Chapter 20 #2
By the time he descended the stairs, the house was already awake. Footmen crossed the corridor with trays of coffee; the smell of bread and oranges drifted from the dining room. He could hear laughter again—lighter now, uncertain, like people testing the morning for scandal.
Richard caught him near the door. “You look as if you’ve fought a duel. And by the sound of it, the war continues downstairs.”
Darcy stopped. “They are talking already?”
“My dear cousin,” said Richard, “Miss Kendrick has been up since dawn. The lady could raise gossip from a stone.”
The words landed like blows, but he forced his voice calm. “Has Miss Bennet come down?”
“Not yet. Mrs. Gardiner has, and I believe she knows enough to be uneasy.” Richard hesitated. “Darcy—do nothing rash.”
He almost laughed at that. Rash would have been silence.
Inside the breakfast room, conversation faltered as he entered. Chairs scraped softly. Miss Kendrick’s simper froze in place, her eyes darting to her companions. Montford, looking puzzled and mildly hungover, rose halfway from his seat.
“Darcy, my dear fellow! Coffee?”
“Thank you, no. There is something I must say first.”
The room stilled.
He could feel every eye upon him—some amused, some curious, a few openly expectant. He thought of Elizabeth upstairs, of how she had looked when she said they will call me reckless, and the fear that had flickered behind her smile. Whatever else happened, she would not face this alone.
“Last night,” he said, “a misunderstanding occurred. Two young ladies entered a room uninvited and saw what they should not have seen. They have since made free with their imaginations. I will not have it.”
Miss Kendrick gave a nervous laugh. “Indeed, sir, we only—”
“Miss Kendrick,” he said, cutting her off, “I speak not to you, but for Miss Bennet. She is to be my wife, an arrangement I have desired for nearly a year now. Any tale to the contrary will be considered a falsehood and treated as such.”
The words hung there, echoing in the stunned quiet. The fire popped. Someone drew in a quick breath; Montford’s spoon clattered against his saucer.
Richard muttered, “Well said,” under his breath, but Darcy scarcely heard him. He saw only the open doorway—Elizabeth standing there, pale as the snow beyond the windows, her eyes wide with shock and something perilously close to overflowing love.
Elizabeth heard his voice before she saw him.
The door to the breakfast room stood ajar, the hum of conversation replaced by that unmistakable stillness that falls when a single voice commands the air.
“…I speak not to you, but for Miss Bennet. She is to be my wife, an arrangement I have desired for nearly a year now. Any tale to the contrary will be considered a falsehood and treated as such.”
The words struck through her like a bell. For a heartbeat, she could not move. Then she stepped forward into the light.
Every face turned. The crowd of guests—some still in rumpled evening finery, others half ready for travel—looked from her to Darcy as though uncertain whether to cheer or whisper.
The smell of coffee, cinnamon, and pine wove through the silence.
A sprig of holly drooped from the chandelier above, glittering red and green against the pale morning.
Elizabeth met his eyes first. There was no triumph in his expression, only a quiet certainty that lifted her heart as nothing else could. He had bound her name to his in a room full of people who would gladly have destroyed it, and now it shone, unassailable.
“It seems, sir,” she said with a faint smile, “that we are of one mind. I should hate to have to contradict you before so many witnesses.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the room—startled, awkward, but real. The tension broke like frost under sunlight. Colonel Fitzwilliam, bless him, began to applaud; Lady Montford joined him at once, clapping her hands together with as much confusion as genuine delight.
“Christmas blessings upon you both!” she cried. “What finer morning for such news? Mr. Darcy, Miss Bennet—pray accept my warmest felicitation!”
Glasses were lifted; conversation tumbled back into motion. Someone called for mulled wine; the musicians, emboldened, began to tune again. The house seemed to breathe.
From somewhere at her side, Elizabeth felt her aunt’s hand slip into hers. “Well done, my love,” Mrs. Gardiner whispered.
Her eyes stung, but she smiled through it.
For the first time in months—perhaps years—she felt no trace of apology in her name.
The shadow of Lydia’s disgrace still lingered somewhere behind her, but it no longer defined her.
The future might yet hold gossip and disapproval, but she would face it with him, not against him.
Across the room, Darcy was being drawn into conversation by Sir Edward, the colonel at his side, both men grinning like conspirators. When his eyes found hers again, his expression softened, almost boyish in its relief.
Elizabeth lifted her cup in a small, private salute.
The musicians struck up a carol; voices joined in hesitantly at first, then stronger. The fire burned high, the holly glowed, and the snow outside turned to silver under the late-rising sun.
For once, she did not think of what was lost, but of what had been found—love, courage, and a morning bright enough to forgive the world.