35. The Ring Returned
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE RING RETURNED
Elizabeth felt like a puppet who had lost all its strings as she pulled herself up the wide staircase.
The performance, for which she was ill-suited, had come to an end.
She had smiled and accepted compliments with the appropriate modesty, stood beside Darcy in the great hall until the last of the carriages had disappeared down the drive.
Afterward, she evaded Darcy’s searching gaze, pleaded fatigue, and made her escape on unsteady legs, spine held as straight as pride would allow, murmuring polite good nights to Wickham and Georgiana as she passed.
Clarice awaited her, efficient and silent, as if the day’s drama had not so much as ruffled her cap.
She tended Elizabeth with gentle hands, smoothing away the evidence of strain, brushing and braiding dark hair for the night.
Not a word passed between them; Clarice’s eyes remained respectfully lowered in the glass, while Elizabeth regarded her own reflection as if it belonged to a different woman.
“Will there be anything else, madam?”
“No. Thank you, Clarice. That will be all.”
The counterpane was pulled back, the fire stoked, and her pillow fluffed. Clarice departed quietly, with only a whispered, “Good night, madam.”
And Elizabeth was alone, sitting at the window in her nightgown, watching the last of the moonlight silver the gardens below, and tried to remember how to breathe.
He knew. Elizabeth saw it in his eyes when Wickham raised his wineglass and offered that poisoned toast. She read it in Lady Matlock’s eyebrow, what she surmised.
Her husband’s knuckles had gone white, his face taut, his brow furrowed. He had chosen deflection. Had not defended her, which was perhaps for the better. And the moment had passed, and Wickham had won.
Tomorrow, Wickham would face Darcy across a desk where he would sign the papers to correct the fraudulent registry. And Wickham would smile that devastating smile and extract every advantage he could use—including Elizabeth’s secret.
He would wield it and shatter everything—unless Elizabeth blunted the weapon and handed it to Darcy first.
Her knees uncertain, she crossed to the writing desk, bent as though the years had pressed upon her all at once.
She unlocked it, lifted the false bottom, and found the signet ring nestled beside Darcy’s note.
She unfolded the letter, reading again the lines where he had sworn nothing would alter his regard.
And she had no doubt that what she would tell him tonight would change everything.
She drew a steadying breath and picked up the ring, quieting the tumult in her mind to listen for Darcy’s movements beyond the connecting door. He was speaking to his valet—issuing morning orders, no doubt—then would remove his boots, splash water over his face, perhaps his chest, and…
The weight of the ring, brass, not gold, felt cheap in her hand. She would not think about the empty promises and the smooth kisses, assuring her that once he secured his fortune, he would…
No. Wickham did not signify. Only Darcy, his household, his son, and Pemberley held any consequence now.
Elizabeth closed her fingers around the bit of metal and leaned against the connecting door. She did not know if it was unlocked on his side; she had left hers unlatched, but he had never crossed the threshold. Perhaps he had never so much as touched the handle.
So she listened, heart thundering, debating with herself. Too early, and he would be buried in correspondence, his valet liable to return. Too late, and he would be abed—hardly the impression she wished to give. He might misread her purpose, and his opinion would sink lower still.
She drew her wrapper close and pressed her ear to the door.
He was awake—the chair creaked, footsteps paced.
What would he do with the dreadful truth?
Ought she to have asked Clarice to pack?
Would he demand her immediate departure?
Perhaps he would escort her to her chamber as one might banish a misbehaving spaniel, and lock the door behind her.
He might even exile her from the family wing altogether.
The sounds faded, and panic threatened. He might already be asleep.
Knock, she told herself. Knock before you lose your nerve.
But she had never possessed such courage. If she had, she would have flung the ring into the river and banished Wickham’s kiss from memory.
She could not do it. She could not cross that threshold, lay her shame before him, and await judgment. She could not bear to see his face harden, to watch the fragile warmth between them freeze into the cold bargain she had once accepted.
It was all she deserved. All he wanted—at the beginning.
And then, he had to kiss her wounded thumb and carry her up those flights of stairs.
And the wanting made the secret heavier with each verse he read, each spoonful of syllabub, and those devastating Darcy eyes—large, expressive, and slightly wet.
She closed her eyes and wished he would come to her.
That she could simply hold onto him, lay her head on his shoulder and breathe, as Little Tom did without shame.
But she was not deserving. She had accepted a ring and romance from a man she barely knew to escape her refusal of Mr. Collins.
And then, she had agreed to marry Darcy without asking the questions she should have asked.
She had been a coward every day since arriving at Pemberley, hiding her secret in a locked drawer and pretending it did not exist.
Her candle guttered, dripping wax. The hour was late, maybe too late, and Elizabeth Bennet Darcy was done being a coward. She would let the chips fall where they might. She would not allow Wickham to wedge himself between husband and wife, nor insinuate himself into Pemberley.
And so, her hand rose, and she connected her fist firmly to the wood. And she stood there, heart beating too fast, both dreading he would not come to the door and dreading that he would.
She counted her heartbeats, listening for the footsteps. They paused, and just when she thought he meant to ignore her, the door opened.
Darcy stood in the doorway. His coat was removed, cravat loosened and waistcoat unbuttoned. His hair was in disarray, and those eyes found hers immediately—dark and searching.
