Chapter 37
The moment the door closed behind him that night, the strain of the day seemed to press down more keenly on Darcy’s chest. He remained where he stood, his gaze fixed on Elizabeth as she began to remove the last of her hairpins, and he saw—now, without distraction—what she had borne in silence.
But there had been no opportunity to discuss anything. Letters of business and affairs of estate did not cease simply because one’s world was unraveling.
Fortunately, the house quieted quickly after the rather awkward dinner.
Richard retired early—it was his wedding night, after all—and even Lady Catherine had not thought fit to prolong the evening.
Mr. Bennet, for his part, had looked worn by travel and strain, withdrawing to his guest room without further argument.
Now Darcy was finally alone with his wife. His gaze searched her face as he asked, “Elizabeth, how are you doing?”
She paused, then pulled the last hair pin from her head, causing her long, dark tresses to tumble around her shoulders. It was his favorite look of hers: wild. Carefree. Intimate.
For a moment, he thought she might deflect the question.
“I wished to speak to you earlier about your father’s revelations,” he hastily continued, “but there was no time. You regained your composure remarkably quickly.”
She gave a small, tired smile. “I have had a great deal of practice at that lately, have I not? Soon I shall be a true proficient.”
He laughed softly. “Elizabeth.”
She sighed. “I am well,” she said. Then, after a pause, “Or at least, I am attempting to be.”
“A full night’s sleep will do you a world of good,” he replied. “Come.”
They retired to her chamber, and once the candles were lowered and the door secured, they climbed into bed together.
Darcy drew her into his arms at once.
She came willingly.
For a few moments, neither spoke.
Then Elizabeth let out a slow breath against his shoulder.
“It is all so very strange,” she said. “I am the same person I was yesterday—and yet I am not. Everything I thought I knew of myself has shifted. I do not know quite how to… hold both things at once.”
Darcy’s hand moved slowly along her back in a soothing motion.
“How do you feel toward Mr. Bennet?” he asked after a moment. “If you are uneasy in his presence—if you do not feel safe—I will take you away at once. To London. To Pemberley. Anywhere you wish.”
Elizabeth shifted closer to him, her hand resting lightly against his chest.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For that—for all of it.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“I do not feel anger,” she said at last. “Not as I thought I might. Not now.”
Darcy frowned slightly. “I confess I do not understand that.”
She gave a faint, thoughtful smile.
“I have nearly twenty years of memories of him,” she said. “Kindness. Wit. Affection. He raised me. He taught me. That does not vanish in a single day.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “And yet he deceived you. Drugged you. Sought to take you away by force.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “And he was wrong.”
She lifted her head slightly to look at him.
“But he believed he was protecting me. Even if he went about it in entirely the wrong manner.”
“I am not nearly so forgiving as you.” Darcy exhaled slowly. “I find my good opinion, once lost, is not easily restored.”
Elizabeth laughed softly.
“Then you may be resentful for us both,” she said. “I think I shall choose otherwise. I prefer to remember the parts of the past that bring pleasure, not sorrow.”
Darcy studied her in the dim light. Her generosity of spirit humbled him.
After a moment, he spoke again—more hesitantly. “Elizabeth… did I act wrongly?”
She stilled. “What do you mean?”
“I came for you,” he said. “Without waiting. Without seeking further explanation. I would not have you think—” he broke off, then continued more quietly, “—that I forced you into a situation you now regret.”
Elizabeth pushed herself up at once, staring down at him in astonishment.
“How can you even ask me that?”
Darcy blinked.
“You did exactly what was needed,” she said, her voice firm despite the softness of the moment. “You came for me. You saved me. You chose me when everything else was confusion.”
“I will always choose you.”
Her expression softened. “I regret nothing,” she said. “Nothing except that my father was not honest with me.”
“It would have made things a great deal easier.”
Her hand came up to his cheek. “I would not have had it any other way,” she added, more quietly. “I love being your wife.”
Darcy felt something in his chest give way entirely.
Love.
Gratitude.
Awe.
He drew her back down to him without another word and kissed her—slowly, deeply, with all that he could not put into speech.
She answered him at once. And as the world beyond their room faded once more into silence, there was nothing left but the certainty of each other.
∞∞∞
The following morning, Elizabeth searched everywhere for her father.
She found him in the library.
Of course she did.
She paused just inside the doorway, one hand still resting against the frame, and could not help the faint, almost incredulous breath that escaped her.
