Chapter 43 #2
“Of course she does not!” she exclaimed, the words escaping her before she could soften them.
“You have not seen one another in nearly twenty years! You cannot expect everything to resume as though no time has passed. People change—circumstances change—and she has no reason to trust that you are the same man she once knew.”
“Gently, my dear,” Mr. Bennet interjected, though there was more amusement than reproof in his tone. “The man has only just returned to life. Let us not dispatch him again so soon.”
Elizabeth hardly seemed to hear him.
Teddy shifted where he sat, clearly uncomfortable, and she drew in a breath, forcing herself into a more measured tone.
“You have too many responsibilities pressing upon you at present,” she continued. “Your son, Longbourn…everything that must now be settled. And Lady Catherine…” She shook her head slightly. “Her world has been altered as completely as your own. If you wish to marry her—”
“Technically,” Frederick put in, attempting levity, “we are already married—at least under Catholic law.”
Elizabeth glowered at him. “But not under English law,” she bit out, “which is the only consideration at present.”
Frederick raised his hands in mock surrender. “Peace, peace.”
Elizabeth, however, was only warming to the topic.
“And more to the point—she has lived nearly twenty years as her own mistress. She has managed her large estate, run her household, and cared for her ill daughter without reliance upon any man. She is not going to surrender that independence to someone she has long believed dead, and whose constancy she has no means of judging.”
Frederick’s expression sobered. “No,” he said quietly. “I suppose she would not.”
He ran a hand over his face, looking suddenly far less certain of himself. “What am I to do, then?”
Elizabeth and Darcy exchanged a brief glance—one of shared exasperation, though not without sympathy.
“Give her time,” Elizabeth said at last. “Show her—do not tell her—that you are worthy of her trust. Offer her your apology, and mean it. Remain here for now, attend to what must be done at Longbourn, and to your son. Write to her. Call upon her when it may be done properly. In short—” she gave a small, pointed look “—conduct yourself as any other gentleman seeking a lady’s regard would be expected to do. ”
Frederick gave a faint huff of breath that might have been a laugh. “I am to court her, then.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said firmly. “And do it properly this time.”
Before he could reply, the door opened.
“Sir William Lucas and Mr. Philips,” the servant announced.
Darcy rose at once, and the tone of the room shifted as practical matters resumed their place. Elizabeth, however, felt her part in the conversation had reached its natural conclusion.
“If you will excuse me,” she said, rising. “I believe Lady Catherine may have greater need of me at present.”
No one objected, and she almost thought she heard a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her.
Men! she thought in annoyance as she strode down the corridor, following the sounds of what she presumed to be Georgiana at the piano.
Insufferable, the lot of them! Except for my dear Darcy, of course, though I imagine that is because we have not yet been married long enough for me to wish to strangle him.
She found Lady Catherine in the music room, sitting near the pianoforte. Her posture was rigid, her expression one of considerable indignation. Lady Anne occupied a seat beside her, speaking in low, soothing tones, while Jane hovered nearby in evident concern.
Georgiana’s playing stumbled and slurred as she tried to hear the diatribe without being scolded for eavesdropping.
“…men are the most obstinate of creatures,” Lady Catherine was declaring as Elizabeth entered. “To suppose that one may simply return after two decades and resume—resume—” She broke off with a sharp motion of her hand.
Elizabeth approached, unable to suppress a small smile.
“I have just delivered him a thorough reprimand on your behalf,” she said.
Lady Catherine glanced at her. “I have no doubt you did.”
Elizabeth sat beside her.
“He does not know how to proceed,” she added more gently.
Lady Catherine’s expression shifted—only slightly, but enough to reveal something beneath the irritation.
“I dare say he does not,” she said. After a moment, more quietly, “I do not know how to proceed either.”
Elizabeth studied her.
“I still love him,” Lady Catherine said abruptly, her gaze fixed ahead. “Or rather—” she amended, “—I love the man I remember. Whether that man still exists…” She did not finish the thought.
Elizabeth reached out and touched her hand.
“Then treat him as you would any other gentleman,” she said softly. “Allow him to prove himself. Do not give him more than he earns—but do not refuse him the opportunity to try.”
Lady Catherine was silent for a moment, then she gave a short nod. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, that is sensible. Which stands to reason, given who your mother is.”
“Then nothing need be altered,” Elizabeth said with a laugh. “You shall return to Rosings as planned. We shall go to Derbyshire. And he—” she lifted a brow slightly “—may begin his courtship in earnest.”
Lady Catherine’s lips curved, just faintly.
“He had better do it well.”
Elizabeth laughed softly.
“I believe he has been sufficiently warned.”
As she sat there, the tension of the previous day seemed, at last, to ease.
The future remained uncertain, but for the first time since Frederick appeared the night before, Elizabeth felt something like peace.