“You’re trembling,” he said. “What is it?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to answer and found she had no words. Everything she had planned to say—the careful preamble, the measured explanation, the dignified confession—evaporated in the face of his quiet concern.
“May I come in?”
He stepped aside without hesitation.
His chamber was larger than hers, the furniture heavier, the colors darker. A fire burned low in the grate, casting warm shadows across the carpet. His desk sat beneath the window, papers scattered across its surface, a candle guttering in its holder.
Her courage faltering, she passed him by. She would place the ring on the desk and withdraw. He would know—perhaps he already did. She was merely another in the parade of women his brother had beguiled.
Without a word, she laid the ring beside the candlestick. G. W.
Darcy followed. She felt him behind her, close enough to touch, waiting for an explanation she did not know how to give, and so, she stood back and watched him pick up the ring, his brow knit, his face darkening until comprehension dawned.
“Where did you get this?”
“I have no right to be your wife.” The words that followed were the hardest she had ever spoken. “I married you after being compromised by George Wickham.”
His fist closed over the ring, and his face hardened into granite. His eyes narrowed, and his lower jaw jutted as shock gave way to fury, his expression darkening.
“I did not know he was your brother.” She forced herself to continue, to meet his eyes even as they turned stony. “I did not know, and he never mentioned you. He said he was the son of a gentleman, and he courted me for three weeks. He told me he would marry me after he came into his fortune.”
Darcy neither moved nor spoke. His hands hung at his sides, fists clenched, every line of his body so rigid that he trembled—and that trembling was the most terrifying sight of all.
“We exchanged tokens—a locket and a ring.” The words tumbled out, as if they might escape her altogether. “And then he—” Her voice faltered, but she steadied herself, arms wrapped tight against the sobs that would come. “He kissed me in the alley, promised he would write, and then vanished.”
Darcy’s nostrils flared, his breath harsh, but he remained standing, and she did not know whether he faced her or not because she did not dare to look.
“If I had realized that the man who gave me this ring was the half-brother you mentioned at Longbourn, I would never have agreed to this… this situation. I should not have come to Pemberley. I should have let you choose another one of my sisters, or a woman more honorable than me.” She covered her face, the shame engulfing her.
“Jane knew my fears, and she knew I was a fool. She warned me, but I wished to be…”
He stood still, waiting, and his silence terrified her far more than if he had spoken.
“There’s one more thing you should know.
After he disappeared, I was terrified that I might be—” She could not say the word.
She could not force it past her lips. “Clarice explained to me, when I arrived here, that my fears were unfounded. That a kiss, however improper, could not—” She stopped and drew a suffocating breath. “I was so sick with fear.”
The confession was complete, and there was nothing left to hide.
He remained unmoving, his gaze fixed somewhere between her and the door left ajar. She watched his throat work, his chest rise and fall with a breath he seemed to hold, his eyes closing for a moment before opening again.
He believed she had gone into the bedchamber with Wickham.
“I will accept whatever decision you make.” Her voice emerged as a whisper. “If you wish me to leave Pemberley, I will go quietly and make no claims on your fortune or your name. I will return to Longbourn and tell my family that the marriage was a mistake, that we did not suit, that—”
“Elizabeth.”
His voice was very soft. She raised her eyes to his—wet, she realized, though she had not felt the tears gather—and found him looking at her with an expression she had never seen before. Pain and tenderness warred in his features, his jaw tight but his eyes impossibly soft.
“There is nothing to forgive.”
The words did not make sense. She turned them over in her mind, searching for the catch, the condition, and the inevitable qualification that must surely follow.
“Elizabeth.” He took a step toward her, and then another, until he stood close enough that she could see the candlelight reflected in his eyes. “You have done me no wrong.”
Elizabeth shook her head, not in disagreement but in disbelief.
This was not how the scene was supposed to unfold.
He was supposed to be cold, or furious, or at the very least disappointed.
He was not supposed to stand before her offering absolution as though she had confessed to nothing more grievous than a minor social misstep.
“Of course,” she heard herself say, her voice thin and distant.
“A marriage of convenience requires no such considerations. You married me to care for Thomas, to manage your household, to present a respectable face to society. I understand my past does not disturb those arrangements. I understand if you no longer—”
“What if I still love you?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught; she blinked, incredulous. Her mind refused to accept what her ears had heard. She had poured out her shame, expecting censure, or at the very least, anger and displeasure.
But he had said, Love.
“You—” She could not finish the sentence. Could not find the words to ask what she needed to ask.
“I do.” He held her gaze, those liquid eyes beholding her like she was a treasure he did not know he had unearthed. “I will not press you for a declaration. I only ask you to consider that your confession changes nothing, as I am still your husband.”
“But I do not deserve—”
A wry smile ghosted his features. “Maybe not, but perhaps we stumbled into something we both deserve. Each other.”
He led her to the connecting door and cupped her face in his hands—gently, so gently, as though she were something precious and breakable—tilting it upward.
His thumbs brushed the dampness from her cheeks, his breath unsteady, his eyes searching.
Then he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there.
“Sleep, dear Elizabeth. Tomorrow, all will be clear.”
He released her and stepped back, his gaze still steady on hers, almost unbearable in its openness, waiting for her to close the door.
She did not know how long it took her to cross into her bedchamber, watching him wait for her answer, his face flickering in the candlelight.
What if I still love you? he had asked. And she felt it, the grace he had given her.
And the answer bubbled up as she closed the door. What if I do too?