"I have never been more serious in my life." His hands clenched at his sides, the only visible sign of the fury coursing through him. "You came into my home, told malicious lies to my wife, and drove her to flee in tears. You are not welcome here."
"How dare you speak to me in such a manner!” She retorted, her face mottling with anger. “I am your aunt, your mother's sister. I have every right to concern myself with your welfare.”
"You have mistaken cruelty for concern. And stepped out of bounds.”
"She is beneath you—"
"She is my wife." The words rang through the room with absolute finality. "She is the woman I love and chose to marry, the woman I would choose again given the opportunity. And you insulted her grievously."
“But surely, you cannot mean to cast me out over this. I am your family!”
“If you cannot treat Elizabeth with the respect and courtesy she deserves as mistress of Pemberley, then you are not welcome in my home."
“You would choose her over your own blood? A nobody from Hertfordshire with no connections or fortune?"
"Yes,” he said firmly. “I would choose her over anyone. I have chosen her. And I will continue to choose her for the rest of my life."
Silence fell, heavy and oppressive. Lady Catherine stared at him as though seeing a stranger, her expression a mixture of shock and anger.
"You are making a grave mistake," she said finally, her voice cold and formal. "When you come to your senses—when you realise what that creature truly is—do not expect me to welcome you back with open arms."
"I am not asking you to." Darcy held her gaze. "I am asking you to leave. Now."
For a long moment, Lady Catherine did not move. Then, with a stiff nod, she gathered her dignity around herself like armour and swept towards the entrance hall. "This is not finished, Darcy. You may believe yourself in love now, but time will reveal the truth. And when it does—"
"Mr Darcy!"
A young maid burst into the entrance hall, her face flushed, and her breathing laboured. She came to a halt at the sight of both Darcy and Lady Catherine, bobbing a hasty curtsy.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but—" She struggled to catch her breath. "Mrs Darcy—she's leaving Pemberley!"
The words were incomprehensible to Darcy at first, but gradually they began to make sense. "What do you mean, leaving?"
"She was crying something terrible, sir. I heard her calling for the carriage.” The girl twisted her apron in obviousdistress. “She didn't request to have a trunk packed or anything of the sort. When a footman stopped her to enquire if anything was wrong, she responded that she was returning to Hertfordshire. She'll be leaving anytime now.”
Darcy had already begun moving, pushing past his aunt without a word. As he moved swiftly out the door, his mind whirled with what seemed like a thousand buzzing thoughts. Elizabeth was leaving. She had believed whatever nonsense his aunt had said to her.
He had to stop her and ensure that she understood that he would never hurt or abandon her. Had to have her back in his arms before she ran from him completely.
Behind him, he was vaguely aware of Lady Catherine calling something—a warning or a condemnation, he neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was reaching Elizabeth, finding the words to undo the damage his aunt had inflicted, proving to his wife that everything Lady Catherine had told her was a lie.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The carriage lurched into motion, wheels crunching against the gravel drive. Elizabeth pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, stifling the sobs that threatened to break free. Through the window, she caught one final glimpse of Mrs Reynolds standing at the entrance, her weathered face creased with confusion and sorrow.
"Are you certain about this, Mrs Darcy?" the housekeeper had asked just moments earlier, her voice gentle but insistent. "Mr Darcy will be beside himself when he discovers you have gone. Perhaps if you would only wait, speak with him—"
"I cannot." Elizabeth's reply had emerged broken, barely intelligible through her tears. "Please, Mrs Reynolds. I must go now, before—before I lose my courage entirely."
The older woman had embraced her then, an act of care that made leaving more difficult. "You will always have a home here. Remember that."
Now, as Pemberley receded behind her, Elizabeth let the tears flow freely. She would miss this place—the elegant rooms that had begun to feel familiar, the beautiful grounds she had started to explore, the servants who had welcomed her with open arms despite her humble origins. She would miss the library with its thousands of volumes, the music room where she had played for Fitzwilliam and the breakfast room where they had shared so many quiet mornings together.
Most of all, she would miss him. Her husband. The man who had shown her such kindness and care. The manshe had foolishly allowed herself to love, only to discover that his affection had been nothing more than an unpleasant task he had to see through to the end. Lady Catherine's words echoed in her mind with brutal clarity:He knows what you did, and he will never truly trust you again. He is simply maintaining appearances until he can extricate himself from this unfortunate situation.
She pressed her eyes shut, trying to block out the images that tormented her. Fitzwilliam's smile that morning when she had joined him in his study. The tenderness in his touch when he had held her face and spoken of love.
Had it all been a performance? She wanted to believe otherwise and to cling to the hope that what they had built together was real. But Lady Catherine's accusations had struck too close to her own deepest fears. Why would Fitzwilliam truly want her? A woman with no fortune, no connections, no accomplishments beyond a sharp tongue and an unfortunate tendency towards impertinence?
