Chapter 19
D arcy sat in stunned silence, Mr. Bennet’s words reverberating in his mind. You are asking me to marry Miss Elizabeth? The weight of the situation bore down on him, tightening his chest. His jaw clenched as emotions he could barely name surged to the surface.
His initial reaction was one of intense anger, sharp and hot. Once again, Wickham’s actions dictate my life.
Memories of Anne, his first wife, surged unbidden. Her pale, trembling face as she whispered her pleas, her hollow eyes filled with the grief of her own shattered innocence. Anne’s life—and death—had been marred by Wickham's malice. Now, here he was again, the shadow of that vile man twisting his path once more.
Darcy’s fists clenched against his knees. Haven’t I suffered enough under Wickham’s machinations? It’s always him— always taking, always destroying. Must I be forced into another union because of his self-serving actions? His heart rebelled at the thought. Marriage should be a choice, not a penance inflicted by someone else’s cruelty.
And yet… his gaze flickered to Elizabeth, and everything stilled.
She sat tall, her chin lifted in quiet defiance despite the pallor of her face. Her borrowed robe, though clean and warm, could not disguise her exhaustion. And yet, her eyes—those fierce, expressive eyes—burned with a joie de vivre that was undiminished by the day’s events. They spoke of spoke of strength, resilience, and a determination he had come to admire; she was a woman who had faced terror and refused to crumble.
Unbidden, memories of the past weeks rushed in, vivid and insistent.
He saw her cradling Andrew in the cold, her voice soothing, her touch tender as she rocked his son in her arms. That moment had been a revelation, though he hadn’t recognized it at the time. A glimpse of Elizabeth’s strength, her capacity for love, her ability to nurture even when faced with chaos.
He saw her at the piano with Georgiana, coaxing his shy sister out of her shell with laughter and encouragement. Their shared joy had filled the room, easing tensions Darcy hadn’t even realized he carried. She had drawn Georgiana out in a way he had never been able to, her natural warmth breaking through years of guarded reserve.
He saw her in conversation with him—challenging him, teasing him, sharing her thoughts with such clarity and wit that it left him breathless. Elizabeth had a way of looking at the world, at him, that made him question everything he thought he knew. She was unlike any woman he had ever known—strong, intelligent, and utterly captivating.
A realization struck him, sharp and undeniable: I love her.
His breath caught as the truth settled within him. The anger he had felt moments before ebbed away, replaced by something deeper, something that made his chest tighten and his pulse quicken. This wasn’t like his marriage to Anne—this was different.
This was Elizabeth .
How had he not seen it before? The way his heart raced at her presence, the way her laughter stayed with him long after she had left the room. She was in his thoughts constantly, her voice echoing in his mind, her spirit woven into his days.
Darcy’s throat tightened as he wrestled with the weight of the moment. Could he truly ask her to marry him under these circumstances? Could he bear to bind her to a man like himself, scarred by duty, loss, and mistakes? Yet, the idea of not asking her, of walking away now, felt equally unbearable.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the woman in front of him: Elizabeth Bennet. The woman he had come to admire, to respect, to cherish. And now, the woman he was being asked to marry.
A throat cleared, jolting him from his thoughts. Darcy blinked, realizing that the room had fallen silent. Every pair of eyes was fixed on him, their expressions ranging from expectation to concern. Mr. Bennet was watching him intently, his brow furrowed, while Elizabeth sat poised, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She was waiting. They were all waiting.
Darcy inhaled deeply, forcing himself to stand. His movements were deliberate, his posture straight, though his heart thundered in his chest. He turned to Elizabeth, meeting her gaze fully for the first time since the question had been posed.
Her eyes searched his face, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a flicker of fear. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a quiet resolve that made his chest ache.
He stepped closer, his voice low and steady despite the emotions churning within him. “Miss Elizabeth,” he began, his tone formal, “would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
The words hung in the air, heavy with significance. Darcy held his breath, his heart pounding as he awaited her reply, his future poised on the edge of her answer. For the first time in years, he felt the sting of vulnerability—raw, unguarded, and utterly at her mercy.
