Page 49

D arcy remained seated in the drawing room, staring at the doorway through which Elizabeth had fled. The Bennets' bitter exchange, the raw pain beneath their cutting words, helped him comprehend Elizabeth’s fears with a terrible clarity.

He rose at last, crossing to the window.

The Abernathys' modest garden lay before him, winter-bare but meticulously maintained.

Its orderliness offered a stark contrast to the emotional chaos he had just witnessed.

How many years had the Bennets lived in that state of mutual resentment, he wondered.

And how many moments had Elizabeth and her sisters endured, watching their parents' marriage crumble beneath the weight of disillusion and obligation?

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He turned to find Miss Abernathy hesitating at the threshold.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, her voice gentle with concern. "Forgive the intrusion. I wondered if you might care for some tea before you depart."

He inclined his head, grateful for her attentiveness. "Thank you, Miss Abernathy, but no."

She entered the room nonetheless, moving to stand beside him at the window. For a moment, they observed the garden together in silence.

"You are thinking of Elizabeth," she said at last. It was not a question.

"I am," he admitted. "I fear she has drawn certain conclusions about our future based on her parents' unhappiness, and I am unsure how to address them."

Miss Abernathy's expression softened with understanding. "It is why she spent so much time with us when we lived in Hertfordshire.” Her smile was wistful. “That, and we were rather loath to be separated.”

"She does not accept that we might write a different ending to our story," Darcy said, more to himself than to her.

"Perhaps you might," she agreed, surprising him with her candour.

Darcy turned to study her face, finding no judgment there, only genuine concern. "You know her well."

"Long enough for me to recognize when she is fighting her own heart."

Her words kindled a flicker of hope within him. "You believe she cares for me, then?"

Miss Abernathy hesitated, no doubt weighing her loyalty to her friend against what she perceived to be in Elizabeth's best interest. Her answer was careful. "I believe she would not be so distraught if she felt nothing for you."

It was not the declaration he might have wished, but it offered him comfort nonetheless. His heart ached, but most of the pain was for Elizabeth’s situation. "Thank you, Miss Abernathy. Your insight is most valuable."

She nodded, then glanced towards the doorway. "If you will excuse me, I should go to her."

"Of course," Darcy replied. "Please tell her . . . tell her I understand, and that I will call again tomorrow, if she is willing to receive me. Perhaps your mother might provide us a short period of complete privacy? We have been making the attempt for some days now."

Miss Abernathy promised she would deliver his message and departed, leaving Darcy alone once more.

He should leave, he knew. There was nothing to be gained by lingering, yet he found himself reluctant to depart.

The marriage articles he had prepared were safe in Abernathy’s study, where he had asked them to be placed upon his arrival.

He had intended to present them to Elizabeth today, another step towards formalizing their arrangement.

Now, he wondered if they might serve a different purpose.

A movement in the entrance hall caught his attention. Mr. Bennet had emerged from the library, looking weary but somewhat composed. Making a swift decision, Darcy stepped into the hall.

"Mr. Bennet," he called, "might I have a word with you in private?"

Elizabeth's father regarded him with a sort of grim surprise, then gestured back towards the library. "By all means, Mr. Darcy. Abernathy has just been called away on business, so we shall have the room to ourselves."

Darcy called for the papers to be brought to him in the library and then joined Mr. Bennet there.

The library was a handsome chamber, its walls lined with well-maintained volumes, a fire burning low in the grate. Mr. Bennet settled into a chair near the hearth, gesturing for Darcy to take the one opposite.

"I must apologise again for my display earlier," Mr. Bennet began, his voice heavy with regret. "It was most improper."

"There is no need for an apology to me , " Darcy replied, though in truth, he had been greatly disturbed by the exchange.

Mr. Bennet's smile was rueful. "You are generous, sir. I suspect my daughter will be less forgiving."

"She fears our circumstances will lead us down a similar path to yours."

The older man's expression darkened. "Ah. I see my wife is not the only one who has been indiscreet about the circumstances of our marriage."

Darcy wanted to wring the man’s neck for implying that his daughter was the one who had acted badly.

His voice grew sharp as he replied. “Elizabeth told me only what was necessary for me to understand her concern. It was you and your wife who chose to lay out the full account in my presence not half an hour ago.”

