Page 50

E lizabeth sat in the Abernathys' morning room, a book open upon her lap though she had not turned a page in nearly an hour.

Her thoughts were too occupied with the events of the previous day.

Her parents' mortifying quarrel, her own hasty retreat, and the look in Mr. Darcy's eyes as he had witnessed it all played endlessly in her mind.

Each time she attempted to focus on the printed words before her, her mind would drift to her father's cutting remarks, her mother's wounded outrage, and the quiet dignity with which Mr. Darcy had weathered the storm of Bennet family discord.

A pang of shame stirred within her as she recalled how swiftly she had abandoned him yesterday.

Yet beneath that shame lurked something far more troubling, an uncomfortable awareness that she had not been fair to him.

She had not really given him a chance, always holding herself at a cautious distance.

It was not a distrust of his character, nor any lingering resentment from their earlier misunderstandings that held her back.

Rather, it was the fear, deep and haunting, that if she were to allow herself to love him, truly love him, and then lose him to his regrets, the pain of it would be too much to bear.

She was no stranger to heartache, but his regard had touched something more fragile within her, and in her effort to protect that part of herself, she had been ungenerous.

It was a cruel kind of self-preservation, and she knew it.

Outside the window, London continued its ceaseless bustle, indifferent to her turmoil. Carriages rattled past on the street below; a maid could be heard humming softly in the hall; a clock ticked with vexing regularity, marking the passage of time that seemed both too swift and unbearably slow.

She had slept poorly, her dreams haunted by images of her parents as they might have been in their youth, hoping for love before obligation and resentment had corroded whatever tender feelings they might have shared.

In her fitful slumber, their faces had gradually transformed into her own and Mr. Darcy's, a premonition of what might await them should they proceed with their engagement.

"Lizzy?" Arabella's gentle voice broke through her reverie. "Are you quite well? You have been staring at the same page since breakfast."

Elizabeth closed the book with an apologetic smile. "I confess I have not absorbed a single word. My mind is elsewhere."

"With Mr. Darcy, perhaps?" Arabella suggested, settling onto the window seat across from her. "He is waiting in the drawing room. Mother has agreed to allow you a private conversation."

Elizabeth's pulse quickened at the mention of his name. Since yesterday, she had alternated between dreading their next encounter and yearning for it with an intensity that alarmed her. It was most unsettling to discover how deeply his opinion and presence had come to matter to her.

“Where are my parents?”

“Preparing to return to Longbourn tomorrow morning,” her friend said softly.

"Did Mr. Darcy appear displeased?" she asked, setting her book aside.

Arabella considered the question. "Not displeased. Grave, perhaps. Determined, certainly. He requested to see you in private with such quiet authority that even Mother did not even hesitate or ask that the door be left open."

Elizabeth's heart quickened at this news. Part of her had hoped he might not call today, that she might have more time to order her thoughts. Yet another part, a part she was reluctant to examine too closely, had yearned for his presence since the moment she had fled the drawing room.

"I suppose I must see him," she said, smoothing her skirts as she rose. "Though I scarcely know what to say after yesterday."

Arabella took her hands, squeezing them reassuringly. “I wish I had some wisdom that might help. Just speak honestly to him, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth nodded, her heart a tangled skein of contradictory emotions: fear and longing, doubt and hope, caution and desire.

Mr. Darcy stood by the window when she entered, his tall figure silhouetted against the morning light. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and the intensity of his gaze caused her breath to catch. How was it possible that his eyes could convey such depth of feeling?

"Miss Bennet," he said, his voice low and controlled as he bowed. "I am grateful you agreed to see me."

Not Elizabeth. Miss Bennet. She felt cold.

"Mr. Darcy," she replied with a curtsy, proud that her voice betrayed none of her inner turmoil. "I trust you are well this morning?"

"I am as well as can be expected," he answered, gesturing towards the settee. "Might we sit?"

She nodded, arranging herself at one end of the settee while he took a chair opposite her. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence between them heavy with unspoken thoughts.

