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Elizabeth

E lizabeth’s journey from Kent to London had taken less than a day, the hired post-chaise carrying her northwards through a landscape she scarcely observed.

Her mind, preoccupied with the bitter exchange at Rosings, paid little heed to the passing scenery—until the sprawling metropolis revealed itself.

And then, she arrived. Her uncle’s home loomed before her. How odd that it was at once the place she’d fled from, and now the place she sought refuge at.

She lifted the knocker when the door opened, revealing her aunt’s concerned face.

“Lizzy! Goodness, we received your express but an hour ago.”

“Forgive me for descending upon you without proper notice,” Elizabeth said as Mrs Gardiner embraced her. Her familiar rose scent was like coming home. Why was it that her Aunt Gardiner had always provided her with more maternal love and affection than her own mother ever could?

“Nonsense, my dear. You are always welcome.”

Within moments, Elizabeth found herself ushered into the familiar parlour, a cup of tea pressed into her hands, and Mrs Gardiner’s gentle enquiries meeting her ears.

The mundane comfort of it all—the crackling fire, the orderly room with its well-polished furniture, the scent of beeswax and lavender—nearly undid her composure.

“My uncle is not at home?” Elizabeth asked, noting his absence.

“He is at his warehouse, but shall return for dinner. I have sent a boy to inform him of your arrival.” Mrs Gardiner studied her niece carefully.

“You look quite exhausted, Lizzy. Is all well between you and Mr Darcy? I was so pleased to hear you finally called on your parents. They were so worried.”

The simple question broke the fragile dam of Elizabeth’s control. Tears welled in her eyes despite her efforts to master them.

“Oh, my dear girl,” Mrs Gardiner murmured, moving to sit beside her. “Tell me everything.”

And so, Elizabeth did, beginning with the Blackfriars, her discovery of Jonathan’s controlling nature, and her desperate flight from the church.

She recounted her chance meeting with Mr Darcy, his extraordinary proposal, their journey to Gretna Green, and the change between them neither had seen coming.

“We found a harmony at Pemberley,” Elizabeth admitted, dabbing at her eyes with her aunt’s handkerchief. “A companionship I had not thought possible when I accepted his offer.”

Mrs Gardiner listened without interruption, her expression showing neither shock nor censure as Elizabeth described the deepening of her feelings for Darcy, the disastrous visit to Hertfordshire, and finally, the revelations at Rosings.

“His interference in Jane’s prospects was the final blow,” Elizabeth concluded.

“To learn that he separated her from Mr Bingley, that he judged her sentiments wanting based on such limited acquaintance—how could I reconcile this with the man I had come to respect? How could I trust my own judgement again, when it had proved so faulty?”

Silence followed her recitation, broken only by the gentle tick of the mantle clock and the distant sounds of London filtering through the windows. Mrs Gardiner poured fresh tea from the pot.

“What a remarkable tale,” she said at last. “Few novels could present such extraordinary circumstances. It is almost as though it had come from one of your books.”

Elizabeth managed a faint smile. “I have often thought the same. My life these past months would strain credulity in fiction, yet here I sit, having lived it.”

Mrs Gardiner placed a comforting hand over her niece’s. “You have conducted yourself with courage throughout, Lizzy. Few young women would have demonstrated such resolution in similar circumstances.”

“I fled my wedding day, ran off with a stranger, concealed my acquaintance with a man who was of low moral character, and now have abandoned my husband at his aunt’s estate,” Elizabeth replied. “I hardly think resolution the appropriate term.”

“You removed yourself from a marriage that would have crushed your spirit,” Mrs Gardiner corrected. “You chose a path that offered you freedom. And you are here now because you value honesty and fairness—qualities that were threatened by recent discoveries.”

“Discoveries that have thrown the future I was certain of into upheaval, for how can I ever trust him again.”

As she spoke the words, she wondered if he had felt the same when he discovered her prior connection to Wickham and her concealment of the same.

The sound of the front door interrupted their conversation. Then Mr Gardiner entered, his kind face alight with concern.

“Lizzy, my dear!” he exclaimed, crossing the room to kiss her cheek. “What brings you to London unaccompanied? Is Mr Darcy with you?”

“No, uncle,” Elizabeth replied. “I have left him at Rosings Park. I- I could not remain.”

