Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
He was going to be found guilty.
He would lose his reputation.
He would lose his lands.
He would lose Georgiana.
He would lose Elizabeth.
He would lose his life.
He was going to be hanged.
He was going to be hanged, and nothing could be done to save him.
He was going to be sick.
No, he could not be weak. Not in front of all of these people.
Oh! To be in the woods again with Elizabeth, breathing clean air, her hand in his, away from judgement and fear.
He closed his eyes, picturing the green surrounding them and the light dappling her hair.
Her yellow dress would be gleaming, her smile calm.
He would be free to touch her cheek. Kiss her neck. Feel her warmth against him.
“Ale or something stronger?” interrupted Goulding.
Darcy, keeping his eyes closed, said, “As you wish.”
“Darcy?” Elizabeth had leaned close and he felt her breath tickling his cheek.
It took all his strength not to grab hold of her and run, run where no one could find them.
Not the law or her family or expectation.
He had houses, large estates dotting the country and beyond.
They could hide, moving from one to the other, evading capture indefinitely.
Yet what kind of life would that be for Elizabeth?
Or for the children he hoped to have with her.
Children. Yes, he wanted children. He wished to wake in the morning and see her lying next to him, to take breakfast together, to attend balls or any wretched social commitments with her at his side telling him to smile and to try to be cheery. He nearly laughed at the thought of it.
He opened his eyes and took in her worried face. He would need to be strong for her, no matter the outcome. Resting a hand on hers, he forced a smile into the corners of his mouth and said, “What shall we eat, my dear? A stew or a meat pie?”
She blinked a few times and said she had no stomach for more than cheese and bread, and though he had no stomach for anything, he asked for stew. If he was hauled off to prison, a full belly might be wise, for who knew what meal he might be offered next?
Goulding asked, “Did I ever tell you about my time in Bath?” As he launched into a diverting story that had Elizabeth smiling at last, Darcy marvelled at Goulding’s ability to turn any encounter into an engaging tale, but more, to know when such a story was required.
Darcy could not smile, but he did manage to follow the conversation.
After his ale and half a bowl of stew, for he could not compel himself to consume any more, he was aware that some in the dining room stared at him.
He was accustomed to being stared at during balls and assemblies—especially those in smaller locales such as Meryton—due to his wealth and power, and while he had always hated the stares, it felt different when he was an accused murderer.
Should he be acquitted, would people still stare and wonder if, indeed, he had killed another man?
It would be more incentive to quit this place, though he knew Elizabeth would forever be drawn back to her family and their lands.
Unless they lost them to the entailment.
He wondered if he might purchase it back for them if Mrs Collins did not have a boy.
He would need to speak with his solicitor to explore the possibility.
If not, he would be sure to make other arrangements for the Bennets’ wellbeing and security before he was executed. If he was executed.
A call went up asking for all involved in the inquest to return.
Eyes around the room fell on Darcy. He resisted the urge to look away, but nodded to all, took Elizabeth’s hand, and walked with as much dignity as he could muster.