Chapter 12 #2
”Then you have sennight to do what is right,” Mrs Gardiner said simply. “Write to Mr Darcy. Meet with him. Tell him of the child and your concerns. Allow him the dignity of choice that you yourself value so highly.”
Elizabeth’s chest tightened, her true terror breaking the surface. “He will take the child from me,” she whispered. “He will use the law, his power, to claim his heir and cast me aside.”
A flicker of pity crossed Mrs Gardiner’s face. “That is a risk you must take. But to steal his heir entirely? Should he discover the truth, and such truths will out, he would be within his rights to pursue you with the full severity of the law. You would not only lose the child, but your liberty.”
The room seemed to tilt. Elizabeth sank onto the window seat, her aunt’s words pressing down upon her. The plan that had seemed so logical, so necessary in the lonely silence of her own mind, now felt like the desperate scheme of a foolish, frightened girl.
As she rang for fresh tea, she added quietly, “And no, Elizabeth, neither your uncle nor I will assist in obtaining falsified documents. We love you dearly, but we cannot support a deception of this magnitude, not when it affects the lives of so many, including an innocent child.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly, accepting the gentle rebuke. “I should not have asked it of you.”
”No,” Mrs Gardiner agreed, “you should not have. But I understand the desperation that drove you to consider it.”
The maid entered with a fresh pot of tea, and for a few moments, the room was filled with the mundane sounds of cups being arranged and liquid being poured. When they were alone again, Mrs Gardiner handed Elizabeth a steaming cup.
”Drink this, it will settle your nerves. And then we shall discuss how best to approach Mr Darcy with this news.”
Elizabeth accepted the cup, her hands steadier now. “How can you be so certain he will not react with anger? With accusations?”
”I cannot be certain,” Mrs Gardiner admitted. “But I observed him at Pemberley, Lizzy. I saw how he looked at you when he thought no one was watching. That was not a man who would easily turn his back on you when carrying his child.”
Elizabeth sipped her tea, allowing its warmth to spread through her. “I have been a coward,” she said finally.
”No,” her aunt corrected gently. “You have been afraid. There is a difference. Courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.”
As the afternoon light faded to a bruised purple, Elizabeth remained by the window, her aunt’s harsh truths echoing in the silent parlour. The path to France, once a clear line to safety and independence, had vanished. In its place was a path that led directly to Fitzwilliam Darcy.
* * *
Mr Cranston led Elizabeth into the drawing room with customary discretion, offering a short bow before departing to inform his master of her presence.
The room was warm, well-appointed, and unmistakably masculine.
She clasped her hands before her, willing herself to calm.
She had rehearsed her words countless times.
It was only Darcy. A man. A gentleman. Nothing more.
The door opened, and he entered with the same commanding presence that always unsettled her. His gaze swept over her, unreadable as ever. “Mrs Morley. To what do I owe the honour?”
“I have come to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Darcy stilled. A lesser man might have gaped, but he merely blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Elizabeth swallowed. “I am with child. And while I do not require a husband, I believe the child deserves its father ”
“I am to presume it is mine?” he interrupted smoothly, his tone mild but his eyes sharp.
She stiffened, affronted, but then hesitated. Of course he would ask. “Yes,” she said, voice unwavering. “You are the only possibility.”
Not a flicker of surprise crossed Darcy’s face. He studied her with such calm consideration that it unsettled her. “When is the child due?” he asked at last.
“Early Spring.”
He hummed, walking towards the fireplace. “And yet, rather than inform me sooner, you let months pass before deeming me worthy of the knowledge.”
Elizabeth’s fingers curled into her skirts. “I did not… ”
“Tell me, Mrs Morley,” he cut in, turning to face her, “have you truly exhausted all other options?”
“I,” she faltered, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“You are an intelligent woman, experienced in remedies. There are methods, are there not?” His meaning was unmistakable.
Elizabeth’s breath hitched, a flicker of something raw crossing her face before she mastered it. “Mr Darcy, I would never willingly harm this miracle! I do not need your assistance, consent or approval to raise this child. I am simply asking if you would like to be a father.”
He studied her, unreadable. “And if I refuse?”
“I will go to the continent,” she said without hesitation. “I have enough means to set myself up as an apothecary and will raise the child as the child of my late husband. You will never hear of us again.”
