35. Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Five
Darcy stepped out of his uncle’s house, the morning’s discussions settling over him like a coat he had never expected to wear—unfamiliar, yet tailored well enough to fit. The door shut firmly behind him, sealing in the quiet satisfaction of the Earl of Matlock—satisfaction that, in theory, Darcy ought to share.
The earl was pleased. That much was obvious. Everything had fallen into place. The election scandal had been neatly contained, Stanton’s disgrace was complete, and the question of Derbyshire’s representation was, at last, moving toward a resolution. The pieces were aligned just as his uncle had intended. And Darcy had done his part.
So why did he feel so—unsettled?
He descended the front steps, his stride purposeful but his mind drifting. The arrangements had been made. It was the right course of action. A responsible one. The only one, really.
Was it not?
A carriage was waiting for him at the kerb, his own crest glinting subtly in the weak October sunlight. The wind had picked up, tugging at his coat as he stepped inside. The streets of London bustled as they always did, indifferent to the shifts of power occurring behind closed doors. The city carried on, unaware—or perhaps uninterested—that Fitzwilliam Darcy’s actions this day would shift the balance of power in the House.
He leaned back against the seat, letting out a slow breath. The carriage door shut behind him, enclosing him in relative silence. The wheels lurched forward, the familiar rhythm of the city rolling past his window. He watched, but he did not see.
It was done. His fate, as well as that of others, now on a path that could not be altered.
The thought ought to have settled him. Instead, a restlessness stirred beneath his skin. He turned his head, watching the passing streets through the window, as if expecting to find clarity somewhere in the familiar roads leading home.
When he stepped inside his home, Benedict greeted him to take his hat and coat. “Sir. ”
Darcy handed off his coat, nodding in acknowledgment.
Then, the butler’s gaze flickered ever so slightly. A pause. Barely perceptible. “Shall I assume that all is well?”
Darcy hesitated. He gave a curt nod. “Yes.”
Benedict bowed his head, but his silence spoke of more understanding than Darcy was willing to acknowledge.
Darcy exhaled. “Call for Mrs. Tate. And…” He glanced out at the street, where his horses were already starting to drive away from the kerb. “Have the carriage wait.”
The butler did not ask why. He only inclined his head. “At once, sir.”
Elizabeth could not read. She could not sew. She could not even pretend to listen to her mother’s prattle without feeling the urge to scream.
Why did everything— everything —feel so… intolerable today?
Kitty and Lydia had been shrieking with laughter all morning over ribbons and officers, their voices grating her ears as they flitted about the house like restless sparrows. Mary had retreated behind a book, clearing her throat meaningfully every few minutes as though waiting for someone to ask her opinion on whatever moralizing passage she had just read. And Jane—sweet, patient Jane—had given Elizabeth several quiet, sympathetic glances— too sympathetic. As though she knew, as though she understood, though she never could. As though Elizabeth were some fragile thing in need of pity and patience. And somehow, that was worse than anything.
Even their father had abandoned her. He had taken refuge in his study before breakfast and had yet to emerge, no doubt hoping to avoid whatever fresh absurdity was unfolding in the house. Elizabeth wished she could do the same.
She stood from the sofa so abruptly that Jane looked up from her embroidery. “Lizzy?”
“I need air.”
“Would you like me to—”
But Elizabeth was already halfway to the hall, reaching for her cloak. She had no desire for conversation, even with Jane. “No, dearest,” she said quickly, fastening her cape beneath her chin. “Stay warm and dry. Heaven knows, Mama will fret if you take ill again. I will not be long.”
She did not wait for a reply. A moment later, she was outside, the late autumn wind biting against her cheeks, the crisp air sharp and clean in her lungs.
Oakham Mount. That was where she needed to go.
Her boots found the familiar path as she climbed, each step a release of the restless energy that had coiled inside her all morning. The air smelled of damp earth and distant woodsmoke, a scent that should have been comforting, familiar, for it was home. It was not.
Why could she not simply… be? Why did she feel as though she had been set adrift, unmoored from everything that had once made her feel like herself?
She had been home for over a week now, and yet Longbourn did not feel like home. It was too loud, too small, too unchanged—too full of the same conversations and preoccupations that had occupied the Bennet household since the day she was born. Everything was the same.
Except her.
Except that she no longer cared about the gossip of Meryton or the arrival of the militia or whether the officers looked well in their uniforms. She had seen London society. She had moved in circles of power. She had stood beside a man who commanded influence with a single look, and she had matched wits with lords and politicians.
