Page 26

T he salon had been held on a Friday. That Monday, Darcy found himself standing before the Abernathys' home, adjusting his hat and coat with uncharacteristic nervousness.

When the butler admitted him, Darcy was informed that Mr. Abernathy was from home, attending to business matters. Mrs. Abernathy and Miss Abernathy had set out for an appointment with their modiste, but Miss Bennet was in the library and would receive him if he wished.

"If it is not inconvenient," Darcy replied, refusing to examine too closely the relief he felt at this fortuitous circumstance.

The butler led him to the library and announced him before withdrawing, though the door was left open.

Darcy paused at the threshold, momentarily arrested by the sight of Miss Bennet seated by the window, a volume open in her lap.

She had probably been attempting to finish one more page before he entered, and for some reason this made him even fonder of her.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, rising with the closed book still in her hand. "I did not expect a visit from you today. I trust you are well?"

"Quite well, thank you," he replied, stepping into the room. "I had hoped to speak with you, though I did not anticipate finding you alone. If my presence makes you uncomfortable, I shall return to call another time."

"Not at all," she assured him, though her fingers played nervously with the ribbon that marked her page. "We are engaged, after all, and one or all of the Abernathys should return shortly. Please, sit down. Shall I ring for tea?"

"That would be most welcome," Darcy said, grateful for the momentary reprieve.

They spoke of inconsequential things until the tea arrived, but Darcy studied her face with more than his usual careful attention. There was a guardedness about her today, a tension in the set of her shoulders that had not been present at the salon's conclusion.

"I must commend you again on your performance at my aunt's gathering," he began, feeling an awkwardness he had thought vanquished.

Miss Bennet took a sip of tea before responding. "Your aunt was most gracious. I found her collection quite remarkable."

"She was impressed by your knowledge of art," Darcy said. "As was I."

Her gaze lifted to his, searching. "You are very kind, sir."

"Not kind," he corrected her gently. "Honest."

“Honest,” she said softly and then set her teacup down with deliberate care. "I fear I have not been entirely honest with you, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy felt his heart quicken. "Oh?"

She drew a deep breath, as though gathering courage. "At the salon, I intended . . ." She faltered, then squared her shoulders. "I had planned to appear insipid and unintelligent, to prove my unsuitability as your wife."

Though her words confirmed what he had already suspected, Darcy could not help but feel a pang at her confession. "I see."

"But I found I could not do it," she added quickly. "I found I could not disgrace you and your family, not when they have shown me such courtesy. It seemed ungrateful."

She had not mentioned any courtesies of his, including the admission that he admired her. "And yet the intention existed," Darcy said quietly. "May I ask why, Miss Bennet? Do you find the prospect of marriage to me so repellent?"

Her eyes widened. "No!” She pressed her lips together, struggling to compose her thoughts. "It is not you specifically to whom I object, Mr. Darcy."

"Then what is it?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. "I understand our engagement began under difficult circumstances, but I had hoped—"

"It is precisely those circumstances that concern me," Elizabeth interrupted, her voice dropping. "We are bound together by a moment of misfortune, not mutual affection. Such foundations rarely support lasting happiness."

"You cannot know that will happen in our case."

Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment. It made her look younger than her years, and it made him feel even more protective of her.

There was much he wished to say, but Darcy forced himself to listen to her, really listen, for he had a feeling this might be the most important conversation of his life.

"My parents were not a love match," she said at last, her voice so quiet he had to strain to hear it.

"My father was walking to Meryton one evening when he came upon my mother in some distress. Her little pony cart had overturned, and though she was unharmed, it was terribly cold. My father gave her his coat and was rubbing her arms to warm her when her father came upon them. He had set out to find her when she did not arrive home and insisted that she had been compromised.”

Darcy felt a chill of recognition. "Not unlike our own meeting."

"Indeed." Elizabeth turned to face him, though she remained by the window.

"My father, having just inherited, had no family to protest. He did insist there had been no compromise, as did my mother, but she was a beautiful woman.

