Chapter Thirty-One #2
“Miss de Bourgh.” He bowed, more formally than he had intended. She returned his greeting, somewhat distractedly, as though her thoughts were already elsewhere. “How do you do this evening?”
“I am well, Mr. Darcy. Tonight promises to be entertaining and delightful. I do so love music.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
The warmth he remembered—the quick spark of intelligence and challenge—was absent, replaced by a polite sheen that unsettled him more than open hostility would have.
“Are you well?” The flatness of her greeting worried him. It felt earned.
“As well as one can be with many late nights in a row and days filled with activity.” Her tone was light, but fatigue edged it, sharpening the words.
“I would have thought you used to Town hours.” The moment the words left him, he wished them back. Had she not spent the majority of every year in Town? Had she not been raised for this life?
A look of irritation flashed across her face—quick, bright, unmistakable. “You would have thought, that is true.” She exhaled slowly, mastering herself. “Forgive me. I am overtired.”
The room shifted as guests were encouraged to take their seats.
Chairs scraped softly against polished floors; the musicians settled.
Darcy, seizing what little agency he had left, held out his arm to Elizabeth.
She hesitated only a fraction of a second before accepting, her fingers resting lightly at his sleeve, the contact sending a welcome—and unmistakable—jolt through him.
He guided her to a spot somewhat secluded from the others, just beyond the densest clusters of conversation. His heart pounded with urgency. He desperately wished to speak with her, to understand her story, to bridge the widening distance he felt opening between them.
“I confess to some surprise at your…circumstances,” he said. “There was no word of it about Meryton.”
Elizabeth did not look at him when she replied. Her gaze fixed instead on the musicians, as though the violins might offer refuge. “That is perhaps because my secrets are just that—secrets. No one was entitled to know. No one had permission to know.”
“But you could have confided the truth in me,” he pressed, unable to stop himself. The words had lived too long in his chest. “If I had known, I might have courted you openly instead of struggling to suppress my feelings.”
She turned sharply, the movement precise and controlled, and glared at him.
The intensity of her expression stole his breath.
“My worth should not be dependent on fortune and connections, Mr. Darcy. The truth of my circumstances should have made no difference.” Her voice lowered, but the force of it struck harder for the restraint.
“It hardly matters. My life is not my own.”
“Neither is mine,” he said urgently, the words tumbling out, “but you must see we have a chance now.”
Elizabeth laughed, low and melodic—a sound devoid of humor, edged instead with something brittle. “It is not the same, sir. You have a choice.” She rose before he could respond, smoothing her gloves with deliberate calm. “Please excuse me. I should find Lady Hertford.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Darcy remained where he was, the hum of the room rushing back in around him, the music beginning without his noticing.
He felt unmoored, exposed. He replayed the conversation over and over in his head, each word a barb.
Did Elizabeth hate him? Or was she angrier still—that he had not set aside his pride, his family’s expectations, his fear, to pursue her regardless of consequence?
And what had she meant—truly meant—about her life not being her own?
I do not have a choice either, he argued with her in the privacy of his thoughts. But even as he formed the protest, he knew it rang hollow. He did have a choice. He had always had a choice.
And he had chosen—deliberately, disastrously—to leave Hertfordshire, to deny his feelings, and to abandon her to a world far more ruthless than his own pride.
Elizabeth did not immediately seek Lady Hertford, despite having named that intention.
Instead, she moved with practiced composure toward a quieter corner of the room, allowing the press of guests and the swell of music to pass between herself and Mr. Darcy.
Her smile remained in place; her posture remained correct.
Only the tightening of her hands betrayed how thoroughly her enjoyment of the evening had been undone.
The music, which she had so anticipated, now washed over her without pleasure.
Notes rose and fell, beautifully rendered, but they could not still the restless churn of her thoughts.
She replayed Darcy’s words again and again, each repetition sharpening her confusion rather than easing it.
Feelings. How could he claim them—how could he even recognize them—when he did not know her?
Not the woman shaped by constraint and observation, by necessity rather than ease.
Not the woman who had learned, too early, how precarious safety and affection could be.
It was not merely that he had misjudged her once; it was that his understanding of her seemed contingent—dependent on revelations he had not been owed.
Her worth, her suitability, her very visibility had altered in his estimation only once her circumstances aligned more comfortably with his world.
The thought stung, though she could not entirely quiet the inconvenient awareness that his presence still unsettled her in ways she had not expected.
That, perhaps, was the cruelest part: that disappointment did not preclude attachment.
She was forced to acknowledge the contradiction with reluctant honesty.
His attentions troubled her; they also reassured her.
In a city where she was endlessly observed and rarely known, it was oddly comforting to encounter someone whose history with her did not begin at a drawing room door.
Whatever his failings—and there were many—Mr. Darcy had known her when she was unadorned by favor, before society had decided she mattered.
That familiarity, imperfect as it was, held a quiet appeal she did not wish to examine too closely.
Elizabeth found Jane soon after, seated beside Viscount Bramley, her cousin’s expression softened into easy happiness.
Jane’s laughter was gentle, her manner unguarded in a way Elizabeth had not seen since before Michaelmas.
Bramley bent toward her with evident attentiveness, his focus unwavering, his pride barely disguised.
