Page 41 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A SHOOTING STAR

The drawing room at Longbourn had never appeared so transformed.

Boughs of autumn leaves adorned the mantelpiece, ribbons festooned the walls, and candles glowed on every available surface, casting a warm, golden light that made even the familiar, worn furniture seem enchanted.

Six weeks had passed since Elizabeth’s abduction and rescue—six weeks of recovery, reflection, and, most remarkably, reconciliation with the neighborhood that had once shunned the Bennet family.

Elizabeth observed the gathering from her position near the window seat, taking a moment’s respite from the enthusiastic congratulations that had followed her everywhere since the dual engagement announcement.

Jane stood across the room with Mr. Bingley, her serene beauty heightened by happiness as she accepted Mrs. Long’s effusive good wishes. How quickly opinion had shifted once the truth of Wickham’s villainy and Lady Catherine’s machinations became known.

“A penny for your thoughts, Miss Elizabeth,” said a voice at her elbow.

Elizabeth turned to find Colonel Fitzwilliam, his military posture softened by the warmth of his smile. Of all Darcy’s relations, the colonel had proven the most genuinely welcoming of her into the family.

“I was contemplating the remarkable elasticity of neighborhood opinion,” she replied with a quirk of her eyebrow. “Six weeks ago, the Bennets were social pariahs. Today, we host the most coveted gathering of the season.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed. “The ton in London is no different, I assure you. Scandal and redemption provide the rhythm by which society dances.” He glanced meaningfully toward Darcy, who was engaged in surprisingly animated conversation with Sir William Lucas.

“Though I must say, witnessing my cousin’s transformation has been the greater marvel.

I have never seen him so at ease in company. ”

“Nor laughing so readily,” Elizabeth agreed, watching as Darcy’s face lit with amusement at something Sir William said. Her heart gave a peculiar flutter—still a novel sensation, though becoming pleasantly familiar.

“Your influence, no doubt,” Colonel Fitzwilliam observed. “Darcy was always possessed of an excellent sense of humor, though few were privileged to witness it.”

“I cannot claim credit,” Elizabeth demurred. “Perhaps near-death experiences foster a greater appreciation for life’s lighter moments.”

“Or perhaps love does,” the colonel suggested slyly.

Mary struck a decisive chord on the pianoforte, silencing the buzz of conversation. Mr. Bennet stepped forward, glass raised.

“If I might have your attention,” he called, his dry voice carrying surprising authority.

“I find myself in the unusual position of hosting not one but two engagement celebrations this evening. As a father with five daughters, I had long resigned myself to eventual bankruptcy through wedding expenses. However, I never anticipated feeling quite so pleased about the prospect.”

Appreciative laughter rippled through the room. Elizabeth caught her father’s eye and saw the mixture of genuine happiness and wry resignation she had come to expect from him. Yet there was something more—a depth of feeling he rarely displayed in company.

“To my Jane and her Mr. Bingley,” Mr. Bennet continued, raising his glass higher. “May your gentleness and optimism continue to complement each other for all your days.”

Jane blushed prettily as Bingley beamed beside her, his happiness so transparent it radiated from him like torchlight.

“And to my Lizzy,” Mr. Bennet’s voice softened, “and Mr. Darcy. May your mutual stubbornness serve you well in the years to come.”

Elizabeth felt Darcy move to her side as laughter and applause filled the room. His hand found hers, warm and steady, a silent affirmation of shared understanding.

“I believe we have been both complimented and gently mocked,” he murmured close to her ear.

“My father’s specialty,” she replied, squeezing his hand. “One I hope you’ve grown accustomed to.”

“I find I have developed a taste for it,” Darcy admitted, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that still surprised and delighted her. “Though I maintain that ‘persistence’ would be a more flattering term than ‘stubbornness.’”

“Semantics, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth teased, enjoying the flicker of warmth in his eyes whenever she addressed him so formally in intimate moments.

Mary and Georgiana began a lively country dance tune, prompting Bingley to lead Jane to the center of the room. Other couples joined them, furniture having been discreetly moved to the edges earlier in the day to create an impromptu dance floor.

