Page 33 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
“Cannot?” he interrupted, an edge of desperation entering his voice.
“Or will not? If your heart is truly indifferent to me, Elizabeth, say so now, and I will trouble you no further. But if there is any part of you that returns my feelings, even in the smallest measure, do not reject what could be the greatest happiness of both our lives out of concern for what others might think.”
A single tear escaped, trailing down her cheek before she could catch it. Seeing that solitary evidence of her emotion affected Darcy more powerfully than any words could have.
“My heart is not indifferent.” Her voice was barely audible. “But that is precisely why I cannot accept you now. I care for you too much to risk your future happiness on emotions heightened by extraordinary circumstances.”
The words carried the weight of her deeper fear—that she had spent so long fighting to prove herself worthy of his respect, she could not bear to accept his proposal only to watch that hard-won regard fade into regret.
“I can praise your sentiments,” Darcy said softly, brushing away the tear’s trail with his thumb. “But they are spoken by a woman who underestimates her worth. I would not have you make such a momentous decision based on fear rather than hope.”
“And if I were to accept you now,” Elizabeth asked, “and you were to return to Pemberley, to your life among the first circles, only to discover that what you felt was the product of fever and danger rather than lasting attachment—what then?”
“That will not happen,” Darcy insisted.
“You cannot know that with certainty,” she countered, though her tone held more sadness than conviction.
“I can and do,” he replied. “But if you require proof of my constancy, I will provide it. A week, a month, a year—whatever time you need to be certain of my regard.”
Elizabeth hesitated, vulnerability flashing across her features before she mastered it. A jay called from a nearby tree, the harsh sound underscoring the tension between them.
“And if I were to tell you that I might accept your proposal in six months, a year, if your feelings remain unchanged—would that satisfy you?” There was a vulnerability in her question that pierced Darcy to the core.
“Nothing would satisfy me but having you as my wife immediately,” he admitted. “But I would accept a delay if the alternative is losing you entirely.”
Elizabeth studied him, her eyes searching his face as if seeking confirmation of his sincerity. The dappled sunlight played across her features, highlighting the gold flecks in her eyes, the delicate curve of her lips, and the stubborn chin that spoke of her indomitable spirit.
“Then I propose a compromise,” she said, her voice steadier than it had been.
“You shall return to Pemberley to complete your recovery. I shall remain at Longbourn. We will correspond, and when you are fully restored to health—when sufficient time has passed for both of us to be certain of our feelings—you will return. If it comes to pass, our eventual union must be above reproach for both our sakes.”
It was not the acceptance he had hoped for, but neither was it the rejection he had feared. Still, Darcy found himself reluctant to yield so easily.
“I will return, but how long is enough to convince you? Six weeks? Six months, a year? If I ask you again to be my wife—what then, Elizabeth?”
Her lips curved into a smile that held a genuine warmth. “Then, Mr. Darcy, I believe my answer would be quite different.”
“You care for me,” he said.
Elizabeth did not deny it. The color that had receded from her cheeks returned, a becoming blush that spread across her features like sunset across Pemberley’s lake.
“I have come to…” She hesitated, then seemed to gather her courage. “To love you, I think. Enough to wish for your lasting happiness, even if that requires temporary separation.”
The confession, offered with such vulnerability, struck Darcy with its sincerity. She loved him. Not merely cared for him, not merely regarded him, but loved him.
“Elizabeth. My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.”
He leaned forward, drawn by an impulse he could not resist, his gaze dropping to her lips. For a moment, it seemed she might not pull away, might allow the kiss that every fiber of his being craved. But then she placed a gentle hand on his chest, halting his advance.
“Not yet,” she whispered, her eyes communicating what words could not—that she wanted this as much as he did, but that wisdom dictated restraint. “When you return, perhaps. When we are both certain.”
“I shall write to you from Pemberley,” he said, reluctantly releasing her hands as he heard approaching footsteps on the garden path. “And I shall return to claim what you have all but promised me today.”
“I shall await your letters,” Elizabeth replied, a hint of her familiar spirit returning to her expression. “And perhaps, if they are particularly persuasive, I shall even respond in kind.”
“I shall make them irresistible,” he promised. “You will find yourself reaching for pen and paper before you’ve finished reading.”
“Such confidence, Mr. Darcy,” she teased, though her eyes remained soft with emotion. “Some things, it seems, never change.”
“While others,” he countered, “change profoundly.”
Their eyes met in perfect understanding, the moment suspended in time like a dewdrop on a spider’s web—fragile, beautiful, ephemeral. Then Bingley appeared on the garden path, his expression apologetic.
“Forgive the interruption,” he said, “but Mrs. Bennet is becoming concerned about the heat affecting Miss Elizabeth.”
“A mother’s concern is never unwelcome,” Darcy replied, rising from the bench with more effort than he cared to display. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he swayed slightly, his vision darkening at the edges.
“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth was instantly at his side, her arm slipping around his waist to steady him. All pretense of formality vanished in her concern. “You should not have exerted yourself so. Mr. Bingley, help me get him back to the house.”
Darcy wanted to protest that he needed no assistance, but his body betrayed him. His knees buckled slightly, and only Elizabeth’s support kept him from an ignominious collapse.
“I’m fine,” he insisted, though the words came out weaker than he intended. “Just a moment of lightheadedness.”
“You are not fine,” Elizabeth countered. “You are pale as death and burning with heat. Come, lean on me.”
He had no choice but to accept her support, his arm draped across her shoulders as Bingley took his other side. Her strength surprised him—this slip of a woman bearing his weight without complaint, her concern overriding any consideration of propriety.
When they reached the drawing room, Mrs. Bennet rose in alarm at the sight of Darcy’s pallor. “Gracious! Mr. Darcy, you look positively faint. Lizzy, what have you done to the poor man?”
“Nothing, Mama,” Elizabeth replied, helping Darcy to a chair. “The heat has overcome him; that is all. He should not have ventured out in his condition.”
“Hill, bring water and smelling salts,” Mrs. Bennet commanded. “Lydia, fetch a fan. Jane, open the windows wider.”
The flurry of activity around him was humiliating, yet Darcy could not summon the strength to protest. Elizabeth remained at his side, her hand cool against his brow as she checked for fever.
“You are overheated, not feverish,” she murmured, her voice pitched for his ears alone. “But you should return to Netherfield immediately. You have overtaxed yourself.”
“Worth it,” he replied, too weak for pride. “To hear what you told me.”
A soft smile touched her lips, intimate despite the audience of her family. “Rest now. We will speak again before you leave for Pemberley.”
The promise sustained him through the embarrassment of being all but carried to Bingley’s carriage, through the jolting journey back to Netherfield, through Georgiana’s worried scolding and Mrs. Porter’s dire predictions about relapses.
Elizabeth loved him. Not yet enough to accept his proposal, but enough to admit the feeling and promise a different answer when he returned.
He would return much sooner than later.