Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“We must contain the scandal at all costs,” Darcy said, his mind already working through implications and strategies with the same focus he applied to managing Pemberley’s accounts.
“If word spreads beyond this household about what truly occurred, the damage would be catastrophic. Not just to Anne, though she deserves whatever censure would come her way, but to Elizabeth as well. Society would not understand. They would dismiss it as madness or worse.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped before him in a posture that usually helped him think clearly.
But clarity felt elusive now, with Elizabeth sitting beside him and the memory of their interrupted conversation still fresh in his mind.
“Accusations of witchcraft, even in this enlightened age, carry weight. People would question Elizabeth’s sanity for making such claims. They would wonder whether I had married a madwoman, whether our children might inherit some taint of lunacy. ”
The word ‘children’ emerged before he could stop it, and Darcy felt heat rise in his face at the presumption. Elizabeth might want no such future with him. He had no right to assume otherwise, regardless of what he might wish.
Fitzwilliam nodded agreement, his expression showing he had been thinking along similar lines.
“The story we tell must be simple and believable. Two ladies overcome by the excitement and heat of a wedding breakfast, nothing more sinister than that. Anne’s collapse can be attributed to her known poor health.
Elizabeth’s to the natural nervousness of a new bride. ”
“People saw them collapse simultaneously,” Jane pointed out quietly. “That will seem strange, will invite speculation about shared illness or poison.”
“Then we emphasise the coincidence,” Darcy replied, warming to the strategy as it took shape in his mind.
“Strange, yes, but ultimately meaningless. The human mind seeks patterns even where none exist. We simply refuse to feed speculation with our own concerns, treat it as an unfortunate incident that has already passed.”
Elizabeth had been silent during this exchange, her gaze fixed on her hands where they rested on the table’s polished surface.
Darcy noticed her fingers moving to touch the gold band on her left hand, the wedding ring he had placed there mere hours ago.
She turned it slowly, the metal catching light from the window, her expression distant in ways that made his chest tighten with anxiety he could not quite name.
Did she regret it? Regret the marriage, the binding vows that could not be easily undone?
She had said she did not hate him, had even suggested she thought better of him now than before.
But that was hardly the same as wanting to remain his wife, especially when the marriage had been contracted under such extraordinary circumstances.
Jane cleared her throat softly, drawing attention back to herself. Her face showed conflict, torn between loyalty to her sister and some other consideration Darcy could not immediately identify. When she spoke, her words emerged hesitant, almost apologetic.
“Forgive me for asking,” Jane said, her gaze moving between Darcy and Elizabeth with careful assessment. “Will you seek an annulment? It would be understandable, given the circumstances. Elizabeth did not truly consent to this marriage.”
The question struck Darcy with force that made breathing difficult.
An annulment. The end of his marriage before it had properly begun, the dissolution of vows that had meant everything to him even if they had been spoken to the wrong woman.
His mind immediately began cataloguing the process, the requirements, the explanations that would be demanded by ecclesiastical courts.
But beneath the practical considerations lay something more painful.
The loss of hope he had carried for months, the dream of building a life with Elizabeth that would now never materialise.
He had known, of course, that this might be her choice.
Had tried to prepare himself for the possibility during the long minutes while she lay unconscious after drinking the reversal potion.
But knowing something intellectually and facing it as reality were vastly different experiences.
He looked at Elizabeth, searching her face for some indication of her feelings.
She had gone very still at Jane’s question, her fingers freezing on the wedding ring.
Her expression showed conflict that matched what Darcy felt churning in his own chest, uncertainty mixed with something he could not quite identify.
“We need to discuss it further,” Darcy managed, hearing his voice emerge rougher than he intended. “Elizabeth and I. It is not a decision to be made lightly or quickly, regardless of external pressures.”
Elizabeth met his gaze finally, her eyes searching his face with intensity that made him want to look away even as it held him captive. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “We should discuss it. Privately.”
Fitzwilliam had been watching this exchange with expression that suggested he understood more than Darcy would prefer. His cousin leaned back in his chair, his posture deceptively casual despite the tension that lined his shoulders.
“You should know,” Fitzwilliam said, his tone carefully neutral, “that if you wish to pursue an annulment, it must be decided before nightfall. Tonight, specifically.” He paused, seeming to weigh his next words with deliberate care.
“The only grounds that would not require extensive investigation or church approval would be non-consummation. But once the marriage has been consummated, or even believed to be consummated, that option becomes unavailable. The church will not grant annulment simply because one party was deceived about the other’s identity, particularly when the deception involved something as impossible to prove as body swapping. ”
The words hung in the air between them, creating a moment of profound awkwardness that made Darcy want to order his cousin from the room.
The implication was clear and deeply uncomfortable.
It reduced their marriage to a crude calculation of timing and physical acts, stripped away any romance or genuine feeling that might develop between them.
Darcy hated it, hated the necessity of making such a decision under pressure of deadline rather than allowing events to unfold naturally.
But Fitzwilliam was right. This was the reality they faced, uncomfortable as it might be.
Jane had gone pink at the Colonel’s frank speech, her gaze dropping to her lap with embarrassment that would have been amusing under different circumstances. But she recovered quickly, rising from her chair with movements that suggested purposeful retreat.
“Perhaps Colonel Fitzwilliam and I should give you privacy to discuss this matter,” Jane said, her voice carrying forced brightness that did not quite mask her discomfort. “We have imposed on your time together long enough.”
She looked at Fitzwilliam with expression that clearly communicated expectation, and he rose as well, though his face showed reluctance to leave before the matter was fully settled.
But Jane’s meaningful glance brooked no argument, and he moved toward the door with the resigned air of someone who recognised when retreat was the better part of valour.
“We will be downstairs if you need anything,” Fitzwilliam said, pausing at the threshold to look back at them. “Take whatever time you require. This decision should not be rushed, despite the unfortunate constraints placed upon it.”
They departed, Jane’s hand finding Fitzwilliam’s elbow with familiarity that suggested their acquaintance had developed significantly during recent events. The door closed behind them with quiet click that seemed to seal Darcy and Elizabeth into sudden, profound privacy.
The silence that settled over the room after Jane and Fitzwilliam’s departure felt different.
This quiet carried weight, significance that pressed against Darcy’s chest and made the simple act of breathing feel momentous.
The mantel clock ticked with steady rhythm, each sound marking seconds that slipped away toward the deadline his cousin had imposed.
Shadows lengthened across the floor as afternoon gave way to early evening, the light shifting from gold to amber to something deeper that suggested twilight approached faster than Darcy would have preferred.
He remained seated at the small table, his hands still clasped before him though the position had grown uncomfortable.
Elizabeth sat beside him, close enough that he could have reached for her hand again if he dared.
But he kept his fingers locked together, uncertain whether touch would be welcome or presumptuous given what they must discuss.
What did he say? How did he approach a conversation that would determine the entire course of his future?
Darcy had faced difficult negotiations before, had navigated complex social situations and managed delicate family matters.
But none of that experience felt relevant now, when everything he wanted hung in balance and the wrong words could destroy his only chance at happiness.
He could tell her he loved her. Could explain how that love had grown from initial attraction into something that consumed his thoughts and influenced his every action.
But declarations of feeling seemed inadequate when she might not want those feelings directed at her, might prefer a clean break to the complications of building a marriage from such strange foundations.