“I suppose,” she said, “I ought to have thought to look here first.”
Mr. Bennet looked up from his book. For a moment, something almost like his usual dry amusement flickered across his face.
“An unfortunate habit of mine,” he said. “To be found among the books when one least expects it.”
Elizabeth stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her with deliberate care.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
It was strange—standing there, looking at him.
Nothing had changed.
And yet everything had.
“I wanted to ask you something,” she said at last.
Mr. Bennet set his book aside, though he did not rise. “That sounds ominous.”
She did not smile. “What was he like? Your brother.”
The lines in his face somehow deepened. “Freddy,” he said softly. “Your father…”
He paused, unable to speak, as though the words had caught on something
Elizabeth crossed the room and knelt down at his side, taking his hand in hers. “You may call him that,” she said gently, “but it does not change anything.”
He looked at her with watery eyes, and she held his gaze.
“You are my papa,” she said. “You raised me. That is not something that can be altered by a story told after twenty years.”
“You are a good girl, Lizzy,” he said, his voice roughened. “Far better than I deserve.”
“I do not think so.”
That earned the faintest huff of breath from him—almost a laugh, though it did not quite reach it. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, “Frederick was… very different from me.”
Elizabeth moved to the chair opposite and sat.
“He was restless,” Mr. Bennet continued. “Impatient with quiet life. Where I was content to remain, he was always looking beyond.”
Elizabeth listened, her heart tightening at the picture he painted—of a young man so full of life, so eager, so determined.
“He laughed easily,” Mr. Bennet continued. “And loved easily, too. Though I told him he was a fool for it on many occasions.”
A faint ghost of a smile passed over his face. “He did not care.”
There was a pause, then Mr. Bennet’s expression grew more somber.
“It is as I told you all yesterday; he came home one holiday,” Mr. Bennet said, “and spoke of a young lady.”
Elizabeth leaned forward slightly.
“Cathy,” he added, almost reluctantly. “He was already half lost to her.”
A faint, rueful breath escaped him, and Elizabeth almost smiled.
“I have told you how it ended,” he said quietly. “But I have not told you this—I admired him. Even when I disagreed with him, I admired him. He had a courage I never possessed.”
Elizabeth swallowed.
“I only saw him once after that, when he came to ask for money,” Mr. Bennet said, “He did not return again until the night Fanny was brought to bed, when he brought you. And then I never saw him again after that.”
Elizabeth felt her throat tighten. Mr. Bennet looked at her then, fully.
“And I failed him,” he said. “As I failed you.”
“Papa—”
He shook his head. “No. You must let me say it.”
His voice grew heavier.
“I panicked. I saw danger where perhaps there was none—or at least, none so immediate. I acted without thought, without reason, and in doing so, I hurt you.” He swallowed. “It is the worst decision I have ever made, and I shall regret it all my days.”
Elizabeth felt the sting of tears but forced them back.
“You did not drive me away,” she said softly. “I went where I wished to go.”
“At my hand,” he returned. “Do not spare me, Lizzy.”
She did not argue further.
After a moment, he continued, more composed, “I shall return to Hertfordshire tomorrow. Your mother must not be left alone with Lydia and Kitty for too long—or with Mary in her present state.”
Elizabeth could not help the faintest, wry breath at that. Then he looked at her again.
“She is to be married to Mr. Collins soon,” he said carefully. “Will you come?”
Elizabeth’s expression changed at once. “No,” she said, without hesitation.
Mr. Bennet’s shoulders lowered slightly. “She is your sister,” he said, though without force.
“She struck me,” Elizabeth replied, her voice steady but firm. “Not in a moment of temper, but with conviction. And she does not believe herself wrong.”
“No,” Mr. Bennet admitted quietly.
“And she will not apologize,” Elizabeth continued. “Because she sees no fault in her actions.”
Silence fell.
“I cannot stand beside her as though nothing has passed,” Elizabeth said more gently. “Whatever her intentions, what she did… I cannot accept it.”
Mr. Bennet nodded slowly, the sadness in his expression deepening. “I thought as much, but I had to ask.”
Elizabeth reached for his hand then, giving it a small, reassuring squeeze.
“I do not withdraw my affection from you,” she added softly. “But there are some things that cannot be overlooked.”
Mr. Bennet turned his hand to clasp hers briefly.
“I understand,” he said.