Chapter 2
Two
THE MIST ROSE FROM THE DAMP EARTH as Fitzwilliam Darcy sat rigidly in his carriage, fingers drumming against his thigh in an uncharacteristic display of agitation.
The short journey from the cottage to Netherfield he had accomplished in silence, his groom having located him halfway to the house and maintaining a discreet distance ahead while he was alone with his thoughts.
Now, having changed his sodden clothes and ordered his carriage prepared immediately, he found himself on the road to Longbourn with a sense of grim determination.
The whispers had already begun. He had seen the farmhands muttering to each other as they passed, had noted how the stable boy at Netherfield failed to meet his eyes.
By nightfall, there would not be a soul in three parishes who had not heard that the proud Mr. Darcy had spent the night alone with the second Bennet daughter in an abandoned cottage.
“The scandal cannot be contained,” he muttered, watching the hedgerows pass by in a green blur.
A man of his standing could weather such storms. What troubled him most was not the damage to his own reputation but the certainty that Elizabeth Bennet would bear the brunt of society’s censure.
The memory of her face as they parted in the meadow haunted him: chin raised even as her eyes betrayed her understanding of what awaited her.
He had not planned to marry for years yet. Certainly not to a gentleman’s daughter with no fortune and connections that could only be described as unfortunate.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly, recalling the hours spent in conversation before the cottage fire.
Her quick wit challenged him. Her opinions, while occasionally misguided, were expressed with an intelligence and conviction he rarely encountered in women of far greater social standing.
When she had fallen asleep, her face softened in the firelight, he had felt something shift within him that he was not yet prepared to name.
The carriage slowed as it approached Longbourn, a modest estate in slight disrepair that seemed to crouch apologetically in the shadow of taller trees. Darcy straightened his cravat and adjusted his coat, armor against the battle to come.
His mind drifted to another confrontation, nearly twelve years past. He had been sixteen, spending the summer at the home of his father’s closest friend.
The daughter of the house, Sophia Fairmont, had been eighteen and beautiful, with golden hair and a laugh that made his adolescent heart race.
For weeks he had followed her like a shadow, composing terrible poetry and gathering wildflowers for her room.
When he had finally gathered his courage to declare himself, confessing with painful sincerity that he believed himself in love, she had laughed.
Not unkindly at first, but with increasing mirth as she called her friends to share the jest: the awkward Darcy boy, so serious and proud, fancying himself in love with her.
“You must learn to guard your heart more carefully, Fitzwilliam,” his father had advised upon finding him hiding in the library. “Feelings so freely given are easily trampled. A Darcy must maintain his dignity at all times.”
It was a lesson he had taken to heart perhaps too well. In the years since, he had built walls around his emotions that few could penetrate, neither Miss Bingley with her obvious ambitions nor any of the accomplished young ladies paraded before him in London drawing rooms.
Yet somehow, Elizabeth Bennet had breached those defenses with nothing more than conversation and the occasional challenging glance from those fine eyes.
The carriage halted before Longbourn’s modest entrance. Taking a deep breath, Mr. Darcy descended and approached the door, which opened before he could knock to reveal the Bennet household in chaos.
Mrs. Bennet’s shrill voice carried from an inner room above the frantic chatter: “Ruined! All my girls ruined by association! Oh, Mr. Bennet, what shall become of us?”
Even though he would offer himself to be the solution to their misery, he could not help but flinch.
The woman who had answered the door took his name and rushed to another room to announce his arrival, and the warring voices from within fell silent.
A tense minute later, another servant ushered him to a small study where Mr. Bennet sat behind a desk, his face grave but composed.
Elizabeth stood beside the window, her posture rigid, still wearing her muddied dress from the previous day.
At Mr. Darcy’s entrance, Mr. Bennet gestured for her to leave.
“Father, I should be present for—” she began.
“Not now, Lizzy,” Mr. Bennet said firmly. “Mr. Darcy and I must speak privately first.”
Elizabeth’s eyes met Fitzwilliam’s briefly—a flash of defiance and something else he couldn’t quite identify—before she swept from the room.
When the door closed behind her, Mr. Bennet gestured to a chair opposite his desk. “You will understand, Mr. Darcy, if I forgo the usual pleasantries. I have already heard from no fewer than four neighbors about my daughter’s... situation.”