Mr Gardiner raised his eyebrows but took a seat without pressing further. “I see. Well, you are welcome here for as long as you require.”

Mrs Gardiner quickly acquainted her husband with the substance of Elizabeth’s story, her succinct summary sparing her niece the pain of repeating it.

“So, you fled Rosings when you learned of Mr Darcy’s interference in Jane’s attachment to Mr Bingley,” Mr Gardiner mused, his expression thoughtful. “A disappointment, certainly, but perhaps understandable when viewed through a certain lens.”

“Understandable?” Elizabeth repeated, astonished. “He deliberately separated two people whose mutual affection was evident to all who observed them. He caused Jane profound unhappiness through his unwarranted interference.”

“I do not defend his actions,” Mr Gardiner clarified.

“But consider: Mr Darcy had scant opportunity to know Jane’s character.

His observations were limited to a few social gatherings, during which your sister’s natural reserve might easily be misinterpreted as indifference, particularly by a stranger unacquainted with her temperament. ”

“But—”

“And consider further: he arrived at Longbourn to witness your mother’s rather vocal aspirations regarding her daughters’ marriages.

Her manner—forgive me, my dear, but we must speak plainly—her manner can appear greedy to those unfamiliar with her maternal anxieties.

I adore my sister, but she has always been rather too vocal for her own good. ”

A reluctant blush rose to Elizabeth’s cheeks.

“I know well how Mama’s manner might affect someone of Mr Darcy’s sensibilities.

And yet, his family is no more welcoming or considerate.

They made it very clear I am not wanted there and beneath their notice.

How can we live a life together when both our families always look at us with disdain or want?

That is to say if I could ever forgive what he did, which I take it you think I should. ”

“Not at all,” Mrs Gardiner interjected. “But perhaps his error was one of judgement rather than intention. A grave error, certainly, but not an unforgivable one if properly addressed.”

Elizabeth considered this possibility, turning it over in her mind. “You sound as if you admire him.”

“We have not had the pleasure of meeting your husband,” Mr Gardiner said. “But his actions, while flawed, speak of a man who values those he loves enough to risk misunderstanding in their defence. That is not an entirely unworthy quality, though it requires tempering with wisdom and restraint.”

“I will add I never heard a bad word about his character. There is another consideration,” Mrs Gardiner added.

“You and Mr Darcy married before either of you had opportunity to know each other’s families.

That isolation at Pemberley may have been a blessing in disguise, allowing you to form an attachment based on your own merits rather than familial connections. ”

“You mean to say, had Mr Darcy encountered my family before our marriage, he might never have offered for me at all,” Elizabeth said with a wry smile.

“I mean to suggest that both your families present challenges,” Mrs Gardiner replied.

“Your own—loving but often overwhelming to strangers—and his, seemingly cold and obsessed with status, though perhaps also concerned with protecting traditions they value. The question is whether those challenges are insurmountable.”

Elizabeth gazed into the fire, contemplating her aunt’s words.

“I confess, if I encountered my family as strangers, I might find them rather off putting myself. Mama’s nerves, Lydia’s wild spirits, Mary’s pontificating—they are dear to me, but I understand them through years of intimate acquaintance. ”

“As Mr Darcy understands his relations, no doubt,” Mr Gardiner observed. “His position cannot be an easy one, caught between love and familial expectations.”

“Love?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “I never said—”

“Did you not?” Mrs Gardiner asked. “Not in those precise words, perhaps. But your face speaks volumes when you describe your time at Pemberley.”

Elizabeth fell silent, unable to deny the truth of her aunt’s perception.

Despite her anger and disappointment, her feelings for Darcy had transformed during their months together.

What had begun as a practical arrangement had deepened into genuine attachment—an attachment now tested by his error in judgement.

“What will you do now?” Mr Gardiner asked after a pause. “Do you intend to consult a solicitor regarding an annulment, as you mentioned in your letter? Your Uncle Phillips will certainly help. If not, then I can find someone.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “I am uncertain. I have my meeting with Nocturne Publishing this week. Although I think I will go tomorrow. Perhaps after that, I shall decide my course.”

