Twenty-Two
Darcy sat alone in his study at Pemberley, the special licence open on the desk before him. The heavy paper was crisp beneath his fingers. He had read it a dozen times since Carruthers had delivered it, yet each time the names written there struck him anew.
Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in the County of Derbyshire and Elizabeth Bennet of Somers Town in London.
They sat side by side in elegant script, as though the clerk at Doctors’ Commons had simply assumed they belonged together.
No obstacles listed, no objections noted.
Only the bare legal fact that he, a gentleman of fortune and rank, might lawfully marry her, a gentlewoman currently employed as governess to his daughter.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.
There was nothing stopping them.
The Matlocks had made their position clear. They would not oppose a match that brought him happiness and gave Anne a mother. Lady Catherine had no legal say, and if she chose to make her displeasure known, he would survive without her blessing. He had survived worse.
Richard was already courting Jane Bennet with open sincerity. Any scandal attached to the Bennet name seven years ago could not touch Georgiana now that she was safely married. By the time Anne was old enough to understand the whispers would fade, if they ever surfaced at all.
The only obstacle that remained was Elizabeth herself.
She desired him, that much was obvious. The way she had come to his chambers at night, the way she had touched him with such bold curiosity, the soft sounds she made when he brought her pleasure, all of it spoke of genuine, physical want.
He understood it. She was a young woman with a healthy body and a passionate nature long denied.
He worshipped that body with every restrained breath he took.
It was only natural that she should like being worshipped.
But did she love him?
He doubted it.
She had refused him once with such fury, and though the refusal had been justified, the memory still stung.
In all the months since she had come to him as governess, she had shown desire, yes.
She had shown trust, affection for Anne, even friendship in quiet moments.
But love? The kind that would make her accept his name, his fortune, his complicated life? She had never given any sign of it.
He rose and crossed to the window. The parkland stretched out before him, green and gold in the early August light. Pemberley was at its most beautiful, and still it felt incomplete without her beside him as more than a governess.
He wanted her. God, how he wanted her. But he loved her more.
He wanted a family. Not the polite arrangement he had endured with Anne de Bourgh, but a real one.
Laughter at the breakfast table. Anne running to both of them when she had a question about frogs or stars or why the rain fell sideways.
Elizabeth’s sharp wit directed at him openly.
Her hand in his as they walked the paths she was only just beginning to learn.
He wanted to wake beside her. He wanted to build a life with her. He wanted to give her everything she had been denied all those long years.
But what if she refused him again?
What if the desire she felt was only that—desire—and the moment he offered marriage she remembered the proud, arrogant man who had once insulted her family and proposed with all the grace of a charging bull? What if she valued her hard-won independence more than any future with him?
He would lose what he already had. The quiet evenings, the stolen glances, the midnight visits where she came to him willingly, laughing softly when pleasure overtook them both. He would lose the fragile, precious thing they had built in secret.
And yet... what if she accepted?
What if the woman who had boldly explored him with her hands and mouth, who had looked at him with dark, hungry eyes and whispered his name like a prayer, felt something deeper than desire? What if she, too, lay awake at night imagining a future that included him not as employer but as husband?
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass.
He was a coward.
He, who had faced down society, managed a vast estate, raised a child not his own by blood but entirely his by love, he was terrified of one small, fierce woman and the power she held over his heart.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Enter.”
Mrs Reynolds stepped inside, carrying a small silver tray with the afternoon post. She set it on his desk and paused, taking in his expression.
“Is everything well, sir?”
Darcy straightened. “Perfectly, thank you.”
She did not move. After forty years in his family’s service she had earned the right to occasional impertinence.
“You have been happier since your return from London, if I may say so.”
He gave a faint smile. “You may always say so, Mrs Reynolds.”
She studied him a moment longer, then nodded once. “Miss Bennet is taking Miss Anne to the rose garden. The child is asking questions about why roses have thorns. I thought you might like to know.”
“Thank you.”
She curtsied and left.
Darcy remained at the window, watching the distant figures moving among the roses.