“Shall we?” Darcy asked, offering his arm with formal grace that did not entirely mask the eagerness in his eyes.

“Are you certain your shoulder permits it?” Elizabeth asked, genuine concern tempering her delight.

“Completely healed,” he assured her. “Mrs. Porter pronounced me fit for all normal activities two weeks ago.”

“Dancing at Longbourn hardly qualifies as normal for you,” Elizabeth pointed out as she placed her hand on his arm.

“I find my definition of ‘normal’ has expanded considerably since making your acquaintance,” Darcy replied, leading her toward the dancers.

The steps of the dance brought them together and apart, their hands touching and releasing in the pattern dictated by tradition.

Each brief contact was charged with meaning beyond the mere execution of the figures.

When Darcy’s fingers closed around hers during a turn, Elizabeth felt the gentle pressure like a promise.

“You dance remarkably well for a man who professes to dislike the activity,” she observed when the pattern brought them side by side.

“My motivation has improved,” he answered simply, his gaze holding hers for a heartbeat longer than propriety strictly dictated.

The music shifted to a slower melody as Georgiana took over the pianoforte alone, Mary having been claimed for a dance by one of the Goulding cousins.

This tune required closer proximity, hands joined for longer passages.

Elizabeth found herself hyperaware of Darcy’s nearness, the clean scent of his shaving soap, and the precise grace of his movements.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said sedately as they turned together, his voice pitched for her ears alone, “the scar has healed rather… distinctively.”

“Oh?” Elizabeth prompted, intrigued by the hint of mischief in his expression.

“Yes. Mrs. Porter seemed quite astonished by its shape.” His eyes held hers, serious yet playful. “It appears to have formed the perfect outline of a heart.”

Elizabeth nearly missed a step. “Mr. Darcy, are you teasing me?”

“Not at all,” he assured her, steadying her with a hand at her waist. “I shall show you myself… after we are married.”

The promise in those words sent a rush of warmth to Elizabeth’s cheeks. “I shall hold you to that, sir.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

Their dance concluded as the front door burst open with such force that several nearby candles guttered in the draft.

All heads turned to see Mr. Collins in the doorway, Charlotte hovering apologetically behind him.

Both appeared travel-worn and distressed, though Mr. Collins maintained his air of pompous dignity.

“Cousin Bennet!” he announced, as if his arrival had been eagerly anticipated rather than a startling interruption. “I come to you in a time of most grievous tribulation!”

Mrs. Bennet, who had been observing her daughters’ happiness with uncharacteristic serenity, looked as if she might faint. “Mr. Collins! We had no word of your coming!”

“The urgency of our situation permitted no time for correspondence,” Mr. Collins declared, advancing into the room with Charlotte following in his wake.

He stopped short upon noticing the gathered company.

“Ah! I see we are interrupting festivities. How… fortuitous to find so many friends assembled.”

Elizabeth exchanged a quick glance with Darcy, whose barely perceptible eye-roll matched her own sentiment. Poor Charlotte looked mortified, her usual composure cracking under the strain of her husband’s dramatic entrance.

“Perhaps we might discuss your tribulation in the study,” Mr. Bennet suggested dryly, clearly reluctant to have his evening commandeered by his cousin’s theatrics.

“It concerns us all!” Mr. Collins insisted. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh, that most gracious and discerning of patronesses, has—” he faltered, seeming to register Darcy’s presence for the first time. “That is to say, circumstances have arisen which necessitate… adjustments to our living arrangements.”

“We’ve lost the parsonage,” Charlotte said. “Lady Catherine has appointed a new rector to Hunsford.”

A ripple of surprise moved through the gathering. Elizabeth felt Darcy stiffen beside her, though his expression remained neutral. With her newfound propriety and discretion, she’d neglected to mention any hint of Lady Catherine’s deal with Wickham.

“Indeed?” Sir William Lucas stepped forward, concern for his daughter evident in his posture. “On what grounds?”