And now…
Now she was supposed to sit in the parlor and pretend that none of it had happened.
She tightened her cloak around her shoulders, pushing forward as the incline grew steeper.
And why— why —was it that her thoughts kept returning to him?
He should be nothing to her now. He had never been anything to her, not really. What had passed between them had been a ruse, a carefully orchestrated deception, meant only to serve his ambitions and her protection. She had played her part; he had played his. It was done.
She had done her duty. She had helped him become what he was meant to be.
But the election was not over.
She exhaled roughly, adjusting her scarf against the wind. Was that why she was so unsettled? Because she did not know? Because she was still waiting for word of the outcome?
Or was it because, for all the effort she had spent convincing herself that she was merely a useful tool to him, she still wished— desperately wished—that she had been more ?
She reached the crest of the hill, her pulse still high from the climb, and turned toward the view.
Below, the countryside stretched in every direction, a patchwork of golden fields and hedgerows, dotted with the first hints of autumn’s descent. The sky was vast, its pale blue washed with streaks of gray, promising an early evening chill.
And then—
Movement.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, watching as a group of carriages and horses traveled steadily along the distant road toward Netherfield.
She folded her arms across her chest, watching the slow procession with mild interest. That must be him—the mysterious new tenant of Netherfield. Mr. Bingley. The man who had been mentioned in nearly every conversation since the news first reached Meryton.
She could already imagine her mother’s delight. No doubt, before the day was out, Mrs. Bennet would be declaring him the future husband of one of her daughters.
Elizabeth exhaled through her nose and shook her head slightly. Let them have their excitement. Let Meryton spin its tales and build its hopes.
She had little interest in the arrival of Mr. Bingley. She was far too busy thinking about a man who was not coming to Hertfordshire. A man who, even now, was still fighting a battle that neither of them had ever wanted.
She lifted her chin, staring out at the distant road, lost in thought.
“I would have thought by now that you would think twice before wandering off alone.”
Elizabeth gasped, her eyes widening as the unexpected voice curled around her from behind. She had been too lost in her own thoughts, too distracted by the sight of the distant carriages winding along the road toward Netherfield, to hear the approach of hoofbeats.
Her eyes widened further. Hoofbeats?
Slowly, almost disbelieving, she turned.
Darcy was there, riding up the last incline behind her, his great dark horse moving sure-footed over the uneven ground. The wind ruffled his hair beneath his hat, and the autumn sun glinted against the buttons of his coat. He looked—well, he looked exactly as he always did, composed, serious, just a little bit exasperated.
But he was here .
Her mouth fell open, and she still had no words.
Sliding fluidly from the saddle, he landed lightly on his feet, adjusting his gloves and pulling the rein from around his horse’s neck. His dark eyes swept over her with something that looked almost like relief. “I do not believe I have ever seen you at a loss for words.”
Elizabeth let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “I confess, I was not expecting you to come riding over the hills of Hertfordshire like some sort of medieval knight. Have you come to fetch me back to London? Is there an urgent dinner party that requires my services?”
He tilted his head, studying her with unreadable amusement, but before he could reply, she pressed on.
“I assume Lady Winslow has extended one of her infamous supper invitations?” she suggested, ticking off her first finger. “You ought to go, you know. I hear she has great influence over Sir Donald Brampton, and if you mean to win more allies before the second election, you will have to curry favor in the right places.”
She tapped her second finger. “Then there is the matter of Mr. Percival Henshaw. He is not so easily swayed as some, but his wife—Mrs. Henshaw—adores music and will attend any gathering where she may hear a fine quartet. That is the sort of affair you must make certain you are invited to.”
Another finger. “And Lord Allenby, he will be at Brooks’s every Thursday morning at the usual hour, and if you fail to meet him there for some discussion of land tax, he will consider it a personal slight.”
She ticked a fourth finger. “And do not forget the circumstantial conversations that can be had by merely being in the right place at the right time. You see, Mr. Darcy, I am afraid you cannot simply stand upon your integrity. You must go out, shake hands, make promises, be seen.”
Darcy remained utterly silent, though his lips twitched slightly as though holding back a smile. Elizabeth frowned slightly, flicking another finger up for good measure. “Have you considered—?”
But she stopped.
Because at some point, while she had been so thoroughly laying out a strategy for his success, he had been walking closer. So slowly, so steadily, she had not even noticed.
And now, before she could move, he reached for her hands .
He had removed his gloves, and now, his warm fingers closed gently over hers, halting her speech entirely. Her breath hitched, her heart giving a strange, confused flutter in her chest. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth Bennet truly had no idea what to say.
