Chapter 3 #2
It was not just the shock of seeing her again—though that had been enough to set his blood thrumming in his ears. It was not even the disorienting moment when he thought she might be Mrs. Collins.
No—it was what happened after.
It was the way she had stood her ground beneath the weight of his aunt’s sneering remarks, her chin lifted, her tone calm.
She had not flinched, even as Lady Catherine berated Mr. Collins for his matrimonial failure, nor as she was interrogated about her sisters, her fortune—or lack thereof, and her family connections.
She had simply… spoken. Clearly. Firmly. Truthfully.
Darcy adjusted his cuffs. His brow furrowed.
He was ashamed of his aunt. Truly ashamed. For all her insistence on breeding and lineage, Lady Catherine had displayed all the delicacy of a fishmonger in a rainstorm. To say such things in front of a newlywed! In front of her guests! In front of Elizabeth.
He had seen Elizabeth’s eyes flare in defense of her friend. Had seen her temper held in check by sheer will and civility. No shrill retort, no simpering submission—only poise.
He found himself wondering if Charlotte Collins had heard those same accusations before. If she had known what sort of reception awaited her when she accepted the parson’s hand.
He doubted it.
And then… there was Elizabeth’s role in it all.
She had refused Mr. Collins.
That had struck him like a thunderclap.
He had not known of the entailment on Longbourn—not in detail.
The estate was of modest size, and he had paid it little heed.
But now, understanding that her family’s home would pass to another line, that her father had no male heir, that her situation was precarious—and still, she had refused a man who could offer her security?
He was silent a long moment, staring at the carved edge of the dressing table.
Was she waiting for me to return? he thought suddenly. Is that why she refused Collins?
It had been foolish to leave Hertfordshire so abruptly—but his motives had been good. He and Bingley had both been in danger: Bingley, from a loveless marriage, and himself, from bewitching eyes and an ill-bred family.
Still… she had teased him so freely at Netherfield. She had stayed near him while her sister recovered. She had challenged him, danced with him, argued with him. Her flashing eyes and playful smile even as she shred him to pieces with her wit.
How could she not have been waiting for me to speak?
He suddenly felt like the worst of villains.
He had left her. Left her to explain herself to her family. Left her to endure another Christmas unmarried. Left her to face the possibility of becoming Mrs. Collins because he could not distinguish his own pride from her value.
And still—still—she had remained true.
She would not have rejected the offer of security from her cousin… not unless she hoped for me.
He felt a rush of something like resolve.
He would not let her suffer any longer. He would not allow her to question, to wonder, to wait. He would propose—at once. Tomorrow, if the opportunity arose. Christmas Eve, at the latest.
He would make her his wife.
And he would make her happy.
∞∞∞
The fire in the blue parlor at Rosings crackled softly the following evening.
The tea service had been cleared away, though Lady Catherine remained stationed like a general at her usual post. Mr. Collins had found a footstool and was attempting to recount a secondhand anecdote about the Bishop of Norwich.
Charlotte sat listening with admirable patience.
Elizabeth stood near the instrument, already regretting that she had acquiesced to Lady Catherine’s demand that she “entertain the room.” The pianoforte at Rosings was better tuned than the one at Longbourn, but the room itself had all the warmth of a marble mausoleum.
She rifled through the sheet music on the piano and discovered a faded copy of a little German piece she had learned from her aunt Gardiner years ago. It was sweet and not terribly long: precisely the sort of thing one could offer without inviting criticism for either ostentation or indolence.
When she finished the first movement, Mr. Darcy stepped forward.
“May I turn the pages for you, Miss Bennet?”
She looked up in surprise and wariness.
“If you wish,” she said lightly.
He stood beside her as she began again. For a few moments, neither spoke.
It was maddening.
She had been trying, since yesterday, to make sense of his presence, of his odd expressions, of that intense gaze he seemed to fix on her whenever he thought she would not notice. But now—standing so near, watching the sheet music with dutiful solemnity—he seemed not at all inclined to speak.
Very well, then. She would.
“You must miss your friend Mr. Bingley,” she said softly, keeping her eyes on the keys. “I know the neighborhood in Hertfordshire grew quite fond of him.”
There was the briefest pause. Then: “Indeed? That is kind of you to say.”
Elizabeth’s fingers faltered for half a note, but she recovered. “Yes. I believe his return is still hoped for by many.”
“I doubt it,” Darcy said. “He has no real reason to return. His sisters prefer the society in town, and the lease at Netherfield was never a permanent one.”
She stopped playing.
Darcy looked at her in question.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, turning the page unnecessarily. “My hands were cold. They have gone stiff.”
But it was not cold. It was fury.
Of course. Of course. Mr. Bingley had not simply drifted away. He had been guided away—steered, no doubt, by the same man who stood beside her now, polite and inscrutable, speaking of Jane’s heartbreak as though it were a trivial matter.
He had done it. She was sure of it now.
He had separated them.
She pressed on through the remainder of the piece, though she could barely see the notes. When the final chord faded, she rose at once and curtsied.
Lady Catherine gave a reluctant nod. “Adequate, I suppose. You really will never play well unless you practice, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth murmured her thanks and returned to her chair, barely hearing anything around her.
Darcy had resumed his seat without comment and stared at her.
She determinedly avoided his gaze, focusing her attention on Lady Catherine giving Mrs. Collins instructions about calls to pay the following morning.
She could not even look at him.
The walk back to the parsonage was cold and quiet. Charlotte spoke only once—something about the quality of the orange marmalade—and Elizabeth mumbled a vague reply.
She went to bed early, pleading a headache.
But it was not pain that kept her awake. It was fury. White-hot and slow-burning.
He did it.
He took Bingley away. He made Jane suffer. And not for some noble cause, not even for Bingley’s sake—but to preserve his own sense of superiority. To spare himself the embarrassment of a connection to trade, to a family with silly sisters and little fortune.
And he calls himself a gentleman.
She turned in her bed, pulling the blanket higher, and wished—truly wished—she had never come to Kent.
∞∞∞
Darcy leaned against the carved mantel in the east drawing room, a brandy warming slowly in his hand. The fire crackled low, casting flickers of gold across the wood paneling and gilded frames. A clock chimed somewhere down the hall—ten, perhaps.
There had been no time to speak privately with Elizabeth that evening at tea. His aunt had monopolized the entire conversation, and quickly whispering in Elizabeth’s ear as she played the piano was far less than she deserved.
No, if he wished to speak with her alone, he would need to go to the parsonage the following morning while the Mr. and Mrs. Collins were out.
For once, he was glad for his aunt’s officiousness.
Lady Catherine had gone on about calling cards, cakes, and the correct distance to stand from a drawing room hearth. Darcy had barely heard any of it; he had been watching Elizabeth.
She had not looked at him once since the moment at the pianoforte. Not during the tea, not even when he passed her cup. Her hands had been steady, but her mouth—so often animated—had been tight. Restrained.
Perhaps it was nerves. Or surprise. Or modesty.
She could not have known what he meant to do.
He would go early. Not so early as to seem improper—he would not insult her dignity with a clandestine call—but soon enough that he might not be leaving her waiting any later than he should.
He had once imagined proposing to her in a great hall, with flowers and candles and witnesses who understood her worth.
Now… he would settle for a warm fire, a quiet room, and the chance to speak his heart at last.
Darcy exhaled and stepped away from the mantel.
Let others question. Let his aunt fume. Let the world call him proud or precipitate or mad. He would not let another day pass in silence.
He rang for his valet.
Tomorrow, he would speak.
Tomorrow, she would be his.