Mr. Bennet's gaze was assessing. "I begin to think we have done you a service. Now you see where a forced marriage leads. And yet you persist in your suit. Why?”

The man’s question was neither bitter nor heated, only curious, and it was one that Darcy had asked himself repeatedly since understanding Elizabeth's reluctance.

"Because I believe our situation is fundamentally different," he replied at last. "Your marriage began with an obligation, yes, but so too did your resentment of that obligation.

I find that I cannot resent the circumstances that have brought Elizabeth into my life. "

"A noble sentiment," Mr. Bennet observed, "but one that may not endure."

Darcy considered the possibility but shook his head. “I cannot say what will come. Only God knows that. But I am determined to ensure that should Elizabeth do me the honour of accepting my hand, she need never doubt her value to me, nor have reason to regret her choice."

He reached into his coat and withdrew the marriage articles, placing them on the small table between them. "I intended for Abernathy to sign these in your stead, but as you are here now, you can do it."

Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow but made no move to take the documents. "I have no doubt of your generosity, Mr. Darcy. You have behaved most honourably in all of this. However, I suspect Lizzy requires more than financial security."

"Her independence," Darcy said immediately, having already anticipated this.

"You will find provisions for that as well.

A separate allowance under her sole control, regardless of my approval or disapproval of her expenditures.

Protection for Longbourn and its inhabitants for the duration of your lifetime and Mrs. Bennet's.

And know, sir, that if Elizabeth wishes it, we shall sponsor her sisters one at a time in society so that they may have more choice in whom they wed, if they wish to wed at all. "

Mr. Bennet's brows lifted in surprise. "You are thorough.”

"I have money enough." Darcy met and held Mr. Bennet’s gaze. "Elizabeth's happiness is my foremost concern." He left unsaid that Mrs. Bennet’s happiness ought also to have been her husband’s.

A peculiar, rueful smile played at the corners of Mr. Bennet's mouth. "Believe it or not, Mr. Darcy, I am your supporter. Have been from the first. I only wished to be sure, you know. My Lizzy is not an ordinary girl, and she could not be happy with an ordinary man."

Darcy was not impressed. But before he could respond, there was a soft knock at the door. Mr. Abernathy reappeared, looking apologetic.

“Forgive the interruption," he said, "but Darcy, your cousin has sent a message.” He handed it over.

It was from Fitzwilliam. You may want to come back. Milton has taken it upon himself to reorganize your wine cellar. He is threatening to label your wines by mood rather than vintage.

If Darcy did not return, he knew he would find his Malmsey shelved under “melancholy resolve” or his 1805 claret marked as “wistful, with hints of betrayal.”

He sighed and rose from his chair, turning to address Mr. Bennet. "I will take my leave, sir. But I hope we might continue our conversation tomorrow. After I have a private meeting with your daughter, to ascertain her desires."

Mr. Bennet nodded, gesturing to the marriage articles that still lay on the table. "I shall review these in the meantime. They will make for interesting reading, I am sure."

On his return, Darcy found Fitzwilliam and Milton comfortably installed in his study, each with a glass of wine, an open bottle on the sideboard, and the fire blazing.

“I see you have made yourselves at home,” Darcy observed drily.

“Would you prefer we drink it somewhere less comfortable?” Milton asked, raising his glass in toast. “The cellars were cold and disorganised.”

“You have been gone for hours,” Fitzwilliam added. “We feared you had eloped with Miss Bennet.”

“I was in a conversation of some gravity with her father,” Darcy replied, shutting the door behind him. “One I would have preferred to finish uninterrupted.”

"Her father is here?" Fitzwilliam asked, having at least the grace to appear apologetic.

“Blame the wine labels,” Milton said. “They were a cry for help. You had three ports labelled ‘Mature.’ That tells a man nothing of their emotional state.”

“There is nothing wrong with the labels.” Darcy moved to pour himself a glass. “Is this the 1805 claret?”

“I rescued it,” Milton said. “It was languishing beside a suspiciously moody Madeira.”

“I assume you summoned me here for something other than vandalising my cellar? What precisely was the urgency?”

