Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Elizabeth did not wish to hurt her dear aunt.
Princess Caroline had raised her, loved her when her own mother could not, and helped her become the lady she now was.
She sat at her writing table, contemplating how to address the matter.
As she began to write, the words flowed easily as she laid bare her emotions.
My dearest Aunt,
I write to you with a heart both full and fearful, for I stand at a turning that cannot be retraced.
Mr. Darcy has asked for my hand, and I have given him my affection freely, for I love him—steadily, sincerely, and without reservation.
He has shown me constancy where I have known uncertainty, respect where I have endured calculation, and kindness unmarred by ambition.
I believe, with a clarity that surprises even myself, that I could be happy as his wife.
And yet, dearest Aunt, there are conditions attached to that happiness, imposed not by him, but by those who believe my life a matter of convenience.
The Prince Regent will permit the match, but only upon the understanding that my association with you be curtailed—reduced to two supervised visits each year.
It is a cruel bargain, dressed as generosity, and I recoil from it even as I weigh its cost.
I cannot accept such terms lightly. You have been my refuge, my truest guide, the one constant affection of my life.
To choose a future that limits my access to you feels like a betrayal, though I know it is not meant as one.
I ask myself whether love may justify such loss, whether a life built with the man I love may atone for the narrowing of another bond that has sustained me since childhood.
Tell me, my dear aunt—would you ever forgive me if I accepted him under these conditions? Would you understand that this choice, though it costs us something precious, is not born of indifference, nor of ambition, but of hope? I cannot decide without your blessing, and I will not pretend otherwise.
I remain, always and entirely,
Your devoted niece,
Elizabeth
The princess’s reply came quickly, and it was everything she wished to hear. Tears fell as she read.
My beloved child,
You ask whether I could forgive you, and my heart aches that you should ever doubt it.
There is nothing to forgive. Love is not treachery, nor is happiness a sin.
If Mr. Darcy offers you a life of affection, respect, and steadfast partnership, then I would sooner lose the sun from the sky than wish you to turn away from it for my sake.
Marriage, Elizabeth, is not a season—it is a lifetime.
You must choose the man with whom you will wake each morning, whose judgment you trust, whose constancy will sustain you when youth fades and circumstance hardens.
If you have found that man, then you must not relinquish him out of fear, nor out of loyalty misplaced.
I would never have you sacrifice your future upon the altar of my loneliness.
Do not grieve the limits imposed upon us.
Distance does not diminish love, and no decree can sever what has been formed by years of shared affection and understanding.
I shall treasure every hour I am granted with you, and I will count your happiness as my own.
I am glad—more glad than I can say—that you have found a man worthy of your heart.
Go to him without guilt, my darling girl. Choose joy where it is offered honestly. I hold nothing against you, and I never shall. You are loved—freely, fiercely, and forever.
Your devoted aunt,
Caroline
Elizabeth scarcely felt the floor beneath her feet as she folded Princess Caroline’s letter and pressed it briefly to her heart.
The ache remained—love so deep never relinquished its cost—but it was tempered now by certainty.
Her aunt’s blessing did not erase the sacrifice, yet it gave it meaning.
She would not be walking forward alone, nor in shame.
It was decided, then.
It was a sunny afternoon, and Elizabeth settled herself in her favorite chair in Hertford House’s sitting room. Lady Hertford had only just rung for tea when she was informed that Mr. Darcy had arrived at Hertford House and requested a private audience with Miss de Bourgh.
Elizabeth’s pulse leapt, swift and traitorous. She steadied herself, smoothed her gown with trembling hands, and nodded. “Please inform Lady Hertford that I shall receive him in the small withdrawing room.”
The room was one she favored—quiet, with tall windows overlooking the garden and a pair of chairs drawn close enough for intimacy without impropriety.
Elizabeth stood by the window as she waited, the letter from her aunt still folded in her fingers.
She heard his step before she saw him: measured, purposeful, unmistakably his.
She turned from the window then, and for a moment simply looked at him. How strange, she thought, that after all the calculation and interference, the truth should come down to this—two people standing together, hearts bare.