Elizabeth sat frozen in her chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain the others must hear it. Every second stretched unbearably as she watched Darcy’s face. His expression was unreadable at first, his features a mask of calm neutrality that betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
Then, a flicker of something crossed his face—a tightening of his jaw, a darkening of his eyes.
Anger.
It was unmistakable, and her stomach twisted painfully. He was furious, of course. Furious at being cornered into this position, at having his life upended by Wickham.
Elizabeth dropped her gaze to her lap, unable to bear the weight of his pain. Of course he’s angry, she thought bitterly. What man wouldn’t be? He’s being forced into marriage with me—a woman beneath his station, who has been ruined by Wickham’s actions.
When she dared to glance up again, Darcy’s expression had shifted. His features were no longer tight with anger but were now set in a stoic mask of resolve. His back was rigid, his posture impeccable, and his face was devoid of emotion, as though he had donned armor against the weight of what he was about to do.
Elizabeth’s heart sank further. He doesn’t want this, she realized. He sees it as an obligation, a duty he cannot escape.
The thought made her chest ache, a sharp stabbing directly into her heart. She had dared to dream, for the briefest of moments, that he might harbor some affection for her, that perhaps his attention over the past weeks had meant something more. But now, that hope felt foolish and naive.
When Darcy finally rose from his seat, her breath caught in her throat. His movements were slow and deliberate, each step precise and measured as he crossed the room. He stopped before her, his tall frame towering above her, and for a moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes—something tender, something vulnerable. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by his familiar unyielding mask.
She wanted to tell him to sit back down, to stop before the words could leave his lips, but she was frozen, caught in the maelstrom of her own emotions. Her breath came shallow and quick, her hands gripping the folds of her dress until her knuckles turned white.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his tone cool and distant, “would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
The words echoed in her ears, heavy with formality and duty. The honor? The phrase felt hollow, almost mocking, when she could see plainly that he was doing this out of necessity, not desire. Her chest tightened further, and she pressed her hands together in her lap to keep them from trembling. She searched his face desperately for any sign of warmth or affection, but found only the same impassive resolve.
The urge to refuse him surged within her. She didn’t want to trap him in a union he would resent. She couldn’t bear to tie herself to a man who would look at her every day with the same grim sense of duty she saw now. Yet as her gaze swept the room, her resolve faltered.
Her father’s stern expression left no room for argument. Jane, pale but hopeful, watched her with wide eyes, silently pleading for her to do what was necessary. The servants, lingering discreetly in the background, had already been whispering. She could hear their voices in her mind, the gossip that would spread through Meryton if she did not accept.
Ruined. Disgraced. Unmarriageable.
Elizabeth’s throat tightened and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. The reality of her situation settled heavily on her shoulders. There was no other choice. If she refused him, her life would be over. She would be an outcast, shunned by society, her family’s reputation in tatters. And yet, to accept his proposal knowing he did not truly want her—it felt like a betrayal of her own heart.
She looked at Darcy, her vision blurring slightly as she blinked back the tears threatening to fall. His face was solemn, his gaze steady. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she met Darcy’s eyes. She looked down and relaxed her face, trying to appear calm, though her heart felt as though it might shatter within her chest.
She gave a tiny nod.
“Yes,” she whispered, her hands trembling despite her best efforts to keep them still. “I will marry you, Mr. Darcy.”
There was a collective exhale at her words, but Elizabeth felt no relief. She locked eyes with Darcy again, her stomach clenching painfully as she searched his gaze for a flicker of understanding, of shared emotion.
But his expression remained unreadable, and she felt more alone than ever.
I will not let them see how much this hurts, she vowed silently. I will not let them see my heart break.
For a moment, Darcy did not move, his expression unchanged. Then he inclined his head slightly, his voice low as he replied, “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth.”