"I must beg pardon for the scene yesterday," Elizabeth said at last, unable to bear the silence any longer. "My parents' behaviour was inexcusable."

"There is no need for apology," Mr. Darcy replied, his expression softening. "Families are complicated, as I believe we have agreed."

A small laugh escaped her at the memory of the Matlocks’ transparent matchmaking. It was not the same at all, and he knew it. She sat on the settee, and he settled next to her.

"Miss Bennet,” he began, “I fear your parents' quarrel has only confirmed your worst apprehensions about our situation."

Elizabeth could not deny it. "I have always dreaded the possibility of finding myself in a marriage like theirs," she admitted, twisting her fingers together in her lap. "Their mutual resentment has cast a shadow over my understanding of matrimony for as long as I can remember."

Mr. Darcy leaned forward, his eyes earnest. "Will you tell me about it? Not the fear you have shared before, but what you witnessed yesterday that caused you such distress?"

The request surprised her. Most gentlemen would have dismissed her concerns or offered hollow reassurances. Instead, he wished to understand. Perhaps that was why she found herself speaking with unprecedented candour.

"What you witnessed yesterday was more heated than unusual, and the venue has never been so public.

However, their quarrels have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.

" She took a steadying breath. "My father's wit has always been sharp, but over the years, it has grown increasingly caustic when directed at my mother.

And she, for her part, has become shriller and more ridiculous with each passing year. "

"And you fear we will follow a similar path."

"How could we not?" Elizabeth rose, moving to the window.

"Our beginning was not so different from theirs.

They, too, were forced into marriage by circumstances beyond their control.

My father might have wished to love her once, but obligation poisoned whatever affection might have grown between them. "

She turned to face him, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Lord Ellington may have failed in his attempts to spread gossip, but he has had his revenge nonetheless.

Had we met in the ordinary way, perhaps at a ball or during a country visit, I might have come to care for you without this shadow hanging over us. I might have been happy."

Mr. Darcy rose then, crossing to the hearth before turning to face her. The distance between them was everything proper, yet she felt the heat of his presence.

"Do you care for me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The directness of the question took her breath away. She had not expected it, though perhaps she should have. Mr. Darcy had never been one to prevaricate. And he deserved an honest answer.

"I—" she began, then stopped, struggling to articulate the complexity of her feelings. "Yes," she admitted at last. "I do. But I am afraid it is not enough to overcome our circumstances."

Something flickered in his eyes, pain, perhaps, or resignation. Yet when he spoke, his voice was low and steady. "Your father was never devoted to making his marriage work."

"I beg your pardon?" The observation caught her off guard.

"Your father's disappointment is not merely the result of an obligatory marriage," Mr. Darcy continued.

"I suspect it stems from certain incompatibilities that became apparent after the wedding.

From what little I have observed, your parents have fundamentally different natures.

Even had they married for love, such differences might have led to discord. "

Elizabeth considered this perspective, turning it over in her mind. "Perhaps," she conceded. "Though the obligation surely exacerbated their differences."

"Undoubtedly," Mr. Darcy agreed. "But that is not our problem, Miss Bennet."

"Is it not?"

"No. Our difficulty is one of trust." He took a step closer, near enough now that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "You do not trust that my feelings for you will endure. You fear that one day I might look at you with the same disdain your father displays towards your mother."

"How can I be certain?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "How can anyone know what the future holds?"

"We cannot," he replied simply. "We can only decide whether the risk is worth taking."

Mr. Darcy hesitated, then moved to her and reached for her hands.

His touch was warm, the contact sending a current of awareness through her that made her breath quicken.

For a man whose demeanour was so often reserved, his hands were remarkably expressive of the character she had come to admire—strong yet gentle, firm yet tender.

"Miss Bennet," he said, his gaze holding hers with unwavering intensity. "I release you from our engagement."

She stared at him, uncomprehending. "I beg your pardon?"