13. An Opening #2
“Why?” Her throat tightened, and she could only stare at him.
She had to find a flaw in him, an expectation, or a hidden demand.
After all, her father had asked what she would offer in exchange for altering the entail.
And she had to deflect him, but she could not think of a single clever thing to say.
“You are uncommonly silent,” Darcy observed. “I had not thought such a thing possible.”
Despite everything, she felt a small, reluctant laugh escape her. “You have rendered me speechless, Mr. Darcy. I hope you are satisfied.”
“I am not.” His gaze held hers, and the fear she had seen earlier was still there, running beneath the composure like a river beneath ice. “Because I have not yet told you everything, and I find I must, as I may not have another opportunity to speak plainly.”
Elizabeth forgot to breathe. The room contracted to the space between his voice and her silence, and she waited.
“I wish to marry you, Miss Elizabeth.”
Her hand trembled so violently that he steadied it between his own, as if to keep her from breaking apart.
He bent his head over her fingers and said, “This is not a proposal, and I would not presume to ask for your hand tonight. I lay this truth before you simply because it is wholly, unconditionally spoken.”
“But why, Mr. Darcy, would you want to marry me?”
“I believe, if you truly examine my character, you would see the man I strive to be. I will bar the entail whatever your answer is. I did not acquit myself in a manner that would allow you to accept my hand, but perhaps in removing all obligation and any expectations between our families, I might repair your opinion of me.”
“It is very noble of you.” She withdrew her hand, holding it rigidly at her side. “But it cannot erase the past. Indeed, you have behaved in the very manner that would prevent me from ever accepting—”
“Please, Miss Elizabeth, I am aware of my faults. I was disagreeable from the moment we met. I spoke without regard to the feelings of others, and I did injure you at the Meryton Assembly.”
“No, Mr. Darcy, you did not.” Elizabeth heard the quiver in her voice and hated it. “I was so unaffected that I found it humorous, and told anyone who would listen. I believe I turned the neighborhood against you before the assembly had even adjourned.”
A shadow moved behind his eyes—recognition or the pain of hearing confirmed what he had already suspected. “And that is partly why I advised the Bingleys to leave Netherfield Park.”
“Bingley?” Elizabeth said, her back straightening at the unexpected turn. “You advised him to leave?”
“I did.” Darcy’s gaze did not waver, though the effort it cost him showed in the stillness of his hands as he retreated to the chair across from her.
“A neighborhood that could attend a man’s ball, enjoy his hospitality, and yet be induced to resent his friend for a remark made in poor temper—I did not consider it a safe foundation for my friend’s happiness.
I feared that he might find himself the object of similar caprice should any perceived slight arise. ”
“You take upon yourself the responsibility of injuring my sister, and you cite our caprice as your justification?” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as the familiar fury surged.
“Did you consider what your advice would mean for my sister? How grievously she was distressed by his departure—without a word, without a farewell, without so much as a note to explain?”
Darcy’s expression slackened, blinking uncertainly. “I did not credit your sister with much affection for my friend. She smiled at him the same as she smiled at everyone. If she has been distressed excessively, then I was not aware of it, nor should I, as a gentleman, inquire overmuch.”
Elizabeth could only stare at him, astonished at his presumption in meddling with another man’s affections, recalling how Jane had faded after hope—so reasonable—was quietly extinguished.
“Jane does not display her feelings as openly as others,” Elizabeth said. “That does not mean they are less deeply felt.”
“No.” Darcy’s voice was low, contrite. “I begin to understand that now.”
“Then, Mr. Darcy, we are at perhaps an impasse.” She swallowed, her throat aching at holding back her spite, mixed with a heavy dose of regret. He would give them Longbourn, but she could never…
And he was still speaking, although haltingly, and she had never credited Darcy with hesitation.
“Miss Elizabeth. Should you ever… and I say this with no expectation… should you ever grant me reason to hope that my addresses would not be unwelcome, I will speak in proper form with your father’s blessing.
Until that hour, I ask nothing. The entail will be changed regardless.
Your family’s future is not contingent upon your feelings for me.
That is not negotiable, and it is not a condition. ”
The fire settled lower with a soft hiss.
The room was uncomfortably warm, or perhaps it was only Elizabeth who burned, melting inside like spent candlewax.
She looked at this man—this proud, difficult, infuriating man who had given her family their future, laid bare his heart, and yet revealed in the same breath that he had been responsible for her sister’s heartbreak—and she did not know how to hold all of it at once.
The searing gratitude and the righteous anger, the tender ache and the bitter hurt, the impossible warmth of I came for you colliding with the cold fact of Bingley’s desertion.
“That is perhaps the most generous thing anyone has ever offered my family,” she said, and felt the truth of it in her bones. “And, without a doubt, the most unsettling confession anyone has ever made to me.”
“I would not expect you to feel otherwise.” He held her gaze for one long, unguarded heartbeat.
Elizabeth saw in his eyes what his words had only circled—the depth of devotion he had concealed beneath improvement campaigns, estate management, and exposure to her boisterous family—and a knot in her chest gave way, a wall cracking, a door swinging on its hinges.
She was not ready for what lay behind it.
“May I speak with your father and Mr. Philips this evening?” he asked, and his voice was steady again, the composure resettled, though it fit less easily than before. “About the entail. If you are agreeable.”
Elizabeth nodded, for she did not trust her voice.
Darcy inclined his head—that grave, correct bow she had once despised and now felt like a hand pressed over her heart—and walked out of the parlor without looking back.
And Elizabeth felt the loss as she stared into the dying fire. Soon Jane would be the heir of Longbourn, and Darcy would vanish, just as she claimed to want. He had given her the desire of her heart, and she had given him nothing. He had not asked, and she had not answered.