Watching them together, Elizabeth felt a swell of genuine contentment.
At least something good had come of her time under the prince’s watchful authority.
That knowledge steadied her. Whatever sacrifices had been required of her, whatever uncertainty lay ahead, she had not endured them in vain. Jane’s happiness was real, and Elizabeth took comfort in it, even as her own path remained unclear.
As the evening drew to a close, and the guests began to disperse, Elizabeth allowed herself one final, unguarded thought.
The future loomed indistinctly before her—shaped by forces she only partly understood, by affections she did not yet trust, and by choices she was not entirely free to make.
She did not know what would come next, only that the careful balance she had struck could not hold forever.
And that was perhaps what frightened her most.
“I am very pleased for you, Bramley. She is wonderful.” Lady Matlock beamed at her son, seated across from her in the carriage.
The lamps outside cast fleeting bands of light across her satisfied expression, and Darcy could hear the unmistakable note of triumph beneath her warmth.
This, he knew, was exactly the sort of conclusion his aunt relished—an attachment formed sensibly, affection deepening into intention, the future neatly arranged.
“I have not proposed to Miss Bennet yet,” Bramley replied, his tone earnest rather than defensive. “She still suffers from heartbreak.” He spoke with a gravity that surprised Darcy, as though the matter were one of honor rather than impatience.
Bramley confirmed Darcy’s own realization with those few words.
Jane’s gentleness, her careful reserve, her gradual acceptance of attention—it all aligned too neatly with what Darcy had seen at Hertford House.
And now there was nothing to be done. How could he inform Bingley of his mistaken impression without wounding his cousin, without reopening a pain she had only just begun to outgrow?
He could not. The opportunity had passed, carried away by his own pride and by the careless interference of others.
“And your father approves,” Lady Matlock continued briskly, already moving matters along in her mind.
“Miss Bennet will make a fine countess. Though she was not raised for it, I shall help guide her every step of the way.” There was no condescension in her tone—only confidence, as if Jane’s success were already a foregone conclusion.
“How can you approve of someone whose position is so decidedly beneath our own?” The words slipped out before Darcy could stop them.
He winced inwardly even as he spoke, aware that the question betrayed more of his former arrogance than he wished to acknowledge.
Still, he truly wanted to understand. His aunt had always preached the distinctions of rank with relentless consistency.
“Are you mad, Darcy?” Bramley’s head snapped up, his usually easy manner sharpened by indignation. “How can you insult Miss Bennet?”
“What do you mean, beneath us?” Lady Matlock demanded, her brows knitting together.
“I say it not to denigrate the lady, but rather out of curiosity, Aunt.” Darcy scrambled to explain himself, worried Bramley might call him out.
“Since my youth, all my family has insisted that it is my duty to marry in the first circles. Yes, Miss de Bourgh fits that edict, but Miss Bennet does not. Would you countenance Bramley marrying her if she was not connected to Miss de Bourgh as she is?”
Lady Matlock sighed. “She is not what we once hoped in terms of fortune, but she is suitable. Miss Bennet’s father may be a country squire, but she has a modest dowry, and her sister is currently a resident of Carlton House!
Lady Hertford is her chaperone. Her father was a favorite of the prince’s as well.
Would I approve of her otherwise? I cannot say.
Bramley’s happiness matters to me.” She studied Darcy with sudden acuteness.
“I thought you favored Miss Bennet’s cousin. ”
Darcy gaped. Were his feelings so obvious? He had believed himself guarded, inscrutable, yet here they were—laid bare without his consent.
“Do not look so stupefied,” Lady Matlock said dryly. “We know you very well, nephew. Your attraction was obvious from the first meeting. And you knew her in Hertfordshire. That ought to give you an advantage.”
Darcy shook his head slowly, the movement heavy with regret.
“My feelings may be obvious to you, but Elizabeth missed them. I fear I have offended her irreparably.” The admission tasted bitter.
He could still see her cool composure, hear the restrained edge in her voice when she spoke of secrets and worth.
“Nothing is irreparable, my dear,” Lady Matlock said, with the serene confidence of a woman who had witnessed enough follies to know that most could be mended with patience and humility. “Now, I must know it all so I may tell you how best to proceed.”
And so Darcy told his aunt everything. He spent the rest of the ride back to Matlock House laying bare his many mistakes regarding Elizabeth de Bourgh: his reserve mistaken for disdain, his silence for indifference, his flight from Hertfordshire born of fear rather than lack of feeling.
Each confession seemed to strip away another layer of pride until he felt uncomfortably exposed, even to himself.
“Well,” Lady Matlock said at last, after a thoughtful pause, “you have made a muddle of it.” She tilted her head, considering.
“It is not hopeless, but you have much ground to make up. You must begin by being her friend. From what I have observed, Miss de Bourgh is alone in Town but for her cousin. Use your prior acquaintance to your advantage. Forget courtship—show her you will be constant without the reward of her favor or hand.”
Darcy turned the advice over in his mind, surprised to find how right it sounded. Friendship required patience, humility, and presence—qualities he had too often neglected. It would demand far more of him than a formal offer ever could.
At last, he inclined his head. The idea had merit, and more than merit—it offered him a path forward that did not depend on entitlement or assumption. He would begin at once.