Chapter 24
Elizabeth woke with a lightness she could not disguise, even from herself.
The previous morning’s visit had gone better than she had dared hope. Lady Anne had been warm and gracious, and Georgiana had come out of her shyness for some of the time. Elizabeth had seen in Darcy’s eyes a satisfaction that had warmed her more than any formal approval could have done.
The future, for the first time, had seemed not merely possible, but bright.
Unable to endure the confinement of the house, she wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and set out along the familiar path toward the small copse beyond the lane. The air was brisk; the hedgerows silvered with frost. Her spirits rose with each step.
She did not at first see him.
Darcy, atop his horse, emerged from the turn in the path some yards ahead. At sight of her, he stopped and dismounted.
There was no smile, and her own faltered.
“Good morning,” she said, forcing cheer into the greeting. “You are abroad early.”
“So are you.” His tone was gentle, but solemn.
“Is all well?” she asked, her pulse quickening. “Did your family find Hertfordshire tolerable? Did they—” she hesitated only a fraction “—approve of everything?”
A softness entered his expression then. “They admired you very much,” he said. “Both of them.”
Relief washed through her — and was immediately replaced by the weight of his composure. “Then what is wrong?”
He drew a breath. “There is something I must speak to you of before matters advance further.”
She stilled. “This sounds serious.”
He gave a faint, almost rueful inclination of his head. “It is a topic that is extremely… personal to me, and I must admit that I feel quite anxious over the matter.”
“I am glad you are speaking with me about it, then,” she said, though her heart had begun to beat more quickly. “You may tell me anything.”
“Thank you.”
They walked a few steps together before he continued. “You know that my family is Catholic.”
She nodded. “You were very nearly excommunicated by my sister for it.”
The attempt at levity did not wholly succeed.
“My family has held to that faith for centuries,” he said. “Not in name only, but in practice. There are priests who pass quietly through England still. When one travels near Pemberley, he conducts the sacraments for us.”
She listened, attentive now in earnest.
“If I marry,” he continued steadily, “it is important to me that the ceremony be solemnized in that faith, sometime after the Anglican marriage the government requires. And I also wish for my children be baptized and raised within it as well.”
The words settled between them.
Elizabeth felt as though the air had altered — sharpened.
“I see,” she said slowly. “I admit that this is not something I had considered. How would such a thing even be possible? It is not as if there are many Catholic priests in England.”
“There are few,” he acknowledged. “But there are some. They travel quietly. When one passes near Pemberley, he remains for several days. During that time, baptisms are performed, marriages blessed, confessions heard. It is done without spectacle.”
She absorbed that.
“And you would wish for both ceremonies?” she pressed. “The Anglican, for the law—and then another?”
“Yes.”
“And our children—would they be… registered differently?” The question felt awkward, yet necessary.
“They would be baptized in the Church of England publicly,” he said. “But raised in the Catholic faith privately. They would be instructed accordingly.”
Elizabeth stopped walking.
“That sounds,” she said carefully, “like living in two worlds at once.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “In some respects, it is.”
“And you have always done so?”
“Yes.”
She studied him anew, as though seeing an additional layer she had not fully appreciated before.
“I have never felt my religion to be… central,” she admitted. “It is simply what one does. One attends church. One observes the forms. But it has not required secrecy.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It has not.”
She resumed walking, more slowly now. “Would we be in danger?” she asked. “Truly?”
He did not evade. “Not as my ancestors were. But there would be disapproval. Certain doors would close. There would be comment.”
“And our children?”
“They would bear it with the Darcy name,” he said. “But they would bear it nonetheless.”
She was silent for several moments. “And if I could not agree?” she asked at last, very softly.
He did not answer immediately.
She saw the hesitation. Saw the struggle.
Her throat tightened.
“You would end our courtship?” she asked in a small voice, gesturing between the two of them.
His hand moved helplessly toward hers.
“I love you,” he said, the restraint gone from his voice. “I do not wish to part from you. But this has been the core of my family for generations. I cannot dismiss it lightly.”
The rawness of it undid her more than certainty would have done. Her vision blurred.
He spoke again, struggling for precision. “I am only hoping I shall not be required to choose between the inheritance of my family and the happiness of my life.”
Her eyes filled despite her effort.
