Chapter Seventeen
Elizabeth
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Longbourn’s breakfast room. Elizabeth sat at the head of the mahogany table—her table now, she reminded herself with wonder and dismay—while servants she did not recognise moved about with silent efficiency.
She had taken tea in this very room with Charles Bingley and his sisters, had admired the view of the rose garden through these same windows. Never had she imagined herself as mistress here, never dreamed that she would one day sit at this table as anything other than a guest.
The irony was not lost on her. She had always loved this house—its comfortable proportions, its well-appointed rooms, the way the morning light fell across the entrance hall.
As a child, she had preferred it to Netherfield’s grander but less intimate spaces.
Yet she had never, even in her most fanciful daydreams, envisioned it as her permanent home.
She could scarcely bear to look at the elaborate spread before them and found it even more difficult to meet the eyes of the man seated across from her.
Darcy appeared equally uncomfortable with both the lavish breakfast and her presence.
He had taken only a single piece of toast and a cup of tea, leaving the remainder of the feast untouched.
His posture was rigid, his dark coat immaculate, his manner formal to the point of coldness—a stark contrast to the earnest man who had attempted to explain himself just yesterday morning.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the soft clink of silver against china and the measured footsteps of servants attending to their duties.
Elizabeth’s cruel words from the wedding breakfast rang in her ears with relentless clarity: fortune hunter, beneath my notice, used my distress to climb the social ladder.
She had seen the hurt flash across his features in the moment before his expression shuttered completely, transforming him into this distant stranger who now sat before her.
How she had regretted her words. Not because she was entirely certain they were untrue but because it was so unlike her to be so cutting and cruel.
Especially when she herself was no unsure of what she had seen that night.
She had cried herself to sleep the night before, not exactly the way she imagined her wedding night to be.
She’d cried because of her circumstances, the unfairness of it all, and the way it had made her behave.
All of it was dreadful. And she felt the remnants of it all this morning.
“I trust you slept well,” she ventured at last, though the polite enquiry sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“Well enough, thank you,” Darcy replied without lifting his gaze from his plate. His voice carried the same distant courtesy he might employ with any casual acquaintance—polite, proper, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Elizabeth set down her teacup with slightly more force than necessary, the delicate china ringing against its saucer. “Mr Darcy, about yesterday’s events—”
“There is nothing whatsoever to discuss,” he interrupted, his tone sharp enough to slice through her attempted conciliation. “You expressed your sentiments quite clearly and comprehensively.’”
Heat flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks as her own words were thrown back at her. “I spoke in anger—in the heat of emotion.”
“You spoke with perfect honesty,” Darcy said, finally raising his eyes to meet hers.
The dark gaze that had once held warmth and understanding now contained only a cold assessment that made her stomach clench with regret.
“I am indeed the son of a steward who has married an earl’s daughter.
Society will undoubtedly draw their own conclusions about my motives, precisely as you have done. ”
“That is not—I did not mean—” Elizabeth fumbled for words that might repair the damage she had wrought, but Darcy was already rising from his chair with fluid, controlled movements.
The array of untouched dishes seemed to mock them both—the silver chafing dishes keeping eggs and bacon warm, the basket of fresh bread with its accompaniment of butter and preserves, the delicate pastries arranged on tiered stands.
She watched Darcy survey the abundance with what appeared to be distaste rather than pleasure. “Are you not enjoying the fare fit for a gentleman?” she said, the words emerging with a bite she immediately regretted.
Darcy’s hand stilled on the back of his chair. “I confess myself more accustomed to simpler fare. At home, we typically broke our fast with porridge and perhaps some bread. This elaborate display seems rather excessive for two people, particularly when much of it will inevitably go to waste.”
“Porridge?” she said, surprised.
“Yes, I am accustomed to salted porridge, nothing more substantial,” Darcy said quietly, his voice devoid of defensiveness.
