Chapter Seventeen
The day was growing warm by the time they left the parsonage behind, sunshine pressing down on Darcy’s shoulders with a weight that should have felt pleasant but instead seemed oppressive.
His hand moved to his waistcoat pocket again, confirming the absence of his mother’s ring, now residing on Elizabeth’s finger where it belonged.
The gesture should have brought satisfaction.
Instead, Darcy found himself touching empty fabric and feeling only hollow uncertainty.
Beside him, Fitzwilliam walked with the easy stride of a man who had witnessed something he found privately amusing. He waited until they had cleared the parsonage gate before speaking.
“Well, cousin,” Fitzwilliam said, and Darcy could hear the grin in his words. “You have been remarkably efficient this morning. Left for a simple walk and returned engaged to be married.”
Darcy managed something that might have passed for a smile. “I saw no reason to delay once I had determined my course.”
“Indeed,” Fitzwilliam agreed. “Though I must say, watching you fidget with that ring was becoming painful. I am relieved you finally worked up the courage to actually present it.”
The observation was delivered with such good humour that Darcy could not take offence, though he felt heat rise in his face.
“You must be very happy,” Fitzwilliam continued, glancing sideways at Darcy. “Miss Elizabeth is a remarkable woman. Intelligent, spirited, entirely unimpressed by rank or consequence. Precisely the sort of wife who will keep you from becoming insufferably pompous in your old age.”
“Yes,” Darcy said, and the word emerged more heavily than he intended. “I am very fortunate.”
Fitzwilliam’s expression shifted slightly, some of the teasing humour fading as he studied Darcy’s face. “You do not sound particularly fortunate. One might almost think you were uncertain about the engagement you just secured.”
Darcy forced his features into a more appropriate configuration. “I am simply thinking ahead to the next task. We must inform Aunt Catherine of my engagement, and that conversation will not be pleasant.”
“Ah,” Fitzwilliam said. “Yes, facing down the dragon. Well, you have my support in that endeavour, cousin. Though I suspect my presence will do little to soften her response.”
“I am aware,” Darcy replied, his tone carrying more bite than he had intended. “But I am not a boy to be directed in such matters. My aunt will have to accept that I have chosen my own wife.”
“Indeed she will,” Fitzwilliam agreed cheerfully. “Though the accepting may involve considerable volume and dramatics first. I suggest we get it over with quickly. The anticipation is often worse than the actual confrontation.”
They walked the remaining distance in silence, Darcy’s mind turning over the strange quality of Elizabeth’s acceptance despite his best efforts to dismiss his concerns.
She had been so eager, so immediately willing.
Had not questioned or teased or challenged him in any way.
Had simply agreed with that bright smile.
Perhaps it was natural. Perhaps he had simply become so accustomed to Elizabeth’s opposition that her compliance felt wrong by contrast. Perhaps this was what happened when a woman who had initially disliked him came to return his affections.
Darcy told himself this firmly as they approached Rosings’ entrance. He was engaged to Elizabeth Bennet. That was what mattered. Everything else would sort itself out in time.
The entrance hall felt cooler than the morning air outside. Marble floors gleamed with recent polishing. A servant informed them that Lady Catherine awaited in her usual domain, and Darcy felt his shoulders tighten.
The drawing room assaulted Darcy’s senses with its usual oppressive formality.
Heavy velvet curtains in deep burgundy hung from floor to ceiling, blocking most of the natural light.
The air carried the cloying scent of lavender, mixing with beeswax polish and the scents of wood and coal from the fire, blazing despite the warm day outside.
Lady Catherine occupied her customary chair. Anne sat near the fire, gazing pensively into the flames. Mrs. Jenkinson occupied her usual position nearby, her hands busy with some mending.
“Darcy,” Lady Catherine pronounced, her voice carrying that particular edge of displeasure. “You have been absent all morning. I trust you have a suitable explanation.”