Darcy arched a brow. “Have you quite finished planning my future for me?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then shut it, nodding mutely.
He gave a slight nod in return, as if acknowledging a formal concession. But before he could speak again, his gaze drifted past her, toward the distant road winding its way to Meryton. The carriages she had seen earlier were still visible, cresting the far ridge. He squinted slightly, assessing the procession, then murmured, “That must be Bingley, all set to take up residence.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Bingley?” She turned sharply, tugging at his hands to make him face her again. “How did you know our new neighbor was a man named Bingley?”
Darcy chuckled, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver through her. “I gathered as much when I stopped at Longbourn before coming up here to find you.”
“You—” She gaped. “You called at Longbourn?”
He gave a slow nod, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. “How else do you think I found you? You do have such a fearful habit of wandering off.”
“But you… you met my family. My mother and my…” she gulped. “Please say you did not meet Lydia.”
“Yes, that was the one. And there was a Kitty, too, was there not? They mistook me for their new neighbor and immediately began pressing me for news of my establishment, the size of my fortune, and the number of guests I had brought with me.”
Mortification crashed over her like a wave. “Oh, heavens.” She pressed her fingers over her eyes. “I am so— They are— That is to say, my family can be rather... enthusiastic.”
Darcy laughed outright at that. “So I gathered.”
She peeked up at him through her fingers. “And you... you did not correct them?”
His grin was infuriatingly smug. “I did not wish to disappoint them. But I was intrigued to hear of my old friend Bingley taking a house in the area.”
Her mortification swiftly turned to curiosity. Narrowing her eyes, she crossed her arms and demanded, “Old friend? Clarify that, if you please.”
Darcy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Charles Bingley and I have known each other since Cambridge. He has been one of my closest friends these many years, though we have not spoken in some months, due to my... distractedness of late. I fear I have become a more feather-brained correspondent than he ever was, which is quite the accomplishment.” His mouth tightened slightly. “That is something I deeply regret and mean to set right.”
“I am sure you will—just as soon as the by-election is won. When does it end? Surely, you shall have all the same support, perhaps with—”
“Elizabeth.”
The sound of her given name on his lips stunned her into silence. It was the first time he had ever said it.
Gently, deliberately, he reached for her hands again, cupping them in his. His touch was warm, firm—steadying in a way she had not realized she needed.
“There will be no by-election,” he said softly.
She blinked, shaking her head slightly. “But... but the papers were full of it. Stanton was imprisoned... he is not free, is he? Was there some mistake?”
His grip on her hands tightened slightly. “There will be no by-election... for me. ”
Elizabeth’s lips parted, her breath shallow. “I—I do not understand.”
Darcy exhaled and stepped a fraction closer. “I had words with Sir Edmund Gresham last night. He is a perfectly honorable man of considerable experience and sound character. He was hesitant to stand at first, but when I told him I would withdraw, he agreed—on the condition that I would not divide an honest vote and give Stanton’s allies a chance to manipulate the results.”
Elizabeth’s pulse pounded in her ears. “You—you agreed? ”
He nodded. “I did. And I went to see my uncle this morning to explain my intentions. The earl was satisfied with my solution.”
Elizabeth could only stare at him. The weight of his decision—what it meant for him, what it might mean for her—made her head spin. She stared at him, at his calm expression, at the quiet certainty in his voice, and something inside her twisted.
“Why?” she demanded. “Why, after all this work, are you quitting? Giving up?”
His gaze drifted back toward the horizon, his eyes unfocused over the distant road as if searching for something only he could see. “This was never what I wanted,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, almost contemplative. “It was not even what I needed. But Providence was good enough to give me a glimpse of that which I did need.”
Elizabeth frowned. “What do you mean?”
He turned to her then, as if shaking himself from some reverie, and when he spoke again, his voice had changed—lower, more somber. “My sister,” he said. “She had a... rather shocking experience in Ramsgate. Matters there did not end well for her.” His mouth pressed into a firm line. “She may find some scandal whispered about her, in fact.”
Elizabeth’s heart fell. Just when she thought—no, hoped —this conversation was leading somewhere else, he shifted entirely. Her disappointment flared, but she pushed it down, focusing instead on the concern in his voice. “Is she well?”
He breathed in deeply, as if fortifying himself. “I believe she is as well as she can be, under the circumstances.” He exhaled slowly. “But I feel it is best for my sister, and for myself, if I go back to Pemberley and remain there for a while. Lower my profile, as it were.”
