Chapter 11 #2
Darcy folded his hands together, schooling his tone into that of idle conversation.
“Because most officers, despite the polish of their uniforms, are not sons of gentlemen. They are often laborers or servants, hired by those of higher birth to fill the ranks. Men with little means and less conscience.”
Mary looked up from her copy of what appeared to be Fordyce’s Sermons, nodded vigorously. “I have tried to tell them as much.”
Darcy continued, his voice even. “They often fall into gaming and debts. Some take liberties with women’s reputations.
And the pay is meager—fifty to a hundred pounds a year, before expenses.
Most cannot afford a servant, let alone proper housing.
And when children come…” He looked toward the window as if considering. “There is rarely enough to go around.”
Kitty and Lydia both looked stricken. “Fifty pounds?” Kitty whispered. “That is less than my pin money!”
Darcy nodded solemnly. “Your cousin, Mr. Collins, has a living worth three hundred pounds a year. That does not include the patroness’ generosity, nor the garden and poultry he might sell for profit.”
Mary cleared her throat. “And surely a man of God is more admirable than a man of war. The former serves the soul, while the latter only follows destruction.”
“Quite so,” Darcy said, bowing slightly.
The younger girls were quiet after that.
A creak came from the hall, and Mr. Bennet’s dry voice rang out. “Bravo, sir. You have silenced my girls on the subject of officers more thoroughly than anyone else could have done. And I do not even know your name.”
Mrs. Bennet turned, beaming. “Mr. Bennet, this is Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They are friends of Lizzy’s!”
Mr. Bennet’s gaze settled on Darcy. His eyes twinkled with mild interest—but at the mention of Lizzy, something behind them dimmed. “Indeed? A friend of Lizzy’s,” he repeated softly.
Before Darcy could respond, the door opened again. Jane entered, trailed by Elizabeth.
The sight of Elizabeth, her hair still slightly damp, her expression sober but composed, settled something in him. She looked toward him, and he read the message in her eyes: Later.
Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands. “Your clothes are still damp, I am afraid. Hill says the clothes will take another hour at least to finish drying by the fire. Why not stay to dinner?”
Darcy hesitated. “We are very grateful, madam, but we had not intended—”
“Oh, nonsense!” she cried. “You will catch your deaths walking back after dark, especially on unfamiliar roads. The carriage can take you. You must stay. It is only mutton, but it is hearty.”
Mr. Bennet nodded from the hearth. “The lady has made up her mind, Mr. Smith. You would do well to yield.”
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, who gave a slight nod. “Then we thank you most sincerely.”
After some further bustling and the announcement that dinner would be served shortly, Darcy turned to Elizabeth. “May I take you for a short walk in the garden? We have sat far too long in coaches of late.”
Kitty let out a laugh. “Then you truly are Lizzy’s friends! She walks every day, even when it snows.”
Mrs. Bennet waved them off with a smile. “Mind you do not track mud when you return—and do not get wet again!”
The rain had passed, leaving behind a sky of silver clouds and damp air that smelled of moist earth and fallen leaves. Darcy offered Elizabeth his arm, and she took it without hesitation.
They passed through the garden gate and walked in silence down the damp stone path.
When they were far enough from the windows, Elizabeth said quietly, “Jane is with child.”
Darcy stopped short.
“It happened at Netherfield. He—Bingley—he seduced her. Promised marriage. And when she told him she was expecting… he left.”
A cold fury settled over Darcy’s shoulders. “I never saw any sign that he was a rake, never suspected that he would trifle with an innocent maiden. If I had known, I would have never befriended him. How could he—”
“You prevented him from acting on his weaker impulses,” she said softly. “I imagine your friendship steadied him. But without you… he strayed.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. “Then I am to blame for both. For misjudging your sister—and for this terrible wish, causing me to fail in guiding my friend.”
“No,” Elizabeth said firmly. “You are not to blame. We each have responsibility for own actions, even Jane.”
“What will they do now?” he asked.
“When I—the other me—rejected Mr. Collins, Jane considered accepting him. But when I—that is, the other me—bother! This is all quite confusing.”
“I think I can follow,” Darcy said with a cheeky smile, attempting to lighten her mood. “I do have more understanding than your husband, Mrs. Collins...”
She sniffed in mock affront, then sobered and continued, saying, “Well, when I discovered Jane’s plan and its cause, I still thought Mr. Bingley might return, and I did not wish for Jane to be trapped.
So, I accepted Mr. Collins, in order to give Jane time to wait for her beau, and I would offer a chance for escape if he did not come back. ”
“And he has not.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. The plan is for Jane to go to the Gardiners, and the other me will join her there and pass the child off as her own.”
There were tears in Elizabeth’s eyes as she spoke the last. Without thinking, Darcy reached for her hand and pulled her into his arms. He did not speak.
He did not need to.
He knew her heartbreak, for it mirrored his own over Georgiana’s marriage to Wickham.
