“I’m not following,” said Mr. Darcy.
“I only meant that I thought that Richard and I must have something to live on and something for our children, if we ever had any children, but we won’t now, of course, so… none of it matters. I don’t actually need the money at all. I suppose I shall let it all go, then.”
“No, no, Lizzy, you are entitled—are you certain you and Richard won’t have children?”
She nodded. “Yes. He did not manage to get me with child before he left, and now he is gone, and now—” Her lower lip trembled.
Mr. Darcy’s nostrils flared. He tipped his glass back, finishing his drink.
She followed suit, and the strong, sweet mixture of the wine punch seemed to settle into her in such a way that made it all easier to bear.
“Perhaps…” Mr. Darcy looked her over. “Perhaps I should get us more drinks.”
“Please,” she said.
He returned with two each for them, and they made short work of them.
After that, she felt a bit like she was floating. She reached out to touch his arm to steady herself. “No more for me, I don’t think. I’m quite at my limit.”
“Oh, I apologize,” he said, shaking his head. “I should not have—”
“No, no, strong drink is just what I have needed,” she said. “Thank you.”
They surveyed each other.
“Well,” he said, “it will not be long until I take Georgiana back, for we were only to stay a short time. You may come in our carriage, if you wish.”
“I would appreciate that,” she breathed.
“I’ll make a show of having gotten the letter at breakfast,” he said. “You can react by running out of the room, and then I shall take care of it all. We’ll return to London—would you like to come with us to the Matlock household?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I would.”
He considered. “I shall take you to Weythorn, and I shall convince them to invite you. There will be a service in memory of him, and you must be there. You are his wife.”
“Do I need to be his wife?” she breathed. “If no one really knows, mightn’t I simply not be?”
He looked her over. “Is that what you wish?”
She wanted to cry again. “Oh, I should like another drink, perhaps.”
“No, you said you’d had enough,” he said.
She shook her head at him and went off, fighting her way as if the very air was heavy, looking for anything to drink at all.
He stopped her. “Let us go now,” he said to her. “We shall think of it all tomorrow.”
She turned to look at him. “Now, you and I, we could be togeth—”
“No.” He practically snarled the word. “Do not say such a thing, not while he is barely dead, Elizabeth, it’s unconscionable.”
She shrank from him, tears springing to her eyes at the force of his rebuke. She turned away and tried to flee.
He caught her arm, and he was apologizing, frantically apologizing, his words tripping over each other in his haste and vigor, so that she could barely even make out what he was saying. “It is my error, Lizzy. It has always been my error.”
She yanked her arm out of his grasp and spat at him, “Oh, Fitz, it cannot always be your error. Not everything is your fault.”
And then she did run.
