Darcy’s Duel (The Bennet and Darcy Chronicles: Short Jane Austen Adaptations #2)

Chapter 7

7

T he cold air bit at her cheeks, but Elizabeth scarcely felt it.

She was moving too quickly, her strides too urgent, her thoughts too chaotic to notice the discomfort.

The door to Darcy’s room had barely closed behind her before she had fled down the corridors of Rosings, heart pounding, mind unraveling.

"Elizabeth." His voice still echoed in her ears. It had been soft, almost hoarse, but it had held something—something that terrified her.

She should never have gone. She should never have touched him, never have let herself linger so close, never have let herself feel so much. Elizabeth pressed a hand to her stomach, willing away the unease twisting within her.

It had been a mistake. A mistake to worry, to care, to soften.

He had interfered with Jane and Bingley. He had ruined her sister’s happiness.

And yet—he had nearly died, defending her name.

And yet—he had let Wickham fire, risking everything.

And yet—he had looked at her with such unguarded tenderness, such quiet vulnerability, that she had nearly forgotten to breathe.

Her pace slowed.

Her heartbeat did not.

Charlotte was waiting when she arrived at the parsonage, seated near the fire, a book in her lap. She looked up as Elizabeth entered. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Charlotte set the book aside. "How is he?"

Elizabeth hesitated. "He—" She swallowed. "He is recovering."

Charlotte’s eyes flicked to her face. "That is all?"

Elizabeth turned away, busying herself with removing her bonnet and gloves. "That is all," she said firmly.

Charlotte did not press. Elizabeth was grateful.

Days passed.

Then a week.

Rosings remained as it ever was—grand, overbearing, full of Lady Catherine’s presence—but something in Elizabeth had shifted. She felt restless. Uneasy. As if she were waiting for something she could not name.

Darcy did not send for her.

She did not see him.

There was no word beyond the occasional update from Colonel Fitzwilliam at dinner.

And still her mind would not let him go.

She thought of his hands, weak but steady. She thought of his voice, rough but sincere. She thought of the way he had whispered her name, like a man on the edge of something too vast to comprehend.

She thought too much.

And she hated it.

By the end of the week, her nerves had worn thin.

When Colonel Fitzwilliam suggested a walk, she accepted before she could think better of it.

The fields stretched out before them, cool and quiet, the air fresh and crisp.

For the first ten minutes, neither of them spoke of Darcy.

Then—he sighed.

"He is driving me mad, you know."

Elizabeth’s head snapped toward him. "Darcy?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets.

"He is unbearable when recovering from an injury. He broods, he refuses assistance, he orders people about with twice his usual arrogance…"

Elizabeth let out a small laugh.

Fitzwilliam glanced at her, smirking. "But he is reading again. That, at least, is a good sign."

Elizabeth hesitated. Reading. Something warm stirred in her chest. Then—before she could talk herself out of it—she turned to the colonel. "Will you take something to him?"

Fitzwilliam’s brows lifted in amusement. "That depends," he said. "Are you trying to kill him with kindness?"

Elizabeth smirked. "I should merely like to send him some tarts from the kitchen. And a book."

Fitzwilliam grinned. "Food and literature. How very Elizabeth of you."

She ignored him, reaching into her reticule and pulling out a small, leather-bound volume. She had purchased it weeks ago in Meryton, knowing the story well but never having owned her own copy. She hesitated, tracing the spine. Then, with a decisive nod, she handed it to Fitzwilliam.

Fitzwilliam took it, inspecting the title with interest.

"Something to keep him occupied," she said.

Fitzwilliam’s eyes gleamed with mischief. "I shall tell him it is a gift from the heart, a token of your deepest affections?—"

"Colonel Fitzwilliam!"

He laughed, holding up a hand in surrender. "Very well, very well. I shall be discreet."

Elizabeth sighed, exasperated—but a smile tugged at her lips.

They turned back toward the parsonage.

Elizabeth’s chest felt lighter than it had in days.

The next day, Fitzwilliam handed her a folded piece of parchment.

She stared at it. Then at Fitzwilliam.

He smirked. "He read it all in one sitting," he said. "And now, apparently, he has… thoughts."

Elizabeth’s heartbeat picked up. Slowly, hesitantly, she unfolded the note. The handwriting was unmistakable.

Elizabeth,

I have read the book. You will not be surprised to hear that I found the author’s conclusions on morality and virtue to be entirely absurd. However, I confess, there were a few passages that made me think. I suspect you knew they would.

I should be most interested to hear your opinions on the matter.

Fitzwilliam tells me you are well. That is good.

Fitzwilliam also tells me you insist the tarts were "not meant as a peace offering." I will choose to believe this is untrue.

Thank you.

F. Darcy

Elizabeth exhaled sharply. She read it again. And then—again. A warmth settled in her chest. For the first time in a week, she smiled. And before she could think better of it, she reached for a sheet of parchment and dipped her pen in ink.

Mr. Darcy,

I cannot say I am surprised that you found the author’s conclusions absurd, though I might have held out some small hope that you would be enlightened. Even still, I am pleased that some passages made you think. That, I believe, is the greatest measure of a book’s worth.

As for the tarts, I assure you they were not meant as a peace offering. They were merely an act of kindness. Though I should like to know—did you enjoy them? Or do your tastes in pastry align as rigidly with your opinions on literature?

I remain curious to hear which passages you found so thought-provoking. You must share them, if only to satisfy my belief that some good may come of exposing you to differing opinions.