∞∞∞
One week later…
Elizabeth sat in the carriage before Lucas Lodge, her gloved hands folded lightly in her lap, though her gaze remained fixed upon the scene beyond the window.
Darcy stood just outside, assisting Charlotte into the other carriage where Lady Anne, Lady Catherine, and Georgiana were already settling themselves.
Charlotte, though composed, could not entirely conceal her gratitude, and Elizabeth felt a small stirring of relief at the thought that, whatever her friend’s earlier desperation, she would now be afforded an opportunity that might lead to something better.
The last week had been one of joy and healing. Returning to visit Hertfordshire had not gone as anticipated, of course, but in many respects, it had been far better than anything Elizabeth might once have imagined.
She had paid calls where she could, and received many more in return.
Familiar faces—neighbors, acquaintances, friends of long standing—had come in a steady stream, each eager to see her once more, to admire her as Mrs. Darcy, and to express, with varying degrees of delicacy, their astonishment at all that had transpired.
There had been warm embraces, earnest inquiries after her health, and no small amount of whispered speculation regarding her sudden removal from Longbourn before her wedding.
Elizabeth bore it all with good humor.
If anything, she found comfort in it.
These were the people who had known her always—not as a curiosity, nor as a subject of gossip, but simply as Elizabeth Bennet.
Their affection was genuine, their concern unfeigned, and their relief at her recovery from her supposed “illness” was both touching and, at times, rather difficult to answer without smiling.
Mrs. Bennet, for her part, had taken the greatest delight in it all.
“My dear Mrs. Darcy,” she had proclaimed on more than one occasion, drawing Elizabeth forward with unconcealed pride, “has made the most brilliant match! Quite the finest gentleman in Derbyshire, I assure you—and such a devoted husband!”
And before Elizabeth could do more than laugh and protest, her mother would continue, scarcely pausing for breath, “And you must also know—our dear Freddy has returned from India! Yes, indeed, quite alive, though we had all thought him lost—and such a handsome young son with him, too! Teddy, my dear—quite the image of his father, only younger, of course!”
The entire visit has, as a whole, been quite lovely, Elizabeth thought to herself as her husband finished the final arrangements in the other carriage.
At last, he exchanged a final word with the coachman, then climbed in beside her, closing the door firmly behind him. The space felt immediately warmer for his presence, more settled.
“Are you ready to leave again?” he asked.
Elizabeth’s lips curved.
“Yes—this time I shall have the benefit of consciousness, and may observe my surroundings properly as I depart.”
Darcy’s mouth twitched. “A distinct improvement. Though, as I recall, it was the middle of the night. You did not miss all that much of consequence. The full moon on the trees, perhaps, but we have that in wilds of Derbyshire as well.”
She laughed softly, turning her gaze to him. “It feels an age ago,” she said. “And yet—it has not even been a year.”
“I have no memory of before,” he declared, “as there is nothing worth remembering if you were not with me.”
Warmth filled her, and she grinned cheekily at him. “Who would have imagined, when you first came to Meryton, that within the year you would engage in elopement with a simple country miss—who, as it transpired, is rather more entangled with your family than anyone could have foreseen?”
Darcy gave a low laugh. “I should have rejected the notion outright,” he said. “With the utmost conviction and pride.”
“And now?”
His gaze rested on her, steady and sure. “Now,” he said, “I find I would not alter a single thing.”
As his dark eyes burned into hers, the simmering passion she felt each time she looked at him began to rise up, unfurling within her in full.
It was not sudden. It had been there—growing, deepening, waiting—until now it rose, undeniable and consuming, warming her from within until she could scarce draw breath. His look held her fast, as though he saw not merely her face, but everything she was, everything she had become with him.
Her lips parted, though she had nothing to say.
How could she? Words felt wholly unequal to the moment—to the quiet intensity that seemed to stretch between them, binding them closer than any spoken declaration ever could.
It seemed to reach her, to settle upon her, to draw something answering and unguarded from within.
His eyes did not waver, and, under their intensity, neither did hers.
There was love there—she had known that, had believed it from the day she stood beside him and spoke her vows. But this… this was something more. Something deeper. Something that had grown so gradually she had not marked its progress until this moment, when it stood undeniable between them.
It was not the bright certainty of first affection, nor the quiet contentment she had once believed to be the height of happiness. It was stronger than either—richer, fuller, touched with a heat that made her breath catch and her pulse quicken.
She had thought she loved him then.
How little she had understood.
And even now, as she met his gaze and felt that answering warmth rise higher still, Elizabeth knew—with a certainty as steady as his regard—that this, too, was not its end. That whatever this feeling had become, it would deepen yet again.
And again.
And again.
For the rest of their lives and beyond.
THE END.