Here it was—the moment she had simultaneously dreaded and anticipated since his arrival at Bellfield. Elizabeth sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, as Darcy rose and moved to sit beside her on the settee.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, “despite the unconventional nature of our acquaintance, I find myself deeply attached to you. Your presence has become essential to my happiness. I would be honored if you would consider becoming my wife.”
He clearly believed he was pressing an advantage, that he had championed her cause. Yet all she could hear beneath the words was the unspoken qualification:despite your past indiscretion, despite your fallen status, despite the child born out of wedlock.
“Mr. Darcy,” she began, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions within, “I find myself… amazed by your proposal.”
Hope flared briefly in his eyes before her tone registered. “Amazed? I had hoped for a more positive reaction.”
“How could I not be amazed?” Elizabeth continued, rising fromthe settee to put distance between them. “You offer marriage to a woman you believe compromised by another man. You propose to make my son—a child you believe illegitimate—your ward. Such… magnanimity… is indeed astonishing.”
Darcy rose as well, confusion evident in his expression. “Elizabeth, I assure you my offer stems not from magnanimity but from genuine attachment. Whatever circumstances led to your present situation?—”
“That is precisely the point, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth interrupted, her composure beginning to crack. “You speak of my ‘situation’ and ‘circumstances’ as if I have committed some transgression for which your proposal offers absolution.”
“I intended no such implication,” Darcy protested, though a flush of color rose to his cheeks that suggested otherwise.
“Did you not?” Elizabeth’s voice remained level, though her heart raced. “You speak of making William your ward—not your son, but yourward.You offer me marriage as if it were a generous concession rather than a mutual commitment between equals.”
“I merely wished to assure you that I understand the complexities of your position?—”
“My position,” Elizabeth repeated, her patience finally snapping. “And what position is that, precisely? A fallen woman? A ruined gentlewoman grateful for any respectable offer? Is that truly how you see me, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy appeared startled by her vehemence. “Elizabeth, I hold you in the highest esteem. Your strength of character?—”
“Did you ever consider,” she interrupted, “that a woman of character would not so casually abandon her principles? That perhaps your understanding of my situation might be fundamentally flawed?”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Darcy’s features. “If I have misunderstood?—”
“Did you truly believe me capable of such weakness with Mr. Collins? A man I have always held in contempt?” Elizabeth’s voiceshook slightly, though her gaze remained steady. “Or perhaps you imagined some militia officer turned my head? Either way, you believed me the sort of woman who would surrender her virtue outside the bonds of matrimony, then seek protection from a family of consequence.”
“I never?—”
“You did,” Elizabeth contradicted quietly. “What manner of woman do you imagine would accept the proposal you have just offered? What sort of creature would be grateful to discover herself the object of such charitable consideration?”
Darcy stood speechless, his expression a mixture of confusion and dawning comprehension. Elizabeth felt a curious lightness in her chest, as if each word released a burden she had carried far too long.
“I am not, nor have I ever been, in need of your charity, Mr. Darcy,” she said, reaching for the chain she wore beneath her dress. “What I required was your faith in my character.”
She drew forth the silver chain. The Darcy crest gleamed on the signet ring, the one she’d been carrying close to her heart for almost two years.
Darcy’s face went absolutely white. His lips moved soundlessly as he stared at the ring that had once graced his own finger, the symbol of his family’s heritage and his position as master of Pemberley.
“Where did you…” he whispered.
“This ring,” Elizabeth said with crystalline clarity, “was placed upon my finger by my husband on the third of December, 1811, at the Red Lion Inn in Barnet. I have worn it every day since, first as a wedding band, then upon this chain when my condition made wearing it impossible.”
The color drained from Darcy’s face as he stared at the ring, then at Elizabeth, then back to the ring. “Married?” he whispered. “We are… married?”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy. I am already your wife.” Elizabeth’s voiceremained steady, though her heart felt as if it might shatter. “William is not a ward to be taken in through charity, but your legitimate son and heir.”
Darcy sank slowly back onto the settee, his legs seemingly unable to support him. “William is my son,” he repeated, the words emerging as a statement rather than a question.
“He is,” Elizabeth confirmed. “William Fitzwilliam Darcy, named for his father and grandfather.”
“But why… why did you not tell me?” Darcy asked, his voice rough with emotion. “When I arrived at Bellfield, why keep such a truth from me?”
“Dr. Harrison advised against forcing memories that must return naturally,” Elizabeth explained, though the justification sounded hollow now that such misunderstandings arose. “Lady Eleanor believed that presenting you with such significant revelations too soon might cause a setback in your recovery.”