Darcy moved further into the room, Fitzwilliam following close behind. The words he needed to say gathered behind his teeth, simple and straightforward, yet somehow difficult to speak aloud.
“Aunt Catherine,” Darcy began, forcing his voice to remain steady. “I have news that I hope will bring you joy. I have this morning become engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. We are to be married.”
The silence lasted perhaps three heartbeats. Then Lady Catherine rose from her chair with enough force to make the furniture creak. Her face had gone red, mottled with fury.
“Engaged!” Lady Catherine spat the word as though it tasted foul. “You dare to come into my house and announce that you have engaged yourself to that impertinent, presumptuous girl. That woman of no consequence, no connexions, no fortune worthy of the name. Have you lost your senses entirely?”
“Aunt Catherine,” Darcy attempted, but she spoke over him without pause.
“Your duty,” Lady Catherine continued, her voice rising until she was nearly shouting.
“Your obligation to this family, to your mother’s memory, to the plan that has existed almost since your birth.
You were destined to marry Anne. Destined to unite our estates, to keep the family connexions strong.
And you throw all of that aside for what?
A pair of fine eyes and an impertinent manner? ”
She glared at him, her eyes blazing. “Anne has waited for you her entire life. Has maintained her health as best she could despite her delicate constitution, has prepared herself to be mistress of Pemberley. And this is how you repay her devotion?”
“My engagement to Miss Bennet has nothing to do with Anne,” Darcy said, finding his voice. “I hold my cousin in great affection, but I have never had any intention to offer her marriage. There has never been an understanding between us.”
“There has been an understanding since you were children,” Lady Catherine insisted, her hand coming down on a nearby side table with enough force to make the ornaments rattle.
A small porcelain figure toppled over. “An understanding between your mother and myself. You spit on your mother’s memory with this choice. ”
The accusation struck Darcy like a physical blow, but he forced himself to remain composed. “My mother never spoke to me of any such understanding, and she would have wanted me to marry for affection, not duty. She would have approved of Elizabeth.”
“She would have been horrified,” Lady Catherine countered. “Horrified that her son would lower himself to marry the daughter of a country gentleman with barely two thousand a year and connexions to trade. What will people say? What will society think?”
“I care nothing for what society thinks,” Darcy said, and meant it with every fibre of his being. “Elizabeth Bennet is worth ten of any fashionable society lady I have ever met.”
Lady Catherine’s face twisted with such rage that for a moment Darcy thought she might actually strike him. Instead, she turned sharply and strode toward the door. She wrenched it open with enough force that it struck the wall behind it.
“You are a fool,” Lady Catherine pronounced from the doorway, her voice cold. “And you will regret this choice for the rest of your days. Mark my words, Darcy. This marriage will bring you nothing but misery.”
She swept from the room, her exit punctuated by the slam of the door with such violence that the crystal chandelier overhead trembled, its drops chiming together in discordant protest.
Darcy stood frozen, his aunt’s words still ringing in his ears. Beside him, Fitzwilliam shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable but uncertain how to address it.
Movement caught Darcy’s attention. Anne had remained by the fire throughout Lady Catherine’s tirade, silent and unmoving.
But now Darcy saw that she had gone pale, all colour draining from her face.
Her hands trembled where they gripped the arms of her chair, knuckles white, and her breathing had turned shallow and rapid.
Darcy moved toward her instinctively, concern overriding the awkwardness. Whatever his aunt believed about obligations and family plans, he did not wish to see Anne distressed. He had known her since childhood, had always held her in affection even if he had never desired to marry her.
“Anne,” he said softly, approaching the fire. “I hope you are not too distressed by this news.”
He lowered himself into the chair beside her, studying her face.
Her pallor had not improved, and her hands still gripped the chair arms with enough force that the wood creaked softly.
But her expression had shifted from shock to something more complex, something that looked almost like internal struggle.
