Jane’s despairing words were ingrained in memory. “‘Lizzy will attempt to take over the running of Longbourn within a fortnight’ she sobbed. ‘Soon I will be mistress inname only. She will not eventryto get along with Fanny; she cannot abide a new mistress of Stoke, and she seeks to rule my home instead. She hates that Fanny has been able to have children when she has not, and soon she will resent me for all the same reasons.’”
Mr Darcy’s voice was calm and grave. “How did her husband respond to such wild and absurd accusations?”
“He offered to race after my carriage and withdraw my welcome immediately.”
“Mr Collins has never impressed me as being particularly sensible.”
“No. But he adores his wife, and would do anything to please her. I was so dumbfounded; it was a few moments before my shock released me. Of course, as soon as I had command of my tongue, I interrupted. I told them that I had returned because I changed my mind and that I would remain at Stoke. I apologised for intruding upon a private moment, and departed with whatever dignity I could muster. I never did reclaim that stupid shawl.” She gave a laugh that was only halfway to a sob.
Mr Darcy drew her against him then, holding her against his solid frame. For a moment Elizabeth stiffened in his arms, but only a moment. The feelings from the day before cascaded into her heart once again; the release of it—of having someone to lean against, to share this burden—was exquisite. As she allowed him to take her weight, it also seemed he took some of her remembered shock and dismay, and she was able to continue without bursting into pitiful tears. “Of course, now I realise that Fanny had been cultivating Jane’s friendship for a long while and filling her head with this sort of nonsense, but at the time—I was…unprepared. And disappointed.”
The words were an understatement for the utter loss and betrayal of that moment, but she had already decided to forge ahead to forgiveness, and did her best to keep her composure.
“It was abominable,” he said harshly, although his hold upon her shoulders remained gentle. “She must know your character better than she knows Fanny Ashwood.”
“I blame her delicate condition at the time,” Elizabeth answered immediately. “She was…unusually emotional. It is also true that Longbourn’s servants once turned to me, rather than her, whenever my mother’s nerves and my father’s indifference caused problems. I suppose she cannot be blamed for her fears. You must understand that Jane is very accepting of others—she would never be able to see through someone as manipulative as Fanny, or to seriously believe a person could possess cruel or autocratic motives.”
He made a noise that sounded very like a snort. “Except when it came to her own sister.”
She flinched. He must have felt it.
“I apologise,” he said immediately. “As I told you, my own sister is furious with me right now. Perhaps it is natural to hold our own nearest relations to a different standard than we would our neighbours. You said you have been angry at her, but now it seems you are less so. What has changed?”
It was a temptation to lean back more fully into him, but she resisted—trying to instead draw her wandering mind back to a resentment she no longer really felt towards Jane, and would not encourage if she did. “I am not quite sure,” she answered pensively. “Spring came, as it always does, and then the summer roses bloomed. The skies were more blue than grey. It became…tiring to dwell upon what I could not change. Fanny tells anyone who will listen that I live in the dower house because I am pig-headed, and because I hate her so much that I would rather live under its damaged roof than share a house with the new mistress of Stoke. She says I attempt to make her appear mean and grasping, while only proving my own silly stubbornness.”
Elizabeth turned to face him; his grip permitted the movement, but he did not let go, and she still did not protest his hold. She found herself wanting him to understand what she did not really understand herself, meeting his solemn, dark-eyed gaze; in return, he gave her his utter and complete attention. There was something enthralling about the quality of it, some part of her that responded to his notice like a morning glory to dawn’s sunrise.
“Gradually I came to recognise that Fanny was notentirelywrong. The Ashwoodsaregreedy—they would leave me impoverished, were I to put myself in their power. But my uncle Gardinerwouldwelcome me into his home—pride and anger, and ‘silly stubbornness’, are my only excuses for refusal.”
“Your anger has been justified,” Mr Darcy replied, but she shook her head.
“What good does it do? How does it hurt Fanny for me to nurse it?”
“I do not say it is wise to dwell upon it, only that you cannot be blamed for feeling it in the first place. My own nature is a resentful one—when I am wronged, I do not forget easily. In this case, I would require a good deal longer than you have taken to grow past it. I honour you for it.”
Blushing, she forced herself to return to his original question. “It was about the time of that realisation, on one of my uncle’s visits, that he told me of his latest ‘varying venture’. He swore to me that if this investment succeeded, I mustallow him to pay to mend the dower house roof and he would no longer take ‘no’ for an answer. I could not allow it—after all, the property is only mine for my lifetime, and the expense could be of no possible benefit to him. In that moment, I longed for only one thing—enough money to be free, free to live my life as I longed to live it. I countered his generous offer: I promised to leave the house entirely, if I could join him in the investment and it was successful—else move to his home in Gracechurch Street if it was not. At the time, it seemed like a compromise. I argued that if—when—the venture paid off, he no longer need invest in a house so ramshackle and which, truly, belonged to neither of us, while I would be well on the way to independence. He did not like me to invest, but he was willing to do anything to get me out of that house, and, as Fanny has long maintained, I am obstinate.” She gave him a look under her lashes, to see whether he was realising how large was this character flaw she possessed; his expression remained impassive. She resisted the urge to turn back to the window.
“It has been six months, more than enough time for the ship to return to port. My uncle has mostly given up hope, he has informed me. If the investment is truly failed, I must take it as a sign that I, too, ought to surrender hope and pride, and accept the benevolence and charity of my relations in town.”
“You do not wish to live with them?”
“They are wonderful people. I am certain I could accustom myself to a life in Cheapside, rather than the country.”
“You wish your independence more.” His expression had grown stoic.
Only yesterday she would have agreed heartily, but shefound herself hesitating. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply too stubborn to easily accept defeat.”
He placed his ungloved hand upon her cheek. It felt rougher than a gentleman’s hand seemed usually to be. “You have been fighting for a long while, Elizabeth—perhaps since before your marriage, when the extent of your father’s illness became clear. You fought your own will, in obedience to a parent’s strictures. You fought to find some semblance of happiness in an unhappy marriage. You fought to keep your husband alive, and when he died, to thwart those who would remove your small freedoms. You fight, now, to assist your sister, even though she has never fought for you in return. But Elizabeth, you need never fight me. If you say no, it means no. I will always be your friend, no matter what answer you give.”
17
MORE THAN A KISS
Darcy felt the softness of the skin beneath his fingertips, and set his mind to restraining the rest of what he wished to say to her, what he wished to hear in reply. This was a woman who would be worth every single difficulty that would arise from announcing his marriage. If he were able to earn her loyalty, she would never become one of those selfish, spoiled creatures whose only interests were gossip and fashion.
“I have never before contemplated remarriage—my first experience was not one I ever considered repeating,” she said, a hesitancy in her words that bordered on fear.
He knew he must be careful now; he must show her how he felt without overwhelming or pushing. It was not precisely dishonourable, was it—to attempt to replace her well-earned dread with an intoxicating affection?
