Chapter 12
The meal passed more quickly than Darcy expected, and far more pleasantly.
Elizabeth had smiled, laughed, and even teased him once when he dropped his spoon, and though his retort had been mild, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners made his heart twist with something dangerously close to contentment.
But all too soon, it ended.
Hill brought back their dried clothing—wrinkled and still a touch damp, but warm from the hearth—and they changed once more before taking their leave.
Mrs. Bennet all but wrapped them in blankets for the carriage ride back to the inn, pressing leftover biscuits into Elizabeth’s hands and calling after them with cheerful insistence that they must come again at the end of their journey on their way back to Kent.
Darcy could not remember the last time he had been bade farewell so warmly.
He climbed into the hired carriage behind Elizabeth, settled across from her, and shut the door as the driver clicked his tongue and turned the horse into the lane.
The silence was immediate.
Elizabeth looked out the window. Her profile was blurred by the glass, which was misted from the warmth of their breath meeting the cold outside.
Darcy folded his hands and stared at them.
He wanted to speak—to say something to ease her pain, ask what she planned. Whether she would remain.
But he knew well that there was nothing he could say to calm the hopelessness in her eyes. In any case, words would not come. His chest was too tight about what she might say.
What if she turned to him, serene and resolute, and told him that she must stay at Longbourn—that her duty to her sister outweighed all else?
Could he fault her for it?
What if she says yes? What will I do if she wishes to remain here?
Could I leave her?
The thought hollowed him out. He had only just found her—truly found her—and now he might lose her again. And not to time or magic or some inexplicable twist of fate, but to choice. Her choice.
And he knew it must be hers.
So, he stared down at his hands and said nothing, watching her from the corner of his eye as she gazed out the window. The sound of hooves and wheels over gravel filled the space between them. He heard her sigh once, but she did not look up.
When they reached the Boar and Barrel, the innkeeper greeted them at the door with a genial nod. “Evenin’, sir. Will you be wantin’ the room a third night, or just this one more?”
Darcy hesitated. He glanced toward Elizabeth—but she was already climbing the stairs, her skirt gathered in one hand, her head slightly bowed.
“May I let you know in the morning?” he asked, unsure. Would Elizabeth wish to remain in Longbourn to try and find a way to help her sister in this world? Perhaps they could find work and remain in the area, but how much influence could they really have? Especially with Jane leaving so soon.
The man nodded. “Aye, that’s fine.”
Darcy gave a tight smile and handed over a coin before slowly climbing the stairs and lingering outside the door. He knew Elizabeth would need time to freshen up and change for bed.
When he finally entered their room, the fire had already been stoked and Elizabeth was lying on her side beneath the covers, her back to the door.
A few stray tendrils of hair clung to her cheek.
She had changed into the shift he had purchased for her in London.
Her form beneath the blanket was still, her breathing steady—but not the steady rhythm of sleep.
No, she was awake.
He undressed quickly, laying his clothes out over the chair near the fire to finish drying. Then put on his nightdress and slid into the narrow bed beside her, careful not to touch her. Careful, as always.
But his mind was a roaring thing, far too loud for sleep.
Minutes passed. Her breathing did not change.
Finally, he spoke. Quietly. “I enjoyed dinner tonight.”
There was a pause.
“Really?” Her voice was soft, surprised.
He turned his head slightly on the pillow to look at her silhouette in the dark. “I did.”
She said nothing.
“Your family was… animated,” he added, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “But genuine. Warm. I had thought them only noisy before, but I see now… they care for one another. Deeply.”
Elizabeth was still quiet, and he did not expect a reply.
“I used to think,” he continued, “that good breeding and polished manners were the marks of superiority. That a composed drawing room reflected a superior household. But I have dined with earls whose tables were silent as tombs. I have been welcomed by ladies of status whose kindness would not extend past the parlor doors.”
He swallowed.
“Tonight was different. And it has made me… consider how easily I dismissed things I did not understand.”
Still, she did not speak.
His hands curled into the sheets beneath the blanket.
“If you wish to remain,” he said carefully, “to assist your sister—I would understand. We could find work…” he trailed off helplessly.
