Page 18 of To India with Mr. Darcy

T he following morning, Elizabeth awoke with the lingering embers of yesterday’s fury still burning low in her chest. Sleep—what little of it she’d had—had done little to dull the sting of Mr Darcy’s arrogance or the injustice of Mr Bingley’s coldness towards Jane. If anything, the night had only sharpened her resentment, refining it into something more biting, more focused.

The man had not even attempted to defend himself. That, more than anything, infuriated her. He had stood there, silent and stiff, allowing her to believe the worst of him. And if she believed the worst, it was because he had earned it.

She had no proof, of course. He had not admitted it. But she was absolutely certain that Mr Darcy had interfered with Jane and Mr Bingley, and in doing so, he had destroyed Jane’s happiness. He had ruined everything. It had to be him, because even now, across the room, Elizabeth saw the way Mr Bingley admired her sister, as if she were some long-lost, untouchable thing.

Elizabeth let out a sharp breath, pushing the thought away as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet. She needed air. She needed space. She needed to be anywhere but here, trapped in the same four walls with her thoughts.

Jane glanced up from where she sat at the desk, her needle slipping deftly through a delicate piece of embroidery. The morning light caught the golden strands of her hair, though her usual serene expression was tinged with something more subdued.

“You are going above deck?” Jane asked softly.

Elizabeth nodded, tucking a book beneath her arm. The Mysteries of Udolpho —a suitably dramatic tale for her equally dramatic mood.

Jane hesitated. “You will not overexert yourself? You are injured, Lizzie.”

Elizabeth sighed. “My ankle is hardly broken, Jane. I can manage a walk on deck perfectly well, and there are plenty of benches to sit on should I be in need of one.”

“I only meant—” Jane stopped herself, then smiled. “No, of course you can. I’m sorry. It’s only that I care.”

Elizabeth studied her for a moment, noting the way Jane’s fingers trembled ever so slightly over her stitching. She had been quiet all morning, offering little beyond polite conversation. But Elizabeth knew her sister well enough to recognise when she was forcing composure. A sharp pang of sympathy twisted in her chest.

“Would you like to come with me?” Elizabeth offered.

Jane’s needle paused mid-stitch. She seemed to consider it, but after a moment, she shook her head. “No,” she said gently. “I think I shall stay here a while. I’d rather not see anyone.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “You are certain?”

Jane nodded, her smile remaining in place, though Elizabeth saw through it. “Truly. Go enjoy the fresh air.”

Elizabeth exhaled. She knew Jane was trying to spare her from unnecessary worry, but it did not lessen her desire to fix things, to put everything back in its rightful place. Even if she had no idea how.

Suppressing her frustration, she squeezed Jane’s shoulder lightly before turning towards the door. “I shall return soon.”

Jane hummed in acknowledgment, already returning to her embroidery, though Elizabeth did not miss the slight droop of her posture as she passed through the door.

With that, she made her way through the ship’s narrow passageways, climbing the steep stairs carefully before stepping out into the open air. The morning was crisp, the sky a brilliant shade of blue stretching endlessly above her. A strong breeze danced across the deck, tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet, while the now-familiar scent of salt and sea lingered in the air.

For a moment, Elizabeth simply breathed it in. Yes, this was what she had needed.

She moved towards her usual spot—a quiet corner near the railing where she could enjoy some solitude. Settling onto a wooden bench, she unfolded the book in her lap, flipping to the first page with the intent of losing herself in the story. She had read it before, of course, but gothic tales were always entertaining and this one seemed to suit her mood.

She had barely read more than a few lines when she felt it. A presence. She stilled, raising her gaze from the page just slightly. A shadow lingered at the edge of her vision, hovering uncertainly just beyond her line of sight.

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around the book. She did not need to look up to know who it was nor why he was behaving so oddly. The air itself felt charged, thick with hesitation.

Mr Darcy.

She inhaled slowly, refusing to react. She had no intention of acknowledging him, no matter how long he chose to stand there. If he wished to loiter about like a guilty spectre, then so be it. She pursed her lips, deliberately turning the page with exaggerated care, ensuring he understood that whatever he thought to say, whatever he wished to explain, she had no interest in hearing it.

Let him hover. Let him squirm. She would not encourage him. She kept her eyes fixed on The Mysteries of Udolpho , though she could not have said what a single line of the page contained. She had been holding the book open for some time, her fingers curled around the worn edges of the binding, her posture deliberately composed.

Elizabeth pursed her lips again and inhaled sharply through her nose.

If he had something to say, he ought to say it. And if he did not, then he could do her the courtesy of leaving her in peace. But no. Of course not.

He stood there for a moment longer, silent but unmistakably there, and her irritation mounted with every passing second. He was waiting, she realised. Waiting for her to acknowledge him. Well, she would do no such thing. Instead, she quietly shifted in her seat and resolutely turned the page.

The shadow lengthened over her book, and Elizabeth let out a sigh.

“Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth exhaled loudly through her nose—almost a huff, but not quite so rude.