“Would you like to remain?” he asked. “To assist your sister? I can continue to Pemberley on my own.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could snatch them back. His heart froze at the very idea of being parted from her.
Even now—just the thought of journeying to Derbyshire without her by his side, without her steady voice and fierce gaze—left him feeling unmoored.
But he would never ask her to choose between him and her sister.
Not when he knew what it was to fear for someone you loved.
Elizabeth was looking at him, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. He did not want to go without her.
He wanted her to say no.
To say she would come with him.
To say that they would face whatever came next—together.
But before either of them could speak further, the door to the house creaked open.
“Dinner is served!” came the call, cheerful and oblivious.
Elizabeth turned her head toward the voice, then looked back at Darcy. “We can speak more on the subject later,” he whispered in her ear, leaning down.
She gave him a small nod.
Wordlessly, he offered his arm. She took it, and together, they stepped back inside.
∞∞∞
The dining room at Longbourn was just as she remembered it—dimly lit with tall tapers, the scent of roasting meat and rosemary thick in the air.
A steaming joint of mutton rested proudly at the center of the table, flanked by potatoes, stewed apples, and a loaf of brown bread.
It was modest fare, but hearty, and to Elizabeth it felt achingly familiar.
They took their places, and Elizabeth found herself seated across from Darcy.
Mr. Bennet took his customary chair at the head of the table, while Mrs. Bennet presided opposite him, fluttering napkins and directing Hill with exaggerated graciousness.
Jane sat beside her mother, a pale shadow of the sister Elizabeth remembered, though she still offered soft encouragements to Kitty and Lydia as they chattered on.
And Darcy—dear heaven, Darcy—was… smiling.
Not that stiff, barely-there smile he used when nodding at society acquaintances, but a real, unguarded expression of amusement.
His eyes sparkled as he listened to Kitty’s retelling of a spoiled pudding at Aunt Philips’s, and he even let out a short laugh when Mr. Bennet quipped about a neighbor’s prize pig being smarter than the man who owned it.
Elizabeth could only stare. She had never seen him like this. Not at Rosings. Not even at Netherfield.
He was at ease. Relaxed. Human.
And her heart—already too full from the day’s revelations—twisted painfully.
If things had been different—if this were the true world, and they had come together not through magic or misfortune, but choice and affection—would he have sat here beside her, proud and certain, as her betrothed?
Would she have watched him tease Lydia with dry wit and exchange thoughtful glances with her father across the table?
Could this have been their future?
The ache of it almost made her miss her own laugh when he raised a brow and offered her the last bit of stewed apple with a silent “Shall I?” She nodded and smiled, and he passed it to her with a faint smirk, as though they had been married ten years and this was merely another evening meal in a life shared.
But it was not. None of it was real. And the laughter around the table, though genuine, could not erase the truth: her family did not know her.
As Jane quietly declined another helping and looked down at her plate, Elizabeth’s thoughts turned once more to her sister.
Should she remain? Should she stay behind and help Jane bear this burden?
There was a strong sense of duty in her heart—after all, what kind of sister would abandon her in such a moment?
And yet…
The very idea filled her with dread.
Staying would mean accepting this new reality. Settling into it. Making it her own.
And she could not—would not—do that.
To stay would be to surrender. To believe that this strange new life, where she was married to a man she barely knew and her sister carried another man’s child in secret, was permanent.
No. She would not give up hope. Somewhere—somehow—there must be a way back.
In any case, there was already a solution for Jane—Mrs. Collins would claim the babe as her own.
If Elizabeth chose to remain at Longbourn to help Jane, there would be too much danger of her being discovered in her lie.
She had never actually met Mrs. Collins, and as soon as Jane met that woman at the Gardiner’s home, everything would unravel.
Besides… the idea of parting from Darcy left her far more unsettled than she dared admit. He was the one person in this world who knew her—truly knew her. The only one who shared her memories, her past, her pain.
To leave him behind would be like stepping into darkness without a lantern.
She glanced at Darcy again, watching the way he engaged Mr. Bennet in quiet conversation about land use and crop rotation. His intelligence was evident, but so too was his restraint. He asked questions. He listened. He offered observations rather than declarations.
He is a good man, she thought, with a ripple of awe.
Not only principled, but influential. She had seen it now with her own eyes—how his friendship had steadied Bingley, tempered him, perhaps even kept him from becoming the kind of man who would seduce a gentlewoman and abandon her at the first sign of consequence.
Darcy had not even realized the impact he had on his friend. His influence was subtle. Steady. Guiding.
But powerful.
He could be arrogant—yes. And brusque. And absolutely dreadful with strangers.
A smile curved her lips.
But beneath it all, he was loyal. Decent. Kind.
She had been so blind to it before. She had not understood what kind of man he truly was. And now that she did, she could feel the truth blooming within her like a fragile flower uncurling in the cold.
She was starting to fall in love with him.
She lowered her gaze to her plate, startled by the force of it.
Yes. She was falling in love with Fitzwilliam Darcy, and no amount of rain or magic or broken timelines could undo that.