The formality of his words only deepened the ache in her chest. As they turned to face the others in the room, Elizabeth kept her gaze forward, refusing to let herself dwell on what she had just agreed to. Her decision was made, her path set. Yet, in that moment, as the weight of her acceptance settled upon her, Elizabeth’s heart ached with the bittersweet realization that she might have just sealed her own unhappiness.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth took a deep breath as she descended from the carriage Bingley had loaned them to return to Longbourn, as the Bennet carriage had been absconded with by Wickham. It was now quite late in the evening, and Mr. Bennet had ridden ahead to inform his family of the new developments.
The journey had been quiet, both sisters lost in their thoughts. Jane was pale and subdued, her usual serenity shadowed with worry. Elizabeth’s body ached with every jolt of the wheels. Despite the soothing ointments, sharp stings and dull throbs remained constant reminders of the harrowing events of the day.
The door opened, and Hill greeted them with a lantern, her eyes widening as she took in Elizabeth’s bruised and scratched face. “Oh, Miss Elizabeth!” she exclaimed softly. “Are you—”
“I’m quite all right, Hill,” Elizabeth replied, unable to keep the tremble from her voice. “Please, let us inside. It has been a… a difficult day.”
The familiar warmth of Longbourn’s entry hall greeted them, but it offered little comfort. The moment they stepped inside, Mrs. Bennet’s shrill voice assaulted their ears and echoed through the house.
“My Jane! My Lizzy! There you are at last!” She bustled forward, her lace cap askew as she clapped her hands together with glee. “Oh, Jane, I knew Mr. Bingley would come to his senses! And Lizzy—how very clever of you to secure Mr. Darcy at last! Two betrothals, and all in the same week! I am the happiest woman in England; nothing shall ever vex me again.”
Elizabeth stiffened, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. “Mama,” she said through clenched teeth, her voice low, “this is hardly a cause for celebration.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Bennet said brightly, entirely oblivious to her daughter’s tone. “A wedding is always a cause for celebration, my dear. And two—why, it will set all of Meryton talking! Oh, the carriages, the gowns—how grand it will all be! Why, I must begin planning at once. I was thinking late spring, or perhaps early summer—”
“Mama, stop!” Elizabeth’s voice cut through the room like a whip, startling her mother into silence. Her eyes burned with anger. “Do you even see me? Look at me, Mama! Look at my face! Look at my arms!”
“Oh, just a few scratches, which is nothing compared to the triumph—”
“Triumph?” Mr. Bennet’s sharp voice cut through the room as he appeared in the doorway. His expression was thunderous, and his gaze locked onto his wife with uncharacteristic fury. “I hardly think triumph is the appropriate word, Mrs. Bennet, given the circumstances.”
Mrs. Bennet faltered, her smile slipping. “But, Mr. Bennet, surely you must see—”
“Enough!” he thundered, his voice unyielding. “Do you have any idea what your daughters have endured today? Look at Elizabeth, woman! Look at her injuries!”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened as she turned to her second daughter and saw her clearly for the first time since this arrival. The matron’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped. “Lizzy, what on earth happened to you?”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly. “I was chased, Mama. Chased through a maze like an animal by Mr. Wickham, who was trying to kill me. I fought to escape, to save my life and to check on Jane, who I thought had been poisoned and was lying dead in the parlor, as dead as Mr. Hurst. We could have— we all could have—” She broke off, choking on the unspoken words. “And all you care about is a wedding?”
Mrs. Bennet’s face paled, and for once, she had no immediate response. Before she could muster a reply, Mr. Bennet spoke up. “That is enough, Elizabeth,” he said firmly, yet gently. He turned to his wife, his tone sharp. “And you, Madam, ought to be ashamed.”
Mrs. Bennet flinched as though struck. “I—I didn’t know,” she whispered, wringing her hands. Her gaze darted between her husband and Elizabeth, her composure unraveling. “Lizzy, I didn’t understand—”
“Understand? Of course you didn’t understand,” Mr. Bennet interrupted coldly. “Your frivolity blinds you to everything that matters. If you cannot conduct yourself with the appropriate respect for what your daughters have suffered, then you had best keep silent. Do I make myself clear?”