“So rather than finding a husband here, you would uproot your entire life and flee to a foreign land,” he mused. “It would be much simpler to marry someone else, would it not? I daresay there are men who would not mind taking you as you are.”
Her jaw clenched. “I thought it best to speak to you first.”
He nodded, as though that settled something within him. “And what of your finances? Are you in debt?”
“Not at all. I have above five thousand pounds in investments and expect to fetch another five thousand from the sale of my apothecary business.”
Darcy’s brows lifted, and for the first time, she saw genuine astonishment. “Ten thousand pounds?”
“Yes.”
“My God, Elizabeth.”
She could not help the small smile tugging at her lips. “You expected me to be destitute?”
“I expected you comfortable, ” he admitted. “but not…” He shook his head, bemused. “You are a remarkable woman.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I ask only that you consider my offer. I will not beg.”
He let the silence stretch before speaking again, softer this time. “What do you want, Elizabeth? Truly?”
She was breathing fast, but she met his gaze without flinching. “I want…” She hesitated, then pressed on. “I want our child to have a family; the Fitzwilliams, the Grenvilles, the Gardiners. I want him to grow up in the country and have cousins to play with, I do not want to lie to him.”
“But what do you want for yourself?” He almost whispered.
“Well… ” She could not bear his piercing gaze any longer and her eyes took to studying the pattern of the rug. “You know there are aspects of marriage to you I find… desirable.”
A long pause. Then, his lips curved, small at first, then broad enough to reveal dimples she had never seen before. “Mrs Morley, I am afraid I could never, unlike you, refuse your proposal just because it is not as flattering as I would wish.”
Elizabeth blinked.
Before she could gather her wits, he reached for her, his lips capturing hers in a kiss so thorough it stole the breath from her lungs. Her fingers curled into his lapels, half in outrage, half in surrender. When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against hers, his voice low and firm.
“I accept your proposal, Elizabeth.”
Her arms snaked around his neck, balancing on her toes to return his fervour and continue the kiss.
She had craved it, him, long enough. She felt herself melting in his embrace, one of his arms venturing indecently low, she felt him giving her posterior a squeeze, pushing her hips closer to his body…
A sharp gasp echoed through the room.
Elizabeth wrenched herself from Darcy’s embrace, spinning towards the source of the sound.
Mrs Brown stood in the doorway, the tea tray trembling in her hands, her eyes wide with shock. “Oh! I… I beg your pardon, sir!”
Darcy, utterly unruffled, spoke to her with a slight smile. “Mrs Brown, allow me to introduce to you my betrothed, the future Mrs Darcy, and your new mistress.”
The housekeeper’s mouth opened and closed several times before she managed a stunned, “Oh my.”
Elizabeth, still breathless, pressed a hand to her lips, staring at Darcy in utter disbelief. His eyes met hers, filled with laughter and something else, something that made her heart stumble in its rhythm.
* * *
The door had barely closed behind Mrs Brown when Darcy turned to Elizabeth, his eyes alight with both mischief and triumph. “Would you like a tour of the house?”
Elizabeth hesitated. She had seen glimpses of it, the drawing room where she had just proposed, the grand entrance hall, but the idea of stepping deeper into his space, into the home that was to become hers, made her throat tighten. Still, she found herself nodding.
His smile widened. He reached for her hand, pressing it lightly in his own before tucking it into the crook of his arm. “Come, then.”
Darcy moved through the house with the ease of a man who had lived in its walls his entire life.
He spoke of the architecture, the history, but his attention was mostly on her, adjusting the way she held his arm, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, trailing his fingers over the small of her back whenever he guided her through a doorway.
It was as if he could not stop touching her, as if reassuring himself that she was here, his, and not about to vanish into thin air.
He was grinning like a boy.
Elizabeth smothered a laugh and shook her head. “You are terribly pleased with yourself, sir.”
“I am.” He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “I have just secured the happiness of my life. You must allow me to revel in it.”
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched at his blatant satisfaction.
As they passed through the ballroom, Elizabeth slowed. The polished floor gleamed under the afternoon light, the great chandeliers above them casting soft shadows over the high ceiling. She tried to picture herself here, among the whirling dancers, as Mrs Darcy.
Her throat ached.