Her breath caught.
He stared up at the ceiling, every muscle tense, his heart pounding as if he had just run from Longbourn again in the rain.
She said nothing.
Not yet.
And so he waited—his entire world poised on the hinge of her silence.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth was touched by Darcy’s offer. It was thoughtful.
Kind. So very like him to consider her feelings—her obligations—even when he must be anxious to return to Derbyshire and to whatever remnants of his life remained there.
That he would offer her the chance to stay with Jane.
.. it spoke of selflessness. Understanding.
And yet—
It surprised her.
The truth was, the idea of remaining behind had not even occurred to her.
This Jane, tender and dear as she might be, was not her Jane.
This was not her world. It was another Elizabeth who had grown up in this house, who had made choices and forged bonds and accepted a man she had once rejected.
It was not Elizabeth’s responsibility to untangle those decisions, nor her place to remain in someone else’s life.
But Darcy...
Darcy did not exist in this world. And yet, Georgiana was still his sister.
Alone.
Abandoned.
Then, unbidden, a small voice crept into her mind:
He is being polite.
The thought struck like ice.
Why would he want to stay in Longbourn? Was he allowing chivalry to over-rule his own desires? Or was it something worse?
She thought back on the evening and her heart squeezed painfully.
Her family had been—she knew it—exuberant.
Overwhelming. Loud and ridiculous and lacking in all the refinements his own circle possessed.
Her mother had spoken of marriage markets as though they were horse fairs.
Kitty and Lydia had fluttered over men in red coats like moths to flame.
Jane—poor Jane—had been revealed in all her heartbreak and shame.
What must he think of them? Of me?
By the time he had entered their room, she had already changed into her nightdress and lay facing the wall, curled on her side, uncertain. She listened to the rustle of fabric as he undressed, the creak of the mattress as he lay down carefully behind her, keeping that same respectful distance.
And still, she could not sleep.
Perhaps it had all become too much for him.
Perhaps he had offered her the chance to stay because it spared him the discomfort of telling her that he had no wish to continue together at all.
Not when her family was so clearly beneath his notice.
Not when he now saw what she truly came from.
He could wait until she was settled in Longbourn, perhaps even in a position in her family’s home, and then simply disappear, without any pangs of guilt or remorse.
And if Jane’s condition had appalled him... if it confirmed every prejudice he had ever held about her family’s morals...
She felt him, still tense, beneath the covers and longed to speak, but she did not know what to say.
Because she knew what she wanted.
She wanted to be with him, whatever that meant. She wanted to remain by his side, to face whatever came next as a pair. It felt so obvious, so right—and yet now, uncertainty gnawed at her.
Had she misunderstood? Had she misread his warmth, his patience, his laughter?
What if it was all in my imagination?
The idea struck like a cold wind. That perhaps the comfort between them had been no more than kindness. That his gaze—so often steady and soft—had been only pity. That when he offered to stay in Longbourn, close to her family, it had not been out of care, but as a step towards being free of her.
She closed her eyes tightly, pressing her fingertips against her brow, trying to will the fear away, to will sleep into claiming her. But the silence between them was unbearable. It throbbed like a bruise on her heart.
She wished he would speak—say something, anything—but perhaps he already had. Perhaps his silence now was an answer she had no wish to hear.
So, she lay still, trying to steady her breathing, knowing he was just inches away—and fearing he might already be a world apart.
Her breath trembled. A knot formed in her chest—thick and aching.
She could not take it anymore.
Turning just slightly toward him, her voice barely above a whisper, she asked, “Do you want to go on…without me?” Her next words came out in a breathless rush. “You have no obligation to me. This world, this reality, it is meant for you to understand, not for me. I do not want to hinder you.”
The silence that followed felt endless.
And then—low and ragged—came his answer.
“No.”
The word was strangled—rough with something unspoken. It cracked through the darkness like lightning and sent something sharp and bright flooding through her chest.
“No?” she asked, hopeful.
“No,” he repeated.
She turned toward him fully then, rolling onto her side to face him. He was already looking at her—his expression stark in the faint moonlight that filtered through the curtains.