“The publisher has responded favourably to your manuscript?” Mrs Gardiner enquired.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied. “They requested a meeting to discuss terms. It is what I have dreamed of since girlhood. It is why we came south. The visits to Rosings and Netherfield were only part of our plans.”

“Then you must attend, regardless of your marital difficulties,” Mr Gardiner said. “Your talents deserve recognition, Lizzy. Do not allow personal disappointments to overshadow this achievement.”

Elizabeth withdrew the contract from her reticule, spreading it on the small table. “There is a complication. As a married woman, I require my husband’s signature to publish under my own name. Without it, I must use a pseudonym or forgo publication entirely.”

Mrs Gardiner examined the document. “A common requirement, I fear. The law grants a husband authority over his wife’s creative and intellectual property.”

“Do you think Mr Darcy would withhold his signature?” Mr Gardiner asked.

“No,” Elizabeth admitted. “Whatever his faults, he has always supported my writing. Indeed, he was instrumental in preparing the final manuscript when my wrist was injured.”

“Then perhaps all is not lost,” Mrs Gardiner said. “A man who values your talents enough to assist in their expression may yet prove worthy of forgiveness, once proper understanding is established between you.”

The conversation turned to practical matters—Elizabeth’s accommodations at the Gardiner home, provision for her appointment the following day, messages to be sent to Longbourn. On her uncle’s insistence, she allowed him to send an express to Rosings, so that Darcy might know where she was.

She did not like the idea, but understood he deserved to know as he would worry. As would Georgiana. However, she insisted her uncle write that he was not to come for her.

By the time she retired that evening, Elizabeth’s mind remained unsettled, but her heart was somewhat eased by her aunt and uncle’s counsel.

***

Elizabeth spent the following week at Gracechurch Street, writing when her mind would allow her to, walking with her aunt, and playing with her younger cousins.

No matter what she did, however, her thoughts travelled back to Mr Darcy time and again. She wondered how he was, if he hated her or if he might have already returned to Pemberley to speak to his solicitor about an annulment.

Each night, she would stare at the ceiling above her head, replaying their arguments, their tender moments at Pemberley, his expression when she had spoken of leaving him. Had she made a mistake? She had lied and concealed things from him and he had done the same. They were as flawed as each other.

Her thoughts spun around day in and day out but the morning of her meeting at Nocturne found her oddly at peace. As if the prospect of finding a home for her stories had settled her. She knew it may be difficult to secure an offer, given her and Darcy’s fraught connection.

She selected her finest day dress, a becoming blue muslin.

The publishing house occupied modest premises off Paternoster Row. Its narrow facade distinguished only by a discreet brass plaque bearing the company name.

Mr Morris of Nocturne Publishing awaited her within.

The meeting passed in a blur of conversation—Mr Morris’s praise for her manuscript, his enthusiasm for publishing the work, his discussion of terms that seemed most generous to Elizabeth’s inexperienced ear.

She signed the preliminary agreement with fingers that trembled slightly, securing the publisher’s intent pending her husband’s final approval.

“You understand, Mrs Darcy, that we require Mr Darcy’s signature before proceeding to publication,” Mr Morris said as she prepared to depart. “The law is quite specific regarding a married woman’s literary property. I am disappointed he did not come along.”

“He was occupied,” she said, for this appeared the actually be the truth. “And I understand I shall obtain his signature with all possible haste.”

She descended the stairs, her heart lighter than it had been in days despite this remaining obstacle. Nocturne wished to publish her work. Her dream, the one comfort that had sustained her through the darkest moments of her father’s agreement with the Blackfriars, was now within her grasp.

As she stepped into the street, intent on returning to Gracechurch Street to share her triumph with her aunt and uncle, a familiar figure standing beside a carriage across the way arrested her motion.

Tall, grave-faced, impeccably attired—Fitzwilliam Darcy waited; his eyes fixed upon the publishing house entrance.

Their gazes met across the crowded street, and the bustle of London seemed to fade around them. Elizabeth stood transfixed, unable to move forward or retreat, while Darcy remained equally motionless, his expression unreadable at such a distance.

Then, with deliberate steps, he crossed towards her, navigating between carts and pedestrians until he stood before her, close enough that she could see the fatigue etched upon his features, the tension in his shoulders, the uncertainty in his eyes.

“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low but distinct amid the street noise. “I have been waiting for you.”