Chapter Eight #3
Darcy decided that this was the moment to make his exit.
More importantly, Elizabeth was at the parsonage and he had no intention of allowing Lady Catherine's vitriol to occupy any more of his morning.
He began edging towards the door while Anne spoke quietly to her mother about Rosings and the advantages of having a husband who already knew the estate.
Fitzwilliam noticed him go, lifted his brows and gave the smallest shake of his head, but made no attempt to stop him.
???
Darcy sat in the parsonage parlour and tried not to grind his teeth.
Elizabeth occupied the chair furthest from him, alternately staring sullenly into her lap and fixing him with an irritated look.
Mrs Collins served tea and behaved as though everything were perfectly ordinary, while Mr Collins provided a minute-by-minute account of Lady Catherine's ball, complete with sycophantic commentary upon every moment.
The man appeared not to have drawn breath for a full ten minutes.
Eventually, Mrs Collins said gently, "Husband, will you not have a currant cake? I know they are your favourites."
Mr Collins licked his oily lips and reached for one. In the brief respite provided by his noisy chewing, Darcy looked towards Elizabeth, hoping his expression conveyed the urgency of his request. "Would you care for some air, Miss Elizabeth?" he said gently. "I would be pleased to walk with you."
Elizabeth looked at him for several seconds without answering. Darcy had the uncomfortable impression that she had no intention of replying.
Thankfully, Mrs Collins intervened. "Lizzy, I think a little air would do you good."
Elizabeth gave her a narrow look. "You are very eager for me to take a walk, Charlotte."
"I think we would all benefit from it," Mrs Collins said, as Mr Collins reached for another currant cake.
Elizabeth looked at him for several seconds before setting down her cup. "Very well."
Darcy rose at once. He waited while she crossed the room, then followed her outside, where the cool air was welcome after the closeness of the parlour. Elizabeth set off along the lane without waiting for him. Darcy caught up after a few steps and offered his arm.
She looked at his arm and then up at him, her eyes bright with defiance. A loose curl had escaped near her temple and moved lightly in the breeze, brushing against the flush high on her cheek. Darcy had the sudden urge to reach out and smooth it back.
"I am quite capable of walking unaided, Mr Darcy."
He lowered his arm. "I wish you would call me William. Or Darcy, if you prefer. Surely we are beyond such formalities now."
She let out a huff of air and set off at a brisk pace, leaving Darcy to fall into step beside her. For a little while he said nothing, trying to find some way into the conversation that would not make matters worse.
In the end, he settled upon the truth. "I have written to your father."
That brought her to an abrupt halt. She turned towards him, disbelief plain on her face. "You have what?"
"You know what happened last night. We must marry, Elizabeth. We must."
He took both her hands, halting her steps.
The contact affected him at once. Her fingers were small and delicate, her gloves thin enough that he could feel the shape of them beneath his own.
Touching her brought back a rush of memory: Elizabeth pressed against him in the darkness.
The pull to draw her closer now was almost overwhelming. He tried his best to ignore it.
He released one of her hands but kept the other for a moment longer, reluctant to surrender the connection. "I have handled this badly. I should not have written to your father before speaking to you."
"No, you should not."
"I thought only of preventing gossip from reaching him first. Someone will have seen something, Elizabeth, some servant, a guest who saw me follow you from the room. I will not take a risk with your reputation."
She turned away from him with a sigh. "Jane and I always said we would only marry for the deepest love. I suppose that is a foolish dream now. I must put it away."
Darcy winced, his heart contracting painfully. Was it really so impossible to imagine loving him?
"I know the circumstances are far from what either of us would have chosen," he said quietly. "But I do not believe last night was entirely a mistake."
Elizabeth's eyes lifted to his, wide and uncertain.
"There was something between us," he continued. "You cannot deny that."
Her colour deepened. "We had too much wine, Mr Darcy. That is all."
Her use of his formal name pained him, but he continued, "I do not think that was all. When we touched… When we kissed…"
"Do not pretend an affection between us that does not exist, sir.
I know what must be done. I will marry you, and I will try in all ways to be a good wife and mistress.
But this is not a good beginning and no amount of looking through rose-tinted glasses will make it so.
" She looked at her boots as she spoke, her colour heightened.
Darcy placed a gentle finger under her chin and raised it until he looked into her eyes.
They were bright with unshed tears. He studied her face, trying to decide whether she believed her words as firmly as she wished him to.
He thought she trembled a little under his touch, although whether that was due to fear or something else he could not say.
"I think we could be happy," Darcy pressed on before courage deserted him. "I am not asking you to pretend affection you do not feel. I am only saying that I do not think marriage between us must necessarily be a punishment."
Elizabeth jerked away from his touch and took a step back.
The breeze caught another loose strand of her hair and moved it against her cheek.
He wanted again to touch it, to tuck it back beneath her bonnet, to caress her soft cheeks, her jaw, the line of her elegant neck. To soothe away the tension and pain.
At last she sighed again. "You are very determined to make the best of this."
"I am determined not to make the worst of it, certainly."
Elizabeth turned back towards the parsonage, which he supposed was a type of acceptance. Darcy fell into step beside her. This time he did not offer his arm.