She was tempted to ignore him entirely, to pretend she had not heard him, but something in his tone pricked at her nerves—something stiff and uneasy, something that spoke of effort. And so, without looking up, she replied, “Mr Darcy.”

She was aware that her voice was flat. Unwelcoming. She could sense his discomfort, the adjustment of his stance.

“I trust you are well.”

Elizabeth turned another page.

“Perfectly.”

Another silence.

She imagined his jaw tightening, his lips pressing into that thin, frustrated line she had grown so accustomed to. The thought brought her a flash of satisfaction.

“I see you are enjoying your book,” he tried again.

“Immensely,” she said.

Her eyes jumped across the words, but they may as well have been ink stains for all she understood them.

Another pause. Another breath. Another shift of weight.

Elizabeth braced herself.

“Are you quite certain you cannot spare a moment?”

She snapped the book shut. Mr Darcy straightened.

Elizabeth tilted her chin, looking up at him at last, eyes flashing. “Mr Darcy, I do not know what you hope to achieve by interrupting my reading, but if you have something to say, I suggest you get on with it.”

Mr Darcy swallowed.

She could see the conflict warring in him, the way he opened his mouth and then shut it again, how he shifted his weight as though uncertain whether to stay or flee. And then, with a sharp inhale, as though preparing himself for battle, he squared his shoulders and spoke.

“Despite my better judgement—”

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped.

“—I find myself in love with you.”

Her mind emptied.

In love with me?

A hush fell between them, a silence so thick and unnatural that she wondered if she had somehow misheard him. But no—there he stood, stiff-backed and braced, looking every inch a man who had just done something he never meant to do and yet did with every sincerity in the world.

Elizabeth’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She barely had time to recover before he went on.

“But surely you can understand the complications that arise from your family’s circumstances.”

A slow, simmering heat began to rise in her chest. Complications? Complications? Surely he couldn’t mean all she had heard him say to Mr Bingley that night—about her, about her family, about her prospects.

The silence that followed stretched unbearably. Mr Darcy seemed to take her continued quiet as encouragement.

“I have fought against these feelings,” he confessed, his voice tight. “Truly I have. I have resisted them with every ounce of my reason. It is…” He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “It is entirely imprudent. Everything in me has warned against it. And yet—”

He met her gaze, and there it was, raw and vulnerable and unmistakable. The horror in Elizabeth’s chest bubbled further.

“And yet,” he repeated softly, “here we are.”

Elizabeth’s hands curled around the book in her lap. Here we are? Did he expect her to thank him? To swoon over such a declaration?

He was standing before her, telling her that despite his better judgement , despite her family , despite everything , he had fallen in love with her. And she—what? Was meant to be flattered? To express her gratitude for this extraordinary condescension?

The longer she stared at him, the more she felt something inside her crack. Mr Darcy was still speaking, oblivious to the storm brewing before him.

“I understand the difficulties of such an attachment, of course,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, as if this were as inconvenient for him as it was for her. “I have long told myself that logic must prevail. That I must take into account the unfortunate reality of your situation—”

Unfortunate reality? Elizabeth opened her mouth and then blinked.

“—and the unlikelihood of—”

“Stop.”

Mr Darcy froze.

Elizabeth rose to her feet in one swift movement, her book sliding from her lap onto the bench. Her heart was pounding, her breath quickening. “You are telling me,” she said, her voice trembling with fury, “that despite your better judgement , you love me?”

Mr Darcy hesitated, realisation seeming to dawn within him. “I only meant—”

“And,” she went on, stepping closer, her voice rising, not caring for his interruption, “that you have fought against these feelings? That you have resisted me as though I am some kind of siren? And one with poor connections at that!”

“Miss Bennet, I…”

“And yet!” She threw up her hands, unable to stop the rage from coursing through her. “Here we are, as you so graciously put it.”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Elizabeth shook her head, a harsh, incredulous laugh escaping her lips. “So, let me see if I understand you correctly, Mr Darcy. You love me— despite my family, despite my circumstances, despite your better judgement? Is that what you are telling me?”

Mr Darcy shifted uncomfortably. “I fear you are misinterpreting—”

“Oh, I think I have interpreted your words quite correctly.”

She took another step forward, her finger stabbing towards his chest.

“You are arrogant, self-important, and utterly insufferable.”

Mr Darcy flinched as if struck.

“You think so little of my family, of our standing, and yet you come to me with this grand confession, as though I should be overwhelmed with gratitude that you have decided to lower yourself?”

His jaw tightened. “That is not what I meant at all.”

“But it is what you said,” she shot back. “And I will not stand here and let you insult me in one breath and profess love in the next.”

Mr Darcy inhaled sharply, his composure fraying. Elizabeth’s hands clenched at her sides, her voice now calm, deliberate, slicing.

“If you expected me to be flattered, Mr Darcy, I am afraid you have miscalculated quite spectacularly.”

Mr Darcy’s breath hitched. His eyes searched hers, desperate for something—anything—that might soften the situation. But there was nothing. Elizabeth’s voice dropped to a low, cold murmur.

“You may keep your love, Mr Darcy. I want no part of it.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and strode away.