They walked in silence until they were well beyond hearing of the others. She stopped and looked at him directly. Her eyes were large and stricken.
“Is Collins still troubling you? Has he been to Netherfield while I was away?”
Elizabeth’s lashes fluttered, and she looked startled. “No, sir. This has nothing to do with Mr. Collins. This is much worse.”
“Worse than Collins? How can that be?”
“It is Miss Bingley.”
He exhaled, his shoulders easing.
“When I came down from my room to meet you, she stopped me in the hall and threatened to expose us. She said she would tell all her London friends that I entrapped you. Your name will become a byword. She will drag you through the gutter.”
She held his gaze, trying to read his face, to know his thoughts, but when he remained silent, her eyes fell to the ground. She worried a dandelion with the toe of her slipper and waited for his anger, but it did not come. Gathering her courage, she raised her eyes again.
“Sir, it is still not too late for you to cry off. Mr. Bingley nearly fainted when I told him of her threat. He says it will be impossible to keep Caroline from exposing us, short of confining her.” She arched a brow. “I imagine her confinement would be of long duration, for she cannot practice restraint, even to save herself.”
Darcy watched Elizabeth’s face closely, trying to read her expressive eyes. She was a desirable woman, and she held his heart. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone or anything, yet she was urging him to withdraw. Was this her way of freeing herself from him? Had she decided against him in the short week he had been away?
He pushed the thought aside and rubbed his eyes as if to banish it. When he looked again, she was still watching him, her dark lashes trembling. Were her eyes pleading? Was she afraid he would cry off? Was she only trying to protect him from herself and from the humiliation Caroline threatened to bring?
He took her hands in his. She did not pull away.
“Elizabeth, what do you want me to do?”
“I do not understand what you are asking, sir. Do you mean, what do I want you to do about that harpy, or are you asking if I want you to cry off?”
“Both,” he said quietly.
She lowered her gaze. “I do not know if anything can be done about Caroline. Even if Mr. Bingley sent her to Canada, she could still write to her friends. And she would have all the more reason to, after such an exile. I have no idea what to advise you. As for the other…” She looked up, her eyes troubled. “I do not wish for you to cry off, sir, but I would understand if you did. I would not judge you meanly or think you a jilt, for you have much to lose. Your uncle is an earl, you are wealthy, and you move in the highest circles. Your sister will be out soon, and you must find her a suitable match. You have very much to lose, and in light of that, the only kind thing I can do is offer to release you.”
He lifted her hands and pressed them to his lips. “But you do not wish to be released?”
“No, sir.” Her expression was grave. “I am selfish, though you face ruin, and though it may harm your sister’s prospects. I have already set my heart on our marriage and am hopeful that, if we both work at it, we might be happy someday.”
“Someday? Not now?”
“I do not know you yet, sir. I do not know if I shall be happy living with you. Perhaps you will continue to insult my appearance and family before your friends, or perhaps you will find me vulgar and turn away from me in disgust.”
He asked softly, “Is that what happened to your parents?”
She did not respond. As he watched her, he realized she was weeping.
“Elizabeth, are you afraid I will repent of this marriage because of some fault in you?”
She nodded in agreement and sniffed. Releasing his hands, she reached into her sleeve and drew out a handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes and blew her nose as delicately as she could.
Without looking at him, she said, “I was already at a great disadvantage, being from a circle far below your own, with connections in trade, and a vulgar mother. But now, if rumors of entrapment surround us, I cannot help believing you will come to despise me.”
It was too much. She turned from him, buried her face in her handkerchief, and began to sob in earnest.
He said nothing. His silence felt like judgment, and she fell into despair. He must be repenting of the attachment. He would cry off. She must compose herself. How humiliating to weep before him like a spurned woman.
Some of this pain, she knew, was old. It had been buried for years, the pain she had felt when Nicholas left for university, never to return. He had been kind. He said he loved her still, but the fact remained, he needed a wealthy wife, and she had no dowry. She had understood, but the wound had remained. Now that old pain broke free, and was coupled with this fresh injury. She was losing her dream, and the man she thought of as a modern-day hero, the man who cared for all who depended upon him. He did not love her. She was not among those he cherished.
She struggled to compose herself, and finally, managed it. She would grieve later. For now, she must be strong. She dried her cheeks and lifted her eyes.
Mr. Darcy stood before her, his dark eyes searching, and he looked pained.