Elizabeth’s stomach clenched. He had come all this way, all the way to Hertfordshire, just to tell her he was leaving? That he was going to bury himself at Pemberley, leaving everything behind—including her?
She forced a smile, ignoring the tightness in her throat. “Then, I… I wish you a safe journey.”
Darcy looked surprised, but the expression felt almost… feigned. “You did not let me finish.”
Elizabeth’s brows drew together.
“I was hoping,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “that you would come with me.”
For a moment, there was only silence.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, lips parting slightly as she tried to repeat the words in her head, trying to understand what he had just said. Then she pursed her lips, folding her arms.
“Tell me,” she said slowly, “was this Lord Matlock’s idea, too?”
Darcy let out a short laugh and shook his head. “No. In fact, I doubt he would approve.”
At that, a small, delighted smile broke across her face, though she tried to suppress it. “You,” she declared, pointing at him, “you just want me to go with you?”
“I was hoping so, yes.”
She laughed. “Have you not an ounce of romantic inclination or even decency in your entire being? What can you mean by asking me such a silly question in such a nonchalant way?” She took a step closer, shaking her head at him. “ Go with you to Pemberley? Why, you must be mad! You have never even spoken to my father. Why, we hardly know each other! You do not know how old I am, my middle name, how I take my tea, you—”
She barely noticed when he sighed and removed his hat. But she did notice when he sank onto one knee, effectively silencing her.
“I did speak with your father,” he interrupted, his voice full of amusement. “He was the first of your family to actually ask my name without just assuming I was Bingley. And then, he immediately sent me on my way to find you.”
Elizabeth gulped. “Oh?”
“Your middle name is Rose. I saw it on the inside of one of your books once. Your age matters little to me, but I am eager to learn what day your birthday is. And as for your tea,” he continued, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “you take it with such obscene quantities of cream and sugar that I shall have to buy another cow just to meet the mistress’s needs. And perhaps a sugar plantation, as well.”
Elizabeth let out a watery laugh. “Mistress?” she repeated incredulously.
“Yes, mistress.” He took both of her hands in his. “Elizabeth, will you marry me? Not because I need you for some advantage you might bring—but because I want you. I choose you. I want you by my side. Not because I am a better man with you close to me—although I am—but because I have never been so happy as when I can see you, talk to you, drink you in. I would spend the rest of my life that way, if you will say yes.”
By this time, happy tears were already slipping down Elizabeth’s cheeks. She sniffed, blinking rapidly as she reached up and traced the lines of his mouth with her fingertips.
“You should not be silly,” she choked out. “Of course you need me. You are hopeless in public without me.”
Darcy laughed softly, his breath warm against her hand.
“And apparently,” she continued, her voice growing thick with emotion, “I need you, too. Because I am only a shell of a person without you.”
Darcy stood swiftly, pulling her into his arms, the movement so fluid, so right, that Elizabeth barely had time to gasp before she felt the warmth of him, solid and real, against her.
And then, at last, he kissed her.
It was not hesitant, not careful—no, there was no room for caution, no space for doubt. His hands framed her face as though she were something precious, something he had longed for and finally— finally —held. His lips met hers, warm and insistent, a kiss that spoke of all the words he had never said, all the feelings he had never confessed, all the yearning that had been growing between them for weeks— perhaps always.
Elizabeth had never been kissed before. Had never imagined—not like this. She felt the world slip away, the autumn wind barely a whisper at her back as she melted against him, her fingers grasping at the lapels of his coat as if to anchor herself. He smelled of crisp linen and a hint of leather, of the cool air and something distinctly him, and she wanted to drown in it, to lose herself in the sensation of his lips moving tenderly, reverently, over hers.
Darcy’s breath shuddered as he pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his hands slipping down to her waist, holding her close, unwilling to let her go.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, her name like a prayer, a vow. And that was when she knew—when she truly, fully knew—that she had never stood a chance. From the first evening she had placed her unwilling hand on his rigid arm, from that first touch, she had been wholly his.
She let out a soft laugh, breathless, dizzy with the sheer rightness of it all. “Well,” she whispered, her fingers curling against his chest, “you are rather good at that.”
His chuckle was deep, full of something she could not quite name—but she felt it, felt it, in the way his arms tightened around her, in the way his lips brushed her temple before he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.
“I love you,” he said simply.
“Not as much as I love you.”
He laughed. “Perhaps we will put it to a vote.”
And then he was kissing her again, laughing softly against her lips, as the October wind swept through the hills, carrying their laughter away into the golden afternoon.