In friendship,

Elizabeth Bennet

She stared at the signature.

In friendship.

Why had she written that?

Elizabeth exhaled sharply and folded the letter before she could dwell on it any longer.

She handed it to Fitzwilliam the next morning.

He did not ask questions.

But his smirk was insufferable

Over the next few weeks, the letters did not stop.

They continued, against all reason, against all expectations.

It became routine—Elizabeth would wake in the morning, wondering if there would be a letter waiting for her with Fitzwilliam.

And there always was.

Their correspondence moved quickly beyond the book, touching on philosophy, morality, the merits of solitude, the nature of duty, and—always—the small, cutting jabs that made Elizabeth smile despite herself.

They never mentioned the duel. They never mentioned Hunsford. They never mentioned how this had begun—how she had once declared, with all her heart, that she could never love him.

And yet—something was changing.

Miss Bennet,

Your assumption that I do not enjoy pastry is quite unjust. I do, in fact, have preferences beyond literature and responsibility. Your tarts were excellent. I shall refrain from admitting how many I ate in one sitting.

As for your beloved book, I will concede that there was one passage I found of particular merit. The argument that a man’s truest character is revealed not in his moments of triumph but in his moments of adversity was rather thought-provoking.

Do you believe this to be true?

F. Darcy

Mr. Darcy,

I am pleased that you enjoyed the tarts. Though now I am quite curious—do you have a favorite pastry? Or shall I be left wondering about this particular mystery?

As for the passage you referenced, I do believe it is true. A man’s character is most plainly seen when he faces hardship. I think it is easy to act with kindness when all is well. It is in difficulty that one’s true nature is revealed.

Though I do wonder—is this your way of admitting something about yourself?

I await your next argument.

Elizabeth Bennet

Miss Bennet,

If I were to confess my favorite pastry, I suspect you would take it upon yourself to procure it for me, and I am not yet prepared to be so thoroughly in your debt.

As for character in adversity, I find myself in partial agreement with you. However, I would argue that hardship does not necessarily change a man’s nature—but rather, reveals what was always there.

Some men are made better for it. Others, I fear, are merely exposed.

Would you disagree?

F. Darcy

Mr. Darcy,

So you would keep your favorite pastry a mystery? That is most unfair. But I shall let it pass—for now.

As for your argument, I do not disagree. Hardship does not create virtue or vice, but I do believe it has the power to shape a person. Perhaps it does not change their nature, but it can influence the way they choose to act upon it.

I wonder—do you believe you have been changed?

Elizabeth Bennet

One afternoon, Fitzwilliam invited Elizabeth for another walk.

She knew the reason before he even spoke.

They had barely made it past the hedgerows when he sighed dramatically.

"You realize, of course, that you and my cousin are the worst-kept secret in Kent?"

Elizabeth nearly tripped. "What?—"

"You exchange more letters than a pair of lovesick poets," he continued breezily. "It is exhausting to witness, really."

Elizabeth glared at him. "We are corresponding as friends. Nothing more."

Fitzwilliam arched a brow. "Oh? Shall I tell Darcy you consider him a friend, then? I’m sure he would be delighted by the news."

Elizabeth opened her mouth—then promptly closed it.

Fitzwilliam smirked.

She huffed. "Why are you even involved in this?"

"Because," he said, "I have spent far too many years watching my cousin be the most insufferable man in England. And now, miraculously, I find him less insufferable. I am inclined to encourage whatever—or whoever—is responsible."

Elizabeth looked away.

Fitzwilliam was quiet for a moment. Then, more softly, he added, "He is different with you, Miss Elizabeth."

Her breath caught. She refused to look at him. "You give him too much credit," she said lightly. "He is still Darcy."

Fitzwilliam laughed. "And you are still Elizabeth. Which is, I believe, the greatest inconvenience of his life."

Elizabeth felt a flutter in her chest. She ignored it. She ignored everything. But that night, she re-read Darcy’s last letter three times. And when she sat down to respond, she found herself smiling.

The next letter came two days after their last exchange.

Elizabeth had not expected it.

Which meant, of course, that she had been waiting for it.

She unfolded the parchment carefully, her heart already moving too fast.

Elizabeth,

You asked me once if I believed I had changed.

At the time, I did not answer.

Now, I believe I must.

I do not know if hardship shapes a man or merely reveals him. But I know this—I am not the same as I was before I knew you.

You have forced me to consider things I once dismissed. To question things I once thought certain. To hope for things I never allowed myself to want.

You have been the cause of much disturbance to my mind. And yet, I find that I do not regret it.

I know not whether you will respond to this letter. But if you do, I ask you only one thing—write me the truth.

F. Darcy

She read it twice.

Then again.

Her heart refused to settle. Her fingers gripped the parchment too tightly, as though she feared losing his words entirely.

She had expected many things from him. But not this. Not honesty stripped bare, careful and vulnerable all at once. Not this quiet confession, unguarded and aching. Not the possibility of something she was not ready to name.

Her breath shook.

She sat down at once and wrote back.

Mr. Darcy,

You say that I have forced you to reconsider things. That I have caused you disturbance.

I cannot say I am sorry for it.

Nor, I suspect, are you.

I have never pretended to be anything other than what I am. And I do not believe you would wish me to.

You asked me for the truth.

Here it is—I do not know what to do with you.

You frustrate me. You challenge me. You have, on multiple occasions, caused me great vexation.

And yet, I find that I do not regret it either.

I do not know what this means.

But I do not wish for it to end.

Elizabeth