Sixteen #2
Anne considered this. “That is very grand indeed. I shall need my good pinafore.”
Elizabeth changed her into the good pinafore. She smoothed her curls, checked her face for smudges, and reminded her calmly of everything they had practised. Anne listened, nodded once, and took Elizabeth’s hand.
They descended the stairs together.
The drawing room doors stood open. Elizabeth could hear voices within—Lady Matlock’s clear tones, the Earl’s measured bass, Georgiana’s bright laughter. She paused at the threshold, Anne’s small fingers tight in hers, and breathed.
She did not belong here. She knew it with the bone-deep certainty of years spent navigating the distance between what she had been and what she had become. She was staff. She would present Anne, accept whatever polite acknowledgment the guests offered, and retreat to the edges where she belonged.
She stepped into the room.
They were arranged in the familiar tableau of aristocratic visiting: Lady Matlock on the settee with Georgiana beside her, the Earl standing by the window with a glass in hand, Colonel Fitzwilliam lounging near the fireplace. Lord Lofton occupied a chair beside his parents.
Mr Darcy stood apart from the others, near the door, as though he had been waiting for her.
Their eyes met. Something flickered in his—relief, perhaps, or warning—and then he stepped forward.
“Allow me to present Miss Anne Darcy.”
Anne released Elizabeth’s hand and stepped forward, executed a perfect curtsy, and raised her chin.
“Good evening. I am very pleased to meet you.”
The room softened. Lady Matlock smiled with genuine warmth. The Viscountess, Lord Lofton’s mother, pressed a hand to her chest and declared Anne utterly charming. The Colonel winked at his niece, who did not wink back but permitted herself a nod of acknowledgment.
Anne answered their questions with poise. She confirmed that yes, she was looking forward to the wedding. She pronounced Lord Lofton acceptable, which drew laughter from the room and a startled grin from the man himself.
Elizabeth stood near the door, smiled, and felt the walls closing in.
She gathered Anne, after the little girl said her goodnights, and then she politely but firmly bid them all a pleasant evening. Miss Darcy’s face fell, and the Colonel protested, saying he needed all the help he could get against his mother’s debates. Elizabeth smiled but held Anne's hand firmly.
“I beg your pardon, Colonel. I fear I am developing a headache. If you will excuse me, I shall retire for the evening.”
Lady Matlock’s eyebrows rose a fraction. The Colonel frowned.
Mr Darcy went very still.
Elizabeth curtsied, murmured appropriate farewells, and fled.
She delivered Anne to Alice to help her change to her nightgown, and stepped out into the corridor. She stood with her back to the wall, her palms flat against the wallpaper, and breathed.
She had handled that badly. She knew it even as she had spoken—the abruptness of the excuse, the transparency of the lie. She pushed off the wall. She would read Anne’s bedtime story since Mr Darcy was occupied, and then retreat to her own chamber.
“Miss Bennet.”
Mr Darcy stood at the top of the stairs. He must have followed immediately, must have excused himself within moments of her departure. His face was set, his jaw tight, and he was already moving towards her with a long stride that ate distance swiftly.
“Mr Darcy, I can help Anne to bed; you should return to your guests—”
“My guests can wait.” He stopped before her. The corridor was dim, lit only by the sconces at either end, and the shadows carved his face into unfamiliar angles. “You are not ill.”
It was not a question.
“I am—”
“You are not ill, Miss Bennet. I have observed you for such a long time. I know the way you hold your shoulders when your head aches, and you are not holding them that way now. You fled.”
She lifted her chin. “And if I did?”
“Why?”
The word was raw. He stood before her, his hands clenched at his sides, his composure fracturing at the edges, and Elizabeth realised, with a jolt, that he was not angry. He was afraid.
“I do not belong in there, Mr Darcy.”
“You belong—” He stopped. Drew a breath. Started again, his voice rough. “You have dined at my table every night for more than two months. You have sat beside Georgiana, beside Richard, beside my aunt. You have—”
“Out of courtesy to the governess!” She was not their equal. No matter what she became in the moments when they forgot the distance between them.
“You are the woman who—” He cut himself off. His hand rose, then fell. He turned away, paced three steps, turned back. “I cannot do this, Miss Bennet. I cannot sit at that table, make conversation, and pretend that you are not upstairs, alone, believing yourself unwelcome in my house.”
“I do not believe myself unwelcome. I believe myself aware of my position.”
“Your position.” The word came out bitter. “Your position is beside me.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Elizabeth stared at him. He was breathing hard, his composure in ruins. He had said it aloud. The thing that hovered between them, the shape they had circled for weeks, he had given it words.
“Mr Darcy—”
“Please.” He stepped closer. Not touching, but near enough that she could feel the heat of him, the tension coming from his frame. “I am asking you. I am—I am begging you, Miss Bennet. Come to dinner. Sit beside me. Let me—”
“I cannot.”
“Then later.” The words tumbled out, urgent, desperate.
“After the guests leave. Come to me. To my chambers. I will send Rawson away. I will not—I will keep my hands to myself, I swear it. I will not touch you. Just come. Just be near me, without servants, without guests, without pretence. Let me talk to you. Let me—” His voice cracked.
“I need it. I am not ashamed to say it. I need to be close to you. I need—”
He stopped. His chest heaved. He stood before her stripped of every defence, every wall, every barrier, and Elizabeth saw the full depth of what she had done to him. What they had done to each other.
“You said that before, Mr Darcy.” Her voice was barely audible. “You promised to keep your hands to yourself, and you did not. The problem is that you cannot be trusted in this matter.”
He flinched. The blow landed, and she saw it register—the shame, the acknowledgment.
“And the biggest problem,” she continued, quieter now, “is that I cannot trust myself either.”
His eyes searched her face. She watched the understanding dawn, the realisation that she was not refusing him, not rejecting him. She was telling him that the danger ran both ways.
“Elizabeth—”
“Yes.”
He blinked.
“Yes,” she repeated. “I will come. If you promise to dismiss your valet early and have something for me to eat. I will miss dinner, Mr Darcy, and I will be hungry.”
The smile broke across his face, the dimples creasing his cheeks. His eyes brightened. He looked, for one suspended moment, like a boy who had been given everything he wanted.
He reached for her hands. His fingers closed around hers warm and firm, in a single squeeze that lasted precisely one second before he released her.
“Say goodnight to Anne for me. I will have a cold supper sent up. And wine. And—” He was already stepping back, turning to the stairs. “I will send Rawson away. I will—”
“Go, Mr Darcy.” She was smiling. She could not help it. “Your guests are waiting, and I must see to your daughter.”
He nodded, grinning. He turned and took the stairs two at a time, descending with a speed that was entirely undignified for the master of Pemberley.
Elizabeth stood, her heart hammering. Her hands, where he had held them, were tingling.
She knew exactly what she had agreed to, and she wanted it so much it scared her.