Darcy took the offered seat, maintaining his rigid posture. “Sir, I must first assure you that nothing improper occurred beyond the unfortunate circumstance of our being discovered. Miss Elizabeth’s virtue remains intact.”
“A distinction that will matter little to society,” Mr. Bennet replied dryly. “My daughter’s reputation is compromised, as you well know.”
“I am acutely aware,” Darcy said, meeting the older man’s gaze directly. “Which is why I have come to request Miss Elizabeth’s hand in marriage.”
Mr. Bennet studied him silently for a long moment. “You understand my position, Mr. Darcy. As a father, I must insist upon my daughter’s reputation being restored. As a father who loves his daughter, I must ask whether this is a match you would have sought under different circumstances.”
The question cut to the heart of Darcy’s conflict. Would he have pursued Elizabeth Bennet had fate not forced his hand? A week ago, he would have dismissed the notion without consideration. Now, having glimpsed the woman beneath the country manners and inappropriate family connections...
“Your daughter is unlike any woman of my acquaintance,” Darcy said carefully.
“She possesses an intelligence and character I have come to admire greatly. While I cannot claim the connection would have been my seeking without yesterday’s events, I can state with honesty that I believe we may suit very well. ”
Mr. Bennet’s expression remained skeptical. “High praise indeed from a man not known for bestowing compliments. I wonder if it is enough to sustain a marriage entered into under such circumstances.”
“I will provide for her every material comfort,” Darcy said stiffly. “She will want for nothing at Pemberley.”
“Except perhaps the freedom she has always valued above material comforts,” Mr. Bennet murmured, almost to himself.
Then, more clearly: “My Lizzy is not easily managed, Mr. Darcy. She has opinions and expresses them freely. Her mind is her greatest asset, though others see only her lack of conventional beauty or fortune.”
“I am well aware of your daughter’s unconventional qualities,” Darcy replied, a hint of warmth creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. “They are not disadvantages in my estimation.”
Something in Mr. Bennet’s expression eased slightly. “Very well. Given the circumstances, I will grant you permission to marry Elizabeth. However.” His voice hardened. “I will not force her acceptance. If she refuses you, scandal or no, I will support her decision.”
Darcy nodded stiffly, both respecting and resenting the older man’s position. “May I speak with her now?”
“She will be in the library.” Mr. Bennet rose, signaling the end of their interview. “And Mr. Darcy? My daughter deserves happiness. See that you endeavor to provide it, whatever else you may offer.”
The Longbourn library was a modest room compared to Pemberley’s grand collection with lower ceilings and worn furniture, but it was well-stocked and clearly loved.
Elizabeth stood by the window when he entered, her profile outlined against the morning light, chin raised in that characteristic gesture that spoke of determination rather than hauteur.
She turned at his entrance, her expression guarded. “What did my father say?”
“He has granted his permission for me to address you,” Darcy said, suddenly finding his prepared speech inadequate. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet—”
“Was this your intention all along?” The question burst from her with unexpected vehemence.
Darcy blinked, momentarily uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”
Her eyes flashed. “Did you orchestrate this situation to force my hand?” Elizabeth took a step closer, her voice low but intense. “The timing is remarkably convenient. A sudden storm, an isolated cottage on Netherfield property, workers appearing at precisely the right moment to discover us...”
The accusation struck him like a physical blow. “You believe I would deliberately compromise you? To what purpose?”
“You tell me, Mr. Darcy.” Her hands were clenched at her sides. “A man of your position might find it diverting to pursue a woman who showed no interest in his wealth or status. Perhaps the challenge appealed to you.”
Anger rose within him, hot and unfamiliar. Darcy prided himself on his self-control, but this attack on his honor, at this time of all times, was the height of irony. This was hardly an advantageous match from his position, yet he was prepared to make amends, and still his motives were questioned!
“You ascribe to me not only manipulation but malice,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Based on what evidence?”
“Months ago, when we first met, your conduct at the Meryton assembly hardly recommended your character,” Elizabeth said. “You refused to dance with anyone not already in your party. You spoke disparagingly of the company, myself included.”