When my grandfather insisted . . . Well, being an honourable man, and, I must admit, also a rather indolent one, my father did not fight the marriage. "

"And your mother?" Darcy asked.

A shadow crossed Elizabeth's face. "Her father was a solicitor. She saw the advantages of marrying into the gentry and living at Longbourn, modest though it is. But she did not wish to marry in such a way, with no courtship, no romance. She had dreamed of a love match, as most young women do."

The pain in her voice as she spoke these last words pierced him. "And now?"

Elizabeth's fingers twisted together. "Physical beauty is not permanent, Mr. Darcy. My mother is a warm woman and has made our home welcoming, but her father gave her no true education, while my father could have taken orders and remained at Cambridge had it not been for his father’s early death.”

She paused for a moment, glancing at Darcy as though asking permission to continue. He nodded at her.

“My parents now live as strangers beneath the same roof. My father retreats to his library, emerging only to needle my mother with sarcastic comments that she never quite understands.” Her voice caught.

“And my mother fills her days with gossip and nerves and desperate attempts to marry off her daughters, as though securing our futures might somehow make the humiliation of her own unhappy marriage worth it. "

Darcy rose, moved by the quiet anguish in her expression. "Elizabeth," he said, using her Christian name without thinking.

She did not correct him. "I have watched them for nearly two decades, Mr. Darcy. I have seen what becomes of a marriage built upon obligation rather than affection. I have daily witnessed how initial feelings of honour fade into indifference, how they slowly transform to bitterness."

"You fear I would come to resent you," he said, the realisation dawning with painful clarity.

"Yes," she admitted, meeting his gaze directly now. "How could it be otherwise? You never sought this connection. You might have wed an earl's daughter, someone who understands your world—"

"Someone who would bore me senseless within a fortnight," Darcy interjected, with a force that surprised him.

And her as well, for a startled laugh escaped her, quickly stifled. "Mr. Darcy."

"Forgive me," he said, taking a careful step towards her.

"But I must speak plainly. You are correct that our engagement began from a sense of obligation.

What you do not seem to understand is that I have never been indifferent to you.

And my feelings have continued to deepen with every opportunity to know more of you. "

Elizabeth's expression grew wary. "Sir?"

"When I first offered for you, I knew only that you were a gentlewoman of wit and spirit who had been placed in an untenable position through no fault of your own," he said, choosing his words with care.

"Now I know that you also possess courage, wit, integrity, loyalty, and a mind more discerning than many of the men who attended university with me. These are not trivial qualities."

"They are not enough to sustain a lifetime of matrimony," she countered, though her voice had softened. "Admiration may fade. Respect can wither under the pressure of daily intimacy."

"If that were true, few marriages would endure at all," Darcy replied. “I had the privilege of seeing my parents truly happy. The earl and countess are happily married as well. Surely you have the example of one good match amongst your family?”

“My Uncle and Aunt Gardiner have an excellent marriage.” She met his eye. “The Gardiners own several warehouses here in town.”

That was unexpected, but he did not flinch. “You see? I expect we shall be more like your London relations and mine, if you agree to proceed.”

Her brow knitted. “But none of those matches began in the same way ours has.”

"My mother was much like you in many ways. Intelligent, forthright, unwilling to bend to society's expectations merely for the sake of conformity."

Elizabeth's eyes widened slightly at the comparison.

“She would have admired you greatly, I think. She had little patience for the usual social games played in drawing rooms across London."

"Yet she was a member of the Fitzwilliam family," Elizabeth observed. "As the daughter of an earl, she must have been comfortable in such circles."

"Comfortable, yes, but never complacent," Darcy clarified.

"She challenged my father daily, his assumptions, his decisions, their responsibilities, even his understanding of their position in society.

And he was better for it." He paused, his gaze steady on her face. "As I believe I might be with you."

Elizabeth studied him, her expression guarded yet thoughtful. "You cannot know that I would not one day become a burden to you. That the connection formed under such circumstances would not turn to regret."