Chapter 32 #2
He turned at once to Lady Catherine, his expression hardening.
“Aunt—what does this mean?” he demanded. “What have you been saying to her?”
She met his gaze calmly. “Merely the truth.”
“That you are her mother?” He shook his head incredulously. “Have you taken ill, perhaps? Struck your head? Shall I send for the doctor again?”
Lady Catherine stiffened. The look she gave him would have quelled a lesser man entirely. “My faculties,” she said icily, “are in perfect working order, I thank you.”
Darcy was unconvinced, and his doubt must have shown on his face because Lady Catherine drew herself up further.
“I have merely informed Elizabeth Bennet here the truth of her parentage: that she was born after I married Frederick Bennet in a secret Catholic ceremony.”
“It is impossible,” he replied.
“It is inconvenient,” Lady Catherine corrected. “But not impossible.”
Darcy looked at Elizabeth. Surely she would deny it outright—laugh at it, dismiss it as absurd—
But she did not.
Instead, she gave a small, helpless sort of shrug. “I… cannot say that I believe it,” she said carefully. “But—” She hesitated. “It would explain some things.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “What things?”
“My father, for one,” she said quietly. “His sudden… change. His determination to prevent the marriage at any cost.”
Darcy felt something cold settle in his chest. Lady Catherine watched them both closely.
Darcy turned back to her. “And you expect us to accept this on your word alone?”
“Yes, because ladies typically admit to giving birth to a child out of legal wedlock and then committing bigamy,” Lady Catherine said dryly.
Elizabeth gave a sharp burst of laughter, then slapped a hand of her mouth.
Lady Catherine gave her a quelling look, then abruptly asked, “What became of Freddy?”
Elizabeth blinked. “I do not know,” she admitted. “I did not even know he existed until a few months ago. Jane mentioned—almost in passing—that perhaps my coloring came from our Uncle Frederick. My sisters all have fair hair and blue eyes, you see.”
She gave a faint, uncertain breath. “I had never heard of him before. She told me he died many years ago. There is very little spoken of him. Indeed—very little known at all. I… I am sorry.”
Lady Catherine’s shoulders slumped down. “I suppose it was too much to hope that he had survived after all these years.”
The three sat in silence for a long while before Elizabeth asked in a small voice, “So what does this mean for us?”
Darcy gave her a blank look. “I… I do not understand the question.”
She waved a hand between the two of them. “This. Us. What is going to happen? My father has rescinded his permission—but it is possible he is not actually my father. We were supposed to be married this morning, but instead we fled. And to discover that I am… well, that I was born out of wedlock…”
Her voice trailed off, and Darcy’s heart clenched at the sound of tears in her voice. “You may not… that is, I cannot imagine you wishing to connect yourself to someone with such a history.”
He gaped. “Are you trying to… to cry off?”
“No,” she cried out. “I simply do not wish to bring you down with me.”
He shook his head vehemently. All of the confusion, the shock, the unanswered questions—none of it mattered to him.
There was only her.
He closed the distance between them on the bed and gathered her into his arms, holding her firmly against him. She gasped in surprise, and Lady Catherine gave a scandalized sniff.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low but full of unmistakable force, “do not speak another word of that.”
She burrowed her face into his chest.
“I love you,” he continued, with a vehemence that surprised even himself. “That has not changed. It will not change. Whatever your parentage may be—whatever has been concealed or revealed—it signifies nothing to me.”
His hold tightened slightly.
“Indeed,” he added, a trace of grim humor threading through his tone, “the notion that Mr. Bennet is not your father renders my conscience considerably easier regarding the manner in which I removed you from his house.”
Elizabeth gave a small, startled breath against his shoulder.
Darcy drew back just enough to look at her.
“I intend to marry you,” he said plainly. “If you will have me.”
“But how?” she asked. “My father will certainly be searching for us along the north road to Scotland.”
He shook his head. “I do not know. We do have the license, however.”
Shifting her in his arms, he reached into his front waistcoat pocket, withdrawing the folded paper he had kept next to his heart since London. As he unfolded the paper, he prayed for a miracle.
And there was one.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered in complete shock, staring down at the script, “the location is blank.”
“What do you mean?” She frowned and twisted in his arms to be able to see the license in his hand.
“On a common license,” he explained, his mind already moving ahead, “the place of marriage is typically specified—but this one is not. It is left open.”
He looked up at her.
“That means we are not bound to any particular church.”
A quiet stillness fell over the room as the implication settled.
“We could be married here,” he said.
Lady Catherine’s eyes sharpened, but she did not interrupt.
“Your father—” Darcy continued, more steadily now, “—has already signed the settlements. No banns are required. There is nothing, legally, to prevent the marriage.”
He held her gaze.
“If it is your wish,” he said, more softly now, “we could be married tomorrow.”
The words seemed to hang between them.
Darcy did not move.
Did not breathe.
He simply watched her—waiting.
What will she choose?
∞∞∞
Get married? Tomorrow? Without my family?
Elizabeth’s head was swimming.
Nothing felt steady.
Her parents—were not her parents. Or perhaps they were. Perhaps none of this was true at all. Lady Catherine might be mistaken. Or worse—deliberately misleading them. There was no way to prove any of it. No certainty to be had. No evidence beyond words and long-buried memories.
Blood told nothing.
Everyone’s blood was red.
She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind.
Darcy’s shoulders slumped. “I… I see. I apologize, Elizabeth. I should not rush you.”
“No!” she blurted out, horrified at his inference. “No, you misunderstand. Just… just give a moment.”
She lifted up her eyes to meet his dark ones.
And there it was.
Not pressure. Not expectation.
Hope.
Vulnerability.
Love.
Everything else in her world felt as though it had been torn up by the roots—her family, her name, even her past—but he stood before her unchanged. Steady. Certain. Waiting, but not demanding.
He was offering himself to her—not the situation, not the circumstances—himself.
And for all the confusion swirling in her mind, that one truth rose clear above the rest:
She knew him.
She trusted him.
She loved him.
And he was not asking her to solve the world.
Only to choose him.
And that—she could do.
Not because everything else was clear.
But because it was not.
Because when everything else had fallen away, he had remained.
Elizabeth drew in a breath, her voice steadier than she felt. “I am not uncertain of you,” she said quietly. “Only… of everything else.”
Something in his expression shifted—softened, steadied further still.
And in that moment, she understood.
Everything else might be uncertain.
Her name.
Her past.
Her family.
But not this.
Not him.
His love was steady. Unshaken. A constant in the midst of everything collapsing around her.
And suddenly, that was enough.
“I will marry you tomorrow,” she said, the words came softly, but laden with certainty. “I do not wish to wait another day to become Mrs. Darcy—your wife.”
Relief broke across his face—swift, profound.
And then—
A shriek split the air from the corridor outside.