Mr. Collins tugged at his cravat, his expression a peculiar mixture of indignation and deference.

“Lady Catherine has seen fit to… reapportion her patronage, despite my exemplary service and the living that was guaranteed to me. A most unexpected and—dare I say—unprecedented decision. Though, of course, her ladyship’s wisdom in all matters is beyond question. ”

“What my husband means,” Charlotte clarified, with a pointed look at her spouse, “is that Lady Catherine has appointed a new rector, Mr. Wickham.”

The collective intake of breath was audible. Elizabeth stifled an entirely inappropriate laugh.

“George Wickham?” Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted. “As a clergyman?”

“With a bride specially selected by her ladyship,” Mr. Collins added. “A Miss Thistlewood, formerly a companion to Lady Catherine’s cousin. A most… expeditious union, I understand, she being already with child, three months, I believe.”

Elizabeth needed a moment’s respite from Mr. Collins’s pomposity and the mention of Wickham. She drew herself toward the garden door and stepped onto the small terrace.

Darcy joined her almost immediately, draping his jacket around her shoulders without comment.

“What a peculiar twist of fate,” Elizabeth remarked, gazing at the star-filled sky. “Wickham as a clergyman, by your aunt’s arrangement.”

“It angers me,” Darcy admitted. “No consideration for you or Georgiana.”

“Yet, it is perfectly in character,” Elizabeth supplied. “She sought to remove me from your life and failed. Now she salvages what advantage she can from the situation.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed. “By elevating the very man who abducted you? The logic escapes me.”

“Control,” Elizabeth explained. “By providing Wickham with a living and a wife, she binds him to her interests. He cannot expose her involvement without implicating himself. And she presents herself to society as a benefactress, reforming a wayward soul through Christian charity.”

Understanding dawned in Darcy’s expression. “Calculating to the last.”

“Precisely.” Elizabeth turned to face him fully, reaching up to smooth the concern from his brow with gentle fingers. “But her schemes no longer matter to us, Fitzwilliam.”

His expression softened at her use of his given name, still a rare enough occurrence to carry special significance. “No, not when we’ve faced life and death.”

“I can’t imagine losing you.” She gazed at him, heavy with yearning, realizing that she’d almost lost him before she even knew she had him.

“You practically demanded that I live.” A corner of his lips turned up wryly. “I remember your voice, demanding I live so you could require explanations. Said you might have accepted me had I spoken to you as if you mattered. That you were worthy—not a failing, not a regrettable affliction.”

A strange flutter moved through Elizabeth’s chest. “You heard that? You remember?” She broke off, heat rising in her cheeks as she realized the implications.

Darcy’s smile turned decidedly mischievous. “Oh yes, I remember. Every word. You were right then. You are worthy now. Of everything I can give you.”

He reached into his waistcoat, producing a single white tulip, denoting worthiness.

Elizabeth accepted the tulip, twirling it in his face. “Shall I recall every feverish uttering, Mr. Darcy? I believe there was something about swans named Lizzy and Fitzy.”

Darcy’s cheeks turned a blazing red. “Perhaps we might agree to mutual discretion on that particular subject.”

“How very convenient for you,” Elizabeth laughed. “Especially since I have learned to keep secrets, even from Jane.”

His expression acknowledged her discretion, never mentioning the garden proposal and other details too private to share.

Above them, a shooting star traced a brilliant path across the clear night sky. Elizabeth followed its arc. A sense of completion, of rightness, settled over her like a mantle.

“A fortuitous omen,” Darcy murmured, his gaze following hers upward.

“Do you believe in such things, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth teased, surprised by this hint of superstition in her eminently rational fiancé.

“I believe I have been granted more good fortune than I deserve.” His voice was low and raspy. “If the stars wish to offer their blessing as well, I shall not reject it.”

“How very accommodating of you.” Elizabeth laughed softly. “And they say pride is your greatest fault.”

“Perhaps,” Darcy replied, his lips hovering over hers, “it is simply that I have found something I value far more.”

The End