“Such heavy fare in the morning has never agreed with my constitution, and I would prefer to maintain that simplicity, if you have no objection to such rustic habits. You are welcome to have whatever you like, of course.”
Elizabeth paused, her teacup halfway to her lips, struck by an unexpected wave of recognition. “I confess, I have always preferred simple porridge myself. But my mother insisted it was not fitting for a lady to break her fast with such humble fare, particularly when we might have guests.”
Something flickered in Darcy’s expression—surprise, perhaps, or the ghost of understanding.
“You are now lady of your own house,” he said, his tone gentling slightly.
“You may eat whatever pleases you, in whatever manner suits your preference. I shall certainly not prevent you from following your own inclinations in such matters.”
The unexpected kindness in his voice caught Elizabeth off guard, and for a moment her defensive hostility wavered. But then the memory of their bitter exchange rushed back, and she steeled herself against the temporary softening.
“Well, I ought to be grateful for small mercies,” she said.
Darcy moved towards the door with measured steps, then paused without turning to face her.
“Elizabeth,” he said, and the sound of her given name in his voice made her breath catch.
“I want you to understand something with perfect clarity. I did not intend to trick you into this marriage. When I discovered you that night, you were in distress. My only thought was to offer assistance. I could not possibly have known that someone would open the terrace door at precisely that moment.”
She opened her mouth to speak—perhaps to apologise for her harsh and unfair accusations, to acknowledge that his explanation rang with the clarity of truth, to admit that her anger had led her to attribute malice where none existed. Darcy straightened and moved decisively towards the door.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, his tone once again formal and distant, “I have pressing estate matters requiring my attention. Until we have a new steward, I shall have to tend to matters myself.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving Elizabeth alone with her thoughts, her regrets, and the reproachful abundance of their untouched breakfast. She stared at the closed door through which he had departed, her heart hammering against her ribs with something that felt suspiciously like panic.
She had achieved what she thought she wanted—distance from this unwanted husband, confirmation of her own independence and superiority. So why did his withdrawal feel less like a victory and more like the hollow ache of loss?
***
An hour later, after Darcy had departed, Elizabeth decided that perhaps some fresh air might drive away the melancholy that had taken residence in her heart and mind.
She was lost in thought when the sound of carriage wheels drew her attention.
A carriage stopped on the road and the door opened.
Her heart lifted as Jane emerged, looking elegant as always despite the early hour.
“Lizzy!” Jane hurried towards her, arms outstretched. “I hoped I might catch you taking your morning walk. You always did prefer the early hours for solitude. You look tired, sister.”
“I feel tired,” Elizabeth admitted, linking her arm through Jane’s as they continued down the path. “And rather ashamed of myself, if I’m honest.”
“Whatever for?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then decided upon complete honesty. Jane had always been her closest confidante, the one person who might understand the turmoil in her heart. “I said terrible things to Mr Darcy yesterday. Cruel, unkind words that I can barely bring myself to repeat.”
Jane’s expression grew troubled. “What sort of things?”
“I accused him of being a fortune hunter. Of using my distress to elevate himself above his natural station.” The words tasted bitter in Elizabeth’s mouth. “I called him beneath my notice, Jane. I was vicious and unfair, and I cannot seem to forgive myself for it.”
They paused beside a stone bench beneath an old oak tree, its leaves beginning to turn with the approach of autumn. Jane settled beside her, taking Elizabeth’s cold hands in her own warm ones.
“That does not sound like you at all,” Jane said quietly. “In all our years together, I have never known you to speak with deliberate cruelty.”
“That’s what troubles me most,” Elizabeth replied. “I don’t recognise the woman I’ve become. This anger, this bitterness—it is consuming me, Jane. I’m turning into someone I don’t like, someone who strikes.”
“You are in an impossible situation,” Jane said with gentle firmness. “Your entire life has been upended, your choices taken from you. It would be unnatural if you weren’t struggling with anger and confusion.”