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Elizabeth felt as though she had been burned. She peeked up to at Mr. Darcy to judge how he was faring. His expression was stony.

Mrs. Abernathy intervened once more as they finished their food, suggesting they retire to the drawing room after the final course had been cleared away. Mr. Darcy offered her his arm, but she could not look at him. She feared the worst was yet to come.

In the drawing room, the party arranged itself in a manner that reflected the underlying tensions: Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy seated together on a small settee with Arabella nearby, her parents occupying separate chairs on opposite sides of the room, and Elizabeth seated beside Mr. Darcy on a second settee, though she maintained a careful distance between them.

For a time, the conversation remained superficial, touching on neutral topics such as the unusually mild weather and news from Derbyshire, which Mr. Darcy was pleased to hear. Elizabeth began to hope that they might avoid further unpleasantness, but her hope was short-lived.

"Did you enjoy Derbyshire, Papa?" she inquired, attempting to maintain the peaceful atmosphere.

"Indeed, your mother read of your situation and developed a sudden interest in everything around us," he replied drily. "She was quite determined to ascertain the exact dimensions of Pemberley and the number of its windows."

"Mr. Bennet, how can you say such things!" Mamma cried. "I merely wished to know something of the place where my daughter will reside. Is that not natural in a mother?"

"There is nothing natural about it, Mrs. Bennet, when you have never before expressed the slightest interest in such matters."

"Well, I have never before had a daughter engaged to a gentleman of that county before!"

"A circumstance you seem determined to remind us of at every opportunity," he retorted.

The tension in the room was thick enough to smother. Elizabeth hazarded another glance at Mr. Darcy, who was watching the exchange, his eyes betraying a dawning comprehension that made her ill.

This. This was what happened to couples who were forced to wed. He saw it now.

Her mother’s voice grew higher, a sure sign of her distress. "You have never considered the future of your daughters, never taken an interest in their prospects. It has fallen to me alone to see them advantageously settled."

"And a masterful job you have done of it," her father replied sarcastically. "Five unmarried daughters, and not a single suitable offer."

Elizabeth gasped sharply.

Mr. Darcy’s eyebrows pinched together.

Mrs. Abernathy attempted to intervene. "Perhaps we might—"

But Mamma was too agitated to be diverted.

"And whose fault is that, I should like to know?

A family of five daughters, and the estate entailed away from the female line!

If you had bestirred yourself to meet the right people, to cultivate the proper connections, we might not be in such a precarious position. "

"Connections?" Papa’s voice was dangerously quiet. "Like those your father so assiduously cultivated, nay, demanded , when he discovered us together? The desire for connections that led to our own hasty marriage?"

An awful silence fell over the room. Elizabeth felt faint.

This was even worse than she had feared.

Never, in all the years of their marriage, had she heard her father refer so openly to the circumstances of his marriage, and now he had done so in the company of the Abernathys and Mr. Darcy.

It was a humiliation too great to be borne.

Her mother’s expression crumpled, hurt and indignation warring across her features. "Must you forever remind me of the day your life's possibilities narrowed to a single, disappointing path? I did not want to marry you, if you recall. It was my father who insisted, and you did not protest."

The raw pain in her mother's voice shocked Elizabeth. Mamma had never revealed such awareness of her husband's feelings.

Papa seemed momentarily taken aback, but his response, when it came, was brutal in its honesty. "You never gave me a chance! You wanted some silly romance, something I was never suited to give! You decided from the beginning I would disappoint you, and so I did!"

Elizabeth could not bear to look at Mr. Darcy again. This was her deepest fear laid bare—the inevitable progression from obligation to contempt that she had witnessed throughout her childhood and feared might be her own fate.

Mamma rose from her chair, trembling visibly. "I believe I shall retire to my room. I find I have developed a headache." Her voice was unnaturally controlled, her usual histrionics replaced by a dignity born of genuine hurt.

As she departed, her father seemed to become aware of their audience for the first time. His expression shifted from cold anger to shame. "I beg your pardon," he said, addressing the room at large. "That was . . . unseemly."

Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy exchanged a look that spoke volumes. "Perhaps we might all benefit from some quieter pursuits,” Mrs. Abernathy said delicately.

"An excellent suggestion," Mr. Abernathy agreed, rising to his feet. "Bennet, would you care to join me to see the Gibbon?"

Her father's expression was almost grey, but he nodded and followed his host from the room without a backward glance. Mrs. Abernathy and Arabella made their excuses shortly thereafter, leaving Elizabeth alone with Mr. Darcy.

For several moments, neither spoke. Elizabeth could not bring herself to meet his eyes, her shame and distress too overwhelming for her even to lift her head.

"Elizabeth," Mr. Darcy said at last, his voice gentle. "Will you not look at me?"

Reluctantly, she raised her gaze to his, expecting to find judgement or pity. Instead, his expression held only compassion and a deep understanding that broke her heart anew.

"Now you understand," she whispered, echoing the fears that had haunted her since their engagement began. "This is what awaits us."

Mr. Darcy took her hand in his. "No," he said firmly. "This is not our fate, Elizabeth. We are not your parents."

She shook her head, pulling her hand away. "How can you be certain? They began just as we have—with an obligation, not a choice. And look what became of them."

"They are not us. And even if we were similar, the circumstances of our beginning need not predict the life we live together," he replied, his voice steady with conviction.

Elizabeth wanted desperately to believe him, but the scene she had just witnessed had shaken her deeply. "My father once made similar promises, I imagine. Yet here they are, twenty-four years later, unable to spend an hour in each other's company without recrimination and acrimony."

She rose from the settee, needing space to gather her composure. "You deserve better than this, Mr. Darcy. Better than a family whose every interaction must mortify you, better than a wife whom you might one day regard with the same contempt my father cannot conceal."

"Elizabeth—" he began, but she cut him off.

"Please," she said, her voice breaking. She was going to be ill. "I am so sorry."

Without waiting for his response, she fled the room.