Elizabeth held Anne’s hand. The child gestured wildly with both hands, causing Elizabeth’s hand to flail.
Elizabeth laughed—he could not hear it from here, but he knew the sound, the way it lit her face and made her eyes bright.
He wanted to wake up to that laughter every morning. He wanted those bright eyes looking at him with affection, not just desire. He wanted to be the man who earned it.
The special licence lay on his desk, a question unanswered.
He crossed to it, folded the paper carefully, and placed it in the top drawer.
All for nothing.
He would risk losing what they had for the chance of everything. Decision made, he reached for the key to his strong box. He glanced once more out of the window and smiled, watching the two ladies he loved most.
Mrs Reynolds had loved Mr Darcy since the day he was placed in her arms as a squalling infant.
Lady Anne Darcy had been fragile even then.
She had been beautiful, gentle, and utterly unsuited to the demands of a lively boy who wanted to run, climb, and discover the world at full speed.
While his mother loved him dearly, she could not keep up with him.
Mrs Reynolds had stepped in without fanfare, becoming the second mother the little master needed.
She had bandaged scraped knees, listened to his endless questions about why the river flowed the way it did, and stood beside him at his mother’s funeral when he was only eleven, holding his small hand in hers while he tried not to cry.
She was loyal to the bone, and she wanted him happy.
For weeks now she had watched him with Miss Bennet.
She had seen the way his eyes followed the governess across the room.
She had seen the way Miss Bennet’s gaze lingered on him when she thought she was unobserved.
These two young people were in love, or at the very least, deeply entangled in something far stronger than they showed.
But duty, circumstances, and propriety kept them apart like invisible chains; she was certain of that.
Miss Bennet needed to know what kind of man Mr Darcy truly was.
And the only way to show her was to confront her with the unvarnished truth.
That evening, after dinner had been cleared and Miss Bennet had excused herself with her usual graceful propriety, Mrs Reynolds waited on the landing of the main staircase. She had timed it carefully.
“Miss Bennet.”
Miss Bennet stopped, one hand on the banister. “Yes, Mrs Reynolds? How can I help you?”
The housekeeper smiled, warm but purposeful. “Do you have time for a cup of tea with me?”
Miss Bennet looked surprised, but only for a moment. “Of course, Mrs Reynolds.”
Mrs Reynolds called for tea to be brought to the small private drawing room upstairs, the one with the comfortable chairs and the view over the rose garden. She led the way, and Miss Bennet followed without question.
Once they were seated and the maid had poured and withdrawn, Mrs Reynolds folded her hands in her lap and looked at the younger woman steadily.
“Let me tell you a story, Miss Bennet.”
Miss Bennet inclined her head, curious but patient.
“It was the year 1812. The fifth of March. Mr Darcy’s carriage arrived at Pemberley late in the evening.
With him came a nursemaid and a baby. We were told that his wife, Miss Anne de Bourgh, had died in childbirth a week earlier in Cornwall, and they travelled right after the funeral.
We were all sorry, even though the mistress had never set foot in Pemberley, because they had left directly after the wedding for their wedding journey.
Mr Darcy seemed calm. The nursemaid took little Anne to the nursery.
When I went upstairs to arrange the room to accommodate the babe, I saw her. ”
Mrs Reynolds paused, letting the weight of the moment settle.
“Miss Bennet, I have not borne children of my own, but I have seen so many born, from maids, from tenants, from villagers. I know what a newborn looks like. That child was not a newborn. I am certain of it.”
Miss Bennet’s expression shifted from polite attention to bewilderment.
“Mrs Reynolds... why are you telling me this?”
The housekeeper met her eyes without flinching.
“Because I can see the affection you have for the child... and for her father. Do what you will with the knowledge, Miss Bennet. But whatever you decide, know this: that man is a good man. He has carried burdens most gentlemen would have refused. He has loved that little girl fiercely as if she were his own blood. He has protected her, raised her, and given her a life filled with safety and joy. Whatever the circumstances of her birth, he chose to be her father when he did not have to. And he has done it with honour.”