“Fitzwilliam had a note from Miss Abernathy about the events of the day. I thought we might drink your wine while composing a stirring letter of rescue,” Milton added. “Two birds, one cellar.”

“I only meant the note as a precaution, to give you an excuse to leave if you required one.” Fitzwilliam shot Darcy a sympathetic look. “You do not always navigate such emotional scenes well. Is her father causing trouble?”

Darcy sighed, the weariness of the day pressing against his shoulders. “He approves of the match, but Elizabeth fears repeating her parents’ unhappy history. And she has good reason. I witnessed the Bennets quarrel bitterly in front of the entire room. It shook her rather badly.”

“That is unfortunate,” Fitzwilliam said.

“More than unfortunate,” Darcy replied. “It confirmed her worst fears, that marriages beginning in scandal bring misery.”

Milton leaned back, swirling the wine in his glass. “So, we have circled back to your decision to betroth yourself to an intelligent, principled woman who knows her own mind. It really is most inconvenient of you, Darcy.”

“And how did you leave things with Mr. Bennet?” Fitzwilliam inquired.

“He has the marriage articles. But Miss Bennet fled the room in tears after her parents’ display.” Darcy’s voice softened. “If I am to win her, it must be without coercion of any kind. I have done all I can to show her that our marriage would be one of choice.”

Fitzwilliam said nothing at first, his gaze fixed on the fire.

The silence lingered, broken only by the soft crackle of the logs.

Then, with a sigh, he shifted in his chair.

“You have done everything in your power, Darcy,” he said quietly.

“You have given her certainty where she had none.” He turned the wine glass in his hand.

“I wonder if I have it in me to do the same.”

Darcy studied his cousin. “Miss Abernathy?”

“Her father wants her safe. And I live a life of risk.” He let out a dry laugh. “What parent would look upon an officer’s pay and prospects and rejoice?”

Darcy did not smile. “No father rejoices at the idea of his daughter mired in grief. You cannot fault the man for wishing her security. But you must ask yourself whether you can offer her peace of mind in any form.”

Milton shifted with a sigh. “You are both dreadfully in love, and I do mean dreadfully. It is exhausting.”

Darcy ignored him. “You may not have the means to promise her safety,” he said to Fitzwilliam, “but you can offer her certainty. You must decide whether the life you have built is worth more to you than the life you might build together.”

Fitzwilliam’s expression darkened. The firelight glinted off the rim of his glass as he stared into it. “You have laid out Miss Bennet’s path and left her to choose it. That is what I must do, is it not?”

Darcy gave a slow nod. “I believe it is. Sell your commission.”

“That is not a thing one does lightly.” Fitzwilliam shook his head.

“You say you love her,” Darcy replied. “Do you love her enough?”

Fitzwilliam stood and walked to the fire. He was silent a long while before turning back to Darcy. “Yes.”

Milton stretched, languid as a cat. “Well, if you are both quite done being tragic, might I offer a morsel of advice?”

Darcy and Fitzwilliam turned towards him warily.

Milton smiled. “Love is not always rational, or practical, or even dignified. But if the lady has tears in her eyes and your name on her lips, you would do well to stop worrying about what she fears and pay attention to what she feels .”

He sipped his claret with evident satisfaction, then added with a smirk, “And for heaven’s sake, do not store the Malmsey beside the Constantia. It is enough to drive a man to poetry.”

Later that evening, after dinner and his cousins’ departure, Darcy retired to his chamber where he sat in a chair by the fire and thought about Fitzwilliam’s comment, that he had laid out a path for Elizabeth and waited for her to take it.

He had. But waiting for her to choose the path he had laid out was not the same as stepping aside so she could choose a path for herself. She was independent and he knew it, had even said as much to her father, but he had not offered her independence. Not really.

And that was what he must do, no matter how much he did not wish it. If he loved her, he had to release her, not out of defeat, but out of respect. He had to trust her with his heart, completely and without condition, even if it meant she might not want it.

Only then would it be her choice. Only then could he claim it was love.

No more careful calculations, no more measured words. No more of the Fitzwilliam family’s wild strategies. No more of his own.

It was terrifying. But it was necessary.

And whatever the consequences that came after, he would face them. With heartbreak, perhaps, but also with the knowledge that he had done the right thing for Elizabeth.