“And I do not wish to be chosen over it,” she whispered. “Nor to be the reason you abandon it.”
“Nor do I wish you to feel compelled,” he replied.
She drew a trembling breath. “I cannot answer you today.”
“I do not ask it.”
“I do not wish to decide for fear of losing you,” she continued. “Nor from any wish to please you without conviction. If I am to agree, it must be because I believe it right — not merely because I love you.”
“You shall have it,” he answered at once.
His grip tightened slightly. “That is precisely why I love you.”
A fragile smile touched her lips. “Then grant me time,” she said softly.
“You shall have it.”
They walked on toward Longbourn in thoughtful silence, the frost crunching beneath their steps. When the house came into view, Elizabeth felt the weight of what lay before her descend fully.
At the door, he released her hand.
“I shall await your answer,” he said quietly.
She nodded.
Inside, the familiar drawing room seemed altered — smaller, somehow. She removed her shawl without seeing it, her mind circling the question with no resolution in sight.
Elizabeth’s heart felt both heavier and more certain than it had an hour before.
She loved him.
That, at least, was not in doubt.
But it seemed everything else was.
What on earth am I to do?
∞∞∞
Darcy did not remember the road back to Netherfield.
He had ridden it often enough since he came to Hertfordshire that his horse required little guidance, and for once he did not resist surrendering the reins to habit. His thoughts were anything but steady.
It had not gone as badly as he had feared.
She had not recoiled. She had not dismissed it as superstition or stubborn pride. She had asked questions—sensible questions. Difficult ones.
And she had not given him an immediate answer.
He respected her for it.
Indeed, a part of him was grateful she had not agreed at once. A ready compliance would have troubled him more than hesitation. Her hesitation meant she understood the gravity of what he asked.
But he could not deny that he wished it were simpler.
That she would simply believe in the same way he did.
Then nothing could stand in the way of their love.
By the time Netherfield came into view, his stomach remained unsettled, though his resolve had steadied. He dismounted and entered the house with outward composure. Once he had washed and changed his clothing, he made his way downstairs to find the women of the house gathered in the drawing room.
Lady Anne looked up at once when he entered.
Miss Bingley did as well—but for entirely different reasons.
“My dear Mr. Darcy,” Caroline exclaimed, rising from her seat with elaborate grace.
“We have been quite bereft without your presence this morning. Hertfordshire society is not nearly refined enough to warrant paying calls. Would you not agree, Lady Anne? Society in London would be preferred to here.”
Lady Anne murmured something vague, which did little to console Miss Bingley. As Darcy took his seat, Georgiana leaned over from her needlework. “Brother, did you encounter Miss Elizabeth on your ride?”
Lady Anne’s voice intervened smoothly. “Georgiana, I believe it is time for your lessons. Mrs. Annesley must be waiting for you.”
Georgiana pinkened, then rose obediently. “Yes, Mama.”
As she disappeared through the open doorway, Miss Bingley gave an impatient sigh and turned her attention back to the room.
“Really, Mr. Darcy, I cannot imagine what on earth has come over you and my brother. Surely, Lady Anne, you must agree with me that a household with five daughters of an indolent gentleman and a tradesman’s daughter cannot compare with our circles. ”
Darcy did not immediately respond. His gaze had shifted beyond her shoulder.
In the doorway stood Bingley.
He had entered quietly—so quietly that Miss Bingley had not heard him. His expression, ordinarily so open and genial, was transformed. The easy cheer had drained from it entirely. What remained was something far harder.
Miss Bingley continued, unaware.
“One tolerates such society for a season, of course. A little rustic amusement may be diverting. But to elevate them—to place them upon equal footing—” She gave a brittle laugh. “It is almost comic. The younger girls are scarcely restrained, and as for the elder—”
She did not finish.
“For the elder?” Bingley’s voice was low.
Miss Bingley froze.
Slowly—too slowly—she turned.
Her brother stepped fully into the room.
Darcy had never seen him thus.
There was no bluster. No nervousness. Only resolve.
“You were saying?” Bingley prompted.
Color drained from Caroline’s face. “Charles, I was merely observing—”
“You were insulting,” he said evenly. “And you were doing so in my house.”
“I spoke only what everyone must see.”
“What everyone must see,” he repeated, his tone tightening, “is that you have mistaken my patience for permission.”