“I will speak soon,” he said quietly, “but not yet. You have endured enough in the past days, and I will not have you think my intentions are born of desperation or gratitude for your safety alone. When I ask, it will be because the moment is right—for both of us.”
Elizabeth chuckled softly, her fingers curling around his. “Then I will look forward to it, Mr. Darcy.”
His answering smile was small but certain. “Soon, Elizabeth. Very soon.”
Two Weeks Later
Elizabeth
The fortnight that followed Malcolm Bennet’s arrest passed in a blur of visitors, speculation, and endless retellings of the events at Longbourn. Meryton society, always eager for novelty, had seized upon the story with fervor, and no afternoon passed without the front hall echoing to the sound of new arrivals.
Mrs. Bennet, to Elizabeth’s mingled amusement and weariness, positively bloomed beneath the attention. She presided over her drawing room like a reigning duchess, accepting condolences for her “terrible ordeal” with solemn nods before launching into vivid, and often embroidered, accounts of her near encounter with the intruder. Elizabeth had learned to sit beside her mother with a polite smile, offering the occasional confirmation or correction, and silently counting the minutes until their visitors departed.
She could not recall how many times she had been obliged to recount her own abduction—howshe had been taken through the passages, the dim room where she had been kept, the moment Darcy had burst through the door. The details had begun to feel rehearsed, like lines in a play, stripped of the raw immediacy they had carried on the night itself.
By the time the latest round of guests had been seen to their carriages, Elizabeth’s patience was worn thin. She slipped away before her mother could summon her again and made her way down the familiar corridor to her father’s study. The air there was cooler, quieter, carrying only the faint scent of old paper and pipe tobacco.
She hesitated at the door when she saw her Uncle Phillips rising from a chair opposite her father’s desk, a folder of papers tucked under his arm. The solicitor bowed to her politely as he passed. “Good day, Lizzy,” he said warmly, then took his leave.
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, watching her with a look of quiet satisfaction. “Well, Lizzy,” he said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, “it appears our cousin’s unexpected demise has had one positive consequence.”
Elizabeth crossed to the hearthrug, curiosity stirring. “And what consequence is that?”
“The entail,” he replied simply. “It is dissolved.”
Her brows rose. “Dissolved?”
He nodded. “You know that the entail, drawn up in your grandfather’s time, was intended to keep Longbourn in the male line for three generations. With Mr. Collins dead and no legitimate male Bennet in the line, the property reverts to me without restriction. It means,” he added with a faint smile, “that I may will it to whomever I please.”
Elizabeth blinked, absorbing the weight of the words. Entails—those iron chains binding estates to a particular line—were notoriously difficult to undo. “I thought such settlements could not be broken,” she said slowly.
“In most cases, they cannot,” her father agreed. “But this one was unusually narrow in its terms, designed in haste after that scoundrel Malcolm Bennet the First set fire to the house and fled. It bound Longbourn for three generations only, provided there was a legitimate male heir to take it. Your cousin’s death and our unwelcome guest’s illegitimacy,”—he gave the word a dry twist—“leave me free of it entirely.”
“And you mean to…?” she prompted.
“Leave it to Jane,” he said without hesitation. “I had considered naming you, Lizzy, but you will one day have an estate through Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s color warmed. “Mr. Darcy has not spoken.”
Her father’s eyes twinkled. “No, but I have no doubt he will. And if Jane inherits, Bingley need not throw his fortune intopurchasing an estate of his own. It will all be quite tidy.”
Elizabeth considered this and nodded slowly. “That does make sense. Though it is, of course, your choice.”
“It is,” he agreed mildly. “And the particulars can be sorted out later. For now—“
A gentle rap came at the door, interrupting them, and Mrs. Hill’s familiar, motherly face appeared around the edge. “Miss Elizabeth,” she said, her tone tinged with the faintest smile, “Mr. Darcy is calling for you.”
Elizabeth felt her heart give a curious leap, and her father’s knowing look followed her as she rose.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around the folds of her cloak as she stepped into the front hall. Darcy was waiting there, tall and striking in his dark greatcoat, a hint of wind-ruffled hair lending him a slightly less formal air than usual. The faint December sunlight slanted in from the fanlight above the door, touching the edges of hisprofile with pale gold.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing with perfect composure, though there was a certain gravity in his eyes—a quiet urgency that made her pulse quicken.
“Mr. Darcy,” she returned, inclining her head. From behind the closed doors of the drawing room came the muffled sound of her mother’s voice, raised in animated conversation with some visiting neighbor. “Would you—“ She hesitated, lowering her voice. “Would you care to take a turn in the garden? It is brisk, but the sun is out, and…” She allowed herself a small, wry smile. “It is quieter.”
A fleeting smile softened his features. “I should be most glad to.”
They stepped out into the chill brightness of the late morning. The gravel crunched crisply beneath their boots as they set off down the wide front path, their breath puffing faintly in the cold. The sky was a pale, washed blue, streaked with high feathery clouds, and the air smelled of damp leaves, cold earth, and the distant, lingering smoke from some neighbor’s hearth.