“I hope you are not disappointed,” Darcy said, pitching his voice low. “I know our families had expectations, but I trust you understand that I have never encouraged such hopes. You have always been dear to me as a cousin, but I could not offer you more than familial affection.”
Anne looked up at him, and something in her eyes made Darcy pause. She appeared to be wrestling with herself, some internal conflict playing across her features. Her lips parted as though to speak, closed again, then parted once more before words finally emerged.
“Why?” Anne asked, and her voice carried weight that transformed the simple question into something more significant. “Why did you propose to Elizabeth Bennet?”
The question caught Darcy off guard. He had expected protestations about duty or family obligation. But this direct inquiry into his motivations felt more personal, more genuinely curious than reproachful.
“Because I love her,” Darcy said simply, and the words emerged with such conviction that he felt their truth resonate in his chest. “Because when I am in her presence, I cannot look away. Cannot think of anything beyond the desire to hear what she will say next, to see how her face will change when she speaks.”
He leaned forward slightly, warming to his subject despite the awkwardness.
“Her wit. The way she challenges everything I say, refuses to be impressed by rank or fortune, treats me as simply a man rather than the master of Pemberley. She sees through pretension with startling clarity and will not tolerate pomposity from anyone, least of all from me. When I speak with her, I must be my best self because she will accept nothing less.”
Anne’s expression had gone strange, something painful flickering across her face. But Darcy was too caught up in his explanation to properly register her distress.
“She is everything I did not know I needed,” Darcy said, his smile softening.
“Everything I did not realise I was searching for until I found it. Her spirit, her independence, her refusal to compromise her principles for convenience. She walked miles through mud to reach her sister’s sickbed at Netherfield, arrived with her petticoats six inches deep in dirt and her face glowing from exertion, and she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. ”
The memory rose in his mind with perfect clarity. Elizabeth standing in Netherfield’s entrance hall, slightly breathless, her eyes bright with concern for Jane. Caroline Bingley had been scandalised, but Darcy had seen only devotion and determination.
“I knew then,” Darcy continued, his voice dropping lower.
“Watching her tend to Miss Bennet with such devoted care, seeing how she would sacrifice propriety and comfort for those she loved, I knew that the love of this woman would truly be worth winning. That if I could secure her affection, her regard, her hand in marriage, I would have gained something more valuable than all the advantageous matches society might approve.”
He looked at Anne, hoping she might understand. “I do not expect you to be happy about my choice, but I hope you can understand why I made it. Why I could not marry you or anyone else when my heart had already chosen Elizabeth.”
Anne’s face had been changing throughout his speech, her expression cycling through emotions Darcy could not quite identify. Now her features crumpled entirely, contorting with what looked like genuine anguish. She drew a shuddering breath, and when she spoke, her voice emerged raw with feeling.
“Elizabeth Bennet does not love you,” Anne said, and each word fell between them like a stone into still water. “You will be the one who is unhappy and disappointed if you go through with this marriage.”
The statement struck Darcy with physical force, stealing the breath from his lungs. He stared at Anne, at her face now twisted with what might have been pity, and felt the warmth that had been building in his chest transform into ice.
“What?” Darcy managed, though the word emerged barely above a whisper.
“She does not love you,” Anne repeated, and this time her voice carried a terrible certainty. “Whatever her reasons for accepting your proposal, genuine affection is not among them.”
Darcy rose from his chair with movements that felt mechanical. His footsteps carried him toward the door without conscious decision, his boots striking the floor with echoes that seemed unnaturally loud.
He had not thought Anne would react this way.
Had assumed she had long accepted that they would never marry.
She is jealous, he tried to tell himself, lashing out in her pain.
But this did not seem the jealousy of a rejected woman.
This was something else entirely. A warning delivered with apparent sincerity by someone who seemed to know things about Elizabeth that Darcy himself had failed to recognise.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt thunderous in his ears. Darcy stood in the hallway beyond, one hand still resting on the door handle, and felt the full weight of doubt settle over him like a shroud.