Mrs. Bennet nodded meekly, her hands twisting together. “Y-yes, Mr. Bennet.”
“Good.”
Mrs. Bennet’s lower lip trembled, and she fell into a chair, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “Oh, Lizzy,” she murmured, her voice faint. “What have I done? I am so sorry. I had no idea.”
Elizabeth’s anger cooled as she watched her mother’s face crumble into genuine remorse. “Thank you, Mama,” she said quietly. “That means a great deal to me.”
Mrs. Bennet sniffled, her hands twisting in her lap. “I could not bear it if you were truly harmed,” she whispered. “You say Mr. Hurst is dead? Truly? Oh, my poor, dear girls.” She reached out for each of her daughters, squeezing their hands when her words failed her.
Mr. Bennet nodded his approval. “Your young men will call at first light to take their leave before they go to London. There is much to arrange before the wedding. Three days is not a long time.”
“Three days?” Lydia’s voice rang out from the stairs as she bounded into the room, Kitty trailing behind her. “But that’s the day of the Netherfield ball! Oh, I cannot wait to see the gowns and the carriages as everyone comes that evening to celebrate! Mr. Bingley must surely be inviting all his rich friends to come.”
“There will be no ball,” Mr. Bennet barked, causing Lydia to stop short. “It has been canceled.”
“What?” Lydia wailed, her face contorting in dismay. “Canceled? But why? That is most unfair!”
“It is not unfair,” Elizabeth snapped, her voice cutting through Lydia’s protest. She stepped forward, cradling her injured arm. “Do you think this is a game, Lydia? Do you think this is about gowns and dances?”
Her voice rose with anger. “Look at me, Lydia! Look at what Lieutenant Wickham did! He chased me, threatened me, would have killed me if I hadn’t escaped. He killed Mr. Hurst, kidnapped Miss Bingley, and tried to kill me. And yet you can only speak of dancing? You had best learn to deal with disappointment, because I will not hesitate to cut you as Mrs. Darcy if you continue to behave in such a wild, selfish manner.”
Lydia’s eyes widened, and she burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. “You’re so mean, Lizzy! How can you say such awful things? I’m not selfish, you’re just—”
“Enough, Lydia!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice was sharp for once, and she rounded on her youngest daughter with uncharacteristic severity. “You will apologize to your sister this instant. Do you not see what she has endured? Have you no shame?”
Lydia stared at her mother, shock drying her tears . “B-but—”
“No buts!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice cracked, and tears filled her eyes as she looked at Elizabeth. She rose from her chair, a rare determination in her expression as she pointed toward the stairs. “Go to your room, Lydia. And do not come down until you can speak with proper respect.”
Lydia gaped at her mother. “But Mama—”
“Go!” Mrs. Bennet shouted. Lydia fled up the stairs, sobbing loudly. Kitty hesitated for a moment, then followed her sister with a furtive glance.
The room fell silent, and Mrs. Bennet sank back into her chair, dabbing at her eyes again. She looked at Elizabeth, her gaze filled with regret. “I am sorry, my dears. I don’t know what has come over her, but I promise I will not allow it.”
Elizabeth offered her mother a small, weary smile. “Thank you, Mama.”
She excused herself shortly afterward, her body heavy with exhaustion. Once in the privacy of her room, she sat at her writing desk and stared at the blank sheet of paper before her. Taking a deep breath, she dipped her pen into the inkwell. She must explain her hasty marriage to her Aunt Gardiner. The words felt heavy as she wrote.
Perhaps Mr. Darcy will carry it with him to London for one of his servant’s there to deliver for me.
The ink dried on the page, and she folded the letter with care, sealing it with quivering fingers. The weight of the day pressed down on her as she leaned back in her chair, her thoughts racing. Tomorrow would bring another step toward a future she had never imagined. Her world was changing faster than she could comprehend, and though she was determined to face it with courage, a small part of her longed for the simplicity of days gone by.