Chapter Seven
Darcy
T he sharp sound of Elizabeth’s gasp pierced through the air, drawing Darcy’s attention like a tether pulling taut. He turned swiftly towards the library, his heart sinking as he glimpsed her through the narrow crack in the door. She stood frozen, her hand lightly gripping the edge of the door frame, her face pale with dawning realisation. For a moment, he could not discern whether the emotion was anger, hurt, or something more complex—something that mirrored his own turmoil.
Lady Catherine followed his gaze, her frown deepening as she grasped the implications of her brazen insults being overheard. “Fitzwilliam—” she began sharply, but Darcy cut her off with uncharacteristic force.
“Please excuse me,” he stated, his tone brooking no argument. Without waiting for her response, he strode to the library doors and flung them open, stepping inside before shutting them with a firm, almost resounding slam.
His breath was uneven as he turned to face Elizabeth, who stood before him with an expression that seemed to strip him bare. There was no deceit in her eyes, no calculated manipulation. Only shock—and something perilously close to betrayal.
“You were not at the inn, were you?” she asked, her voice trembling as she searched his face, as though each word she spoke revealed more questions than answers.
Darcy’s throat tightened. “No,” he said at last, his voice firm, though his heart thundered wildly. “I was not even in Hertfordshire. And you?”
“No, of course not. I never… I… I am a respectable woman, no matter what you have thought of me all these months.”
“It seems we both thought the worst of one another and resented one another because of it,” he said and shook his head. “I waited for your confession for some time, thinking you would admit it eventually. You appear a reasonable person, so I thought it odd that you had never brought it up.”
Her lips parted in disbelief, and she shook her head as if to clear it. “All this time you thought that I was with a man who dared to use your name?” Her voice broke on the last word, a trembling note of something between indignation and anguish.
He forced himself to hold her gaze, though every fibre of his being urged him to look away. “I did,” he admitted quietly. “I assumed…” He trailed off, his words faltering beneath the weight of her scrutiny.
“And yet,” she pressed, her tone rising, “you mean to tell me you were not? That you believed me capable of…” She stopped, her breath hitching as the truth began to coalesce between them.
“I thought you were guilty,” he said, his voice low and raw. “That you had acted rashly. That your family sought to cover it. I wanted to deny my part in it, but my aunt told me denials would not matter. My entire family pressured me to marry you and put the rumours to rest. I must say, my aunt’s resistance might have been stronger had I not just made it clear to her that I would never marry the one woman she wished me to—my cousin. But pray, why did you not deny it? I assumed you guilty because I heard of no denial on your part.”
Elizabeth stared at him, uncomprehending. Then, slowly, as though the words themselves were almost too painful to utter, she said, “I was at a gathering with my friends. I pleaded my innocence—again and again—but no one seemed inclined to listen.”
Darcy grimaced, the weight of her words sinking heavily upon him. How easy it had been for him to accept his aunt’s narrative, her unyielding certainty overriding his own reason. “You must have been fighting against a tide of assumptions…” he began, but stopped, the hollowness of his words echoing between them.
“We should have spoken,” he said at last, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose as if to physically stave off his frustration.
“We should have,” she agreed, though her voice carried little of the heat he expected. Instead, it was laden with weary resignation. “But I was waiting for you to do the decent thing—to explain, to speak with honesty.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, “And I assumed you remained silent because you had something to hide. I thought you used me and my family’s standing which was beneath yours as you so often made clear.”
His chest tightened. “I thought the same of you,” he admitted, the bitter irony of it all constricting his throat.
“I believed,” she began hesitantly, “that you were using this marriage as a shield for your indiscretions. That you intended to use our marriage as a shield so you could continue to see the woman you were at the inn with. I assumed she was a local to Meryton but then, when you continued to leave for your long walks here in Derbyshire, I wasn’t certain. I … I thought you had continued on whatever affair you had. I assume you thought the same of me? That I used you to hide my true partner’s identity?”
He stared at her, his mind racing to make sense of her words. “Indeed. The letters,” he murmured.
Elizabeth’s brows furrowed. “The letters?”
He drew a steadying breath. “I kept them from you when you first arrived for a reason. I thought you were perhaps still corresponding with him and so I thought I would hide your letters, cut you off from him. I feared you were continuing your… involvement.”
Her eyes widened with recognition, and then, to his astonishment, a faint, humourless laugh escaped her. “My mind was running circles around me. Trying to figure out who the woman was.”
“I have given you little reason to think otherwise. I assure you, I have not. I have never engaged in such illicit activities and I most certainly would not engage in dalliances at a public posting house.”
“Neither have I nor would I ever,” she replied, the admission soft but steady. She drew in a deep breath. “Though we are far from happy in this arrangement, I have abided by our vows.”
“As have I,” he said firmly, surprising even himself with the conviction in his voice. For the first time, he saw her shoulders relax slightly.
They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their newfound understanding settling heavily between them. At last, Darcy spoke. “Have you any notion of who might have orchestrated this… this calamity?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I cannot think of anyone villainous enough to set a trap for us. I must assume it was done out of recklessness—I do not like to point fingers but the only person reckless enough that I know is my own sister, Lydia. But I have no proof, merely a suspicion. Knowing that it was not you makes me consider her even more. She has always been reckless and I would not put it past her to sneak away to an inn with a lover and create an elaborate story.”
“Or perhaps it was a trap for me, as Wickham hates me. But I cannot imagine your sister would purposely trap you.”
“She would not. If it was Lydia, then it was a mistake. But it may have been a stranger. It may have been someone who knew your name but—” she stopped as if in thought, then continued, “No. The innkeeper said he saw me. Which brings me back to my sister.”
“She resembles you?” he asked.
“Out of all my sisters she and I look the most alike. She is shorter than me but she prefers higher heeled shoes. Her hair is curlier than mine but one would not know that if she was wearing a bonnet.”
Before either could speak further, the doors to the library burst open, and Georgiana appeared, her face alight with worry. “There you both are! I have been waiting in the dining room, but Aunt Catherine stormed in, and she was frightfully angry about something—I did not wish to remain alone with her!”
Elizabeth and Darcy exchanged a glance, the gravity of their conversation momentarily displaced by the absurdity of Lady Catherine’s ever-looming presence.
Darcy sighed, gesturing for Georgiana to go on. “I will join you shortly. Elizabeth, accompany her please. I need a moment.”
Elizabeth nodded, briefly squeezing Georgiana’s arm as they left together. Alone, Darcy sank into a chair by the window, his thoughts still racing.
For months, he had entertained the notion of escape—a divorce that might free them both from this sham of a marriage. But now he understood that such a course would ruin them irreparably. They were bound, if not by affection, then by the shared injustice done to them both.
And they would find the truth. Together.
But first, there was dinner—and the formidable presence of Lady Catherine to contend with. Darcy rose, his mind spinning, and made his way to the dining room.