton stood beside their table, his usually polished appearance dishevelled and his voice carrying the sharp edge of a man pushed beyond his limits.

“…absolutely unconscionable behaviour,” he was saying to Jane, who shrank back against Bingley’s protective arm. “To throw over a perfectly reasonable arrangement for this—”

“Mr Morton,” Mr Gardiner said, rising from his seat. “You will moderate your tone when speaking to my nieces.” At once, Darcy realised who this was. James Morton. The heir to Longbourn after Mr Morton. He leaned forward and whispered his observation to Bingley, who nodded.

James whirled towards him, his eyes wild. “Your nieces? Your nieces have destroyed everything! Do you understand what they have cost me? What they have cost my family?”

“Sir, please,” Bingley said, his usual gentle demeanour replaced by steel. “You are creating a scene.”

“A scene?” James laughed bitterly. “I am beyond caring about scenes, Bingley. Your precious Jane has made me a laughingstock. My uncle’s faith in me is shattered. My prospects are ruined. And for what? So she could play at romance with a man who will tire of her within a year?”

“That is quite enough,” Darcy said sharply as he and Elizabeth approached. The authority in his voice cut through James’s tirade like a blade.

James’s gaze fixed on them, and his expression grew even more venomous.

“Ah, you must be Mr Darcy, the great saviour. And I assume you are Bingley. The charming prince. How convenient that you should appear just now.” His eyes narrowed as he took in their joined hands, their slightly dishevelled appearance.

“Tell me, Darcy, how does it feel to be part of this elaborate deception? Or perhaps it is no longer a deception? Perhaps you have truly fallen for the charms of a country nobody?”

“You will apologise immediately,” Darcy said, his voice deadly quiet. “To Miss Bennet, to Miss Elizabeth, and to this entire company for your disgraceful behaviour.”

“I will do no such thing,” James spat. “They have taken everything from me—my uncle’s respect, my future, my pride. Why should I show them courtesy?”

“Because you are a gentleman,” Bingley said. “Or you are supposed to be.”

“Gentleman?” James’s laugh was harsh and bitter. “Gentlemen finish last in this world, Bingley. Haven’t you learned that yet? These women care nothing for honour or obligation. They care only for wealth and status and their own selfish desires.”

“You speak of things you do not understand,” Elizabeth said, her voice steady despite the colour in her cheeks. “Jane’s feelings for Mr Bingley are genuine, as are his for her. Love cannot be forced or bought, Mr Morton.”

“Love!” James practically spat the word. “What a pretty fiction. Your sister promised to marry me, Miss Elizabeth. She gave her word. But apparently, a Bennet’s word means nothing when a richer prospect appears.”

“Jane promised nothing,” Mr Gardiner interjected. “She was presented with an ultimatum and given no real choice. That is hardly the same thing as a willing engagement.”

Several other patrons of the gardens had begun to stare, drawn by the increasingly heated exchange. Darcy stepped forward, placing himself partially between James and the ladies.

“This conversation is over,” he said with finality. “You will leave now, or I will have you removed.”

For a moment, James looked as though he might argue further. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Darcy tensed, prepared to defend the party if necessary. But then James seemed to master himself, though the fury in his eyes remained undimmed.

“This is not finished,” he said, his gaze moving from Jane to Elizabeth to Darcy. “None of this is finished. You think you have won, but you have merely postponed the reckoning.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away, disappearing into the crowd of evening revellers.

The silence that followed was deafening. Jane had gone pale as parchment, whilst Mrs Gardiner fanned herself with trembling hands. Bingley’s jaw was set in a hard line, and Mr Gardiner looked as though he wished to follow James and finish the confrontation.

“Well,” Elizabeth said finally, her voice slightly shaky but determined to lighten the mood. “I suppose we cannot say the evening has been dull.”

Despite everything, Bingley managed a weak smile. “Indeed. Perhaps we should retire to a more private area of the gardens?”

As they gathered their belongings and moved away from the curious stares of other patrons, Darcy felt Elizabeth’s hand slip into his once more. The touch was grounding, reassuring—a reminder that whatever threats James Morton might pose, they would face them together.

The incident had shaken them all, but it had also crystallised something important. The bonds between their little party had been tested and proven strong. Jane’s happiness with Bingley remained unshakeable, and Darcy’s own connection with Elizabeth felt more real and precious than ever.

Whatever James Morton might plan, they would be ready for it. Together.