Darcy entered and bowed, though the formality could not disguise the tension in his posture nor the hope he struggled to contain.
“You wished to speak with me?” she asked softly.
“I did,” he replied. His voice was low, steady with effort. “I feared to presume—but I could not wait longer. Elizabeth…dare I hope?”
“You may,” she said.
The word seemed to strike him silent. He exhaled slowly, as though he had been holding his breath for weeks.
“I have been summoned again by the Prince Regent,” he said at last. “The conditions he has imposed—they are unfair. I know what is being asked of you. And I would not bind you to me if it cost you something you could not bear.”
Elizabeth crossed the room and placed the folded letter into his hands. “Read this.”
He did not sit. He read, his brow furrowing, his expression shifting from concern to awe to something perilously close to reverence. When he finished, his hand tightened on the paper.
“She loves you very dearly,” he said hoarsely.
“And wishes me happy,” Elizabeth replied. “I cannot have everything, Darcy. But I can choose you—with her blessing.”
For a moment, he looked as though he might speak and found himself unable. Then, with sudden decision, he stepped back and dropped to one knee.
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice unguarded now, stripped of reserve and pride alike.
“I love you—not for your fortune, nor your connections, nor the influence others believe you wield. I loved you when you were merely yourself in Hertfordshire, when I believed you beyond my reach and yet could not look away. You have challenged me, humbled me, and made me wish to be better than I was. You are of greater importance to me than comfort, ambition, or consequence. I wish to be with you always, to build a life where your mind is respected, your will considered, and your happiness my first concern.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, eyes bright with feeling. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Elizabeth felt the last of her doubts dissolve. This—this—was what she had been fighting for all along.
“Yes,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears gathering in her eyes. “Yes, I will.”
Darcy rose and took her into his arms, careful, reverent, as though he feared the moment might vanish if he held her too tightly. For an instant, the world narrowed to the warmth of his embrace and the certainty of his heart against hers.
When they parted, it was with laughter and tears intermingled.
“We must tell Jane.” Elizabeth tugged on his hand and led him to the door. Together, they returned to the drawing room.
Jane sat beside Bramley, her hand resting easily upon his arm. Lady Hertford occupied her usual chair, observant and composed. Viscount Winslow stood near the mantel, his posture stiff, his expression guarded.
Darcy spoke first. “Lady Hertford—may I present my betrothed.”
For a heartbeat, the room was utterly still. Then Jane was on her feet, joy lighting her face. “Elizabeth!”
Bramley smiled broadly, offering his congratulations with genuine warmth. Lady Hertford’s eyes flicked from Darcy to Elizabeth, sharp and assessing—and then she inclined her head, satisfaction unmistakable.
“So,” she said lightly, “it is settled.”
Viscount Winslow, who had apparently arrived during their audience, bowed stiffly. “My congratulations,” he said, though his jaw was tight. He did not linger. Within moments, he had taken his leave, dignity preserved, disappointment barely concealed.
Elizabeth watched him go, then turned back to Darcy, her hand secure in his.
Whatever lay ahead—scrutiny, compromise, distance from those she loved—she would face it beside the man she had chosen.
And for the first time since coming to Town, the future felt not imposed but claimed.
Darcy had faced princes and parliaments with steadier nerves than he did the quiet road to Hertfordshire.
The countryside unfolded before him in familiar greens and soft undulations, hedgerows just beginning to thicken with spring, but he scarcely noticed the view.
His thoughts were fixed upon the man he was about to meet—and upon the letter he hoped to carry away.
He had been summoned, interrogated, and weighed by power; now he would stand before judgment of a different sort.
Mr. Bennet’s approval mattered more than any royal concession.
Without it, Darcy would not proceed. Elizabeth would not wish it so.
Longbourn was unchanged. That, in itself, was oddly comforting.
Mr. Bennet received him in the study, spectacles perched upon his nose, a book set aside with deliberate calm. There was no surprise in his expression—only curiosity sharpened by intelligence.
“Well, Mr. Darcy,” he said mildly, gesturing to a chair. “You would not call upon me without cause. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Darcy did not prevaricate. He sat, set his hat aside, and spoke plainly.