She swept from the room, her exit punctuated by the slam of the door with such violence that the crystal chandelier overhead trembled, its drops chiming together in discordant protest.
Darcy stood frozen, his aunt’s words still ringing in his ears. Beside him, Fitzwilliam shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable but uncertain how to address it.
Movement caught Darcy’s attention. Anne had remained by the fire throughout Lady Catherine’s tirade, silent andunmoving. But now Darcy saw that she had gone pale, all colour draining from her face. Her hands trembled where they gripped the arms of her chair, knuckles white, and her breathing had turned shallow and rapid.
Darcy moved toward her instinctively, concern overriding the awkwardness. Whatever his aunt believed about obligations and family plans, he did not wish to see Anne distressed. He had known her since childhood, had always held her in affection even if he had never desired to marry her.
“Anne,” he said softly, approaching the fire. “I hope you are not too distressed by this news.”
He lowered himself into the chair beside her, studying her face. Her pallor had not improved, and her hands still gripped the chair arms with enough force that the wood creaked softly. But her expression had shifted from shock to something more complex, something that looked almost like internal struggle.
“I hope you are not disappointed,” Darcy said, pitching his voice low. “I know our families had expectations, but I trust you understand that I have never encouraged such hopes. You have always been dear to me as a cousin, but I could not offer you more than familial affection.”
Anne looked up at him, and something in her eyes made Darcy pause. She appeared to be wrestling with herself, some internal conflict playing across her features. Her lips parted as though to speak, closed again, then parted once more before words finally emerged.
“Why?” Anne asked, and her voice carried weight that transformed the simple question into something more significant. “Why did you propose to Elizabeth Bennet?”
The question caught Darcy off guard. He had expected protestations about duty or family obligation. But this direct inquiry into his motivations felt more personal, more genuinely curious than reproachful.
“Because I love her,” Darcy said simply, and the words emerged with such conviction that he felt their truth resonate in his chest. “Because when I am in her presence, I cannot look away. Cannot think of anything beyond the desire to hear what she will say next, to see how her face will change when she speaks.”
He leaned forward slightly, warming to his subject despite the awkwardness. “Her wit. The way she challenges everything I say, refuses to be impressed by rank or fortune, treats me as simply a man rather than the master of Pemberley. She sees through pretension with startling clarity and will not tolerate pomposity from anyone, least of all from me. When I speak with her, I must be my best self because she will accept nothing less.”
Anne’s expression had gone strange, something painful flickering across her face. But Darcy was too caught up in his explanation to properly register her distress.
“She is everything I did not know I needed,” Darcy said, his smile softening. “Everything I did not realise I was searching for until I found it. Her spirit, her independence, her refusal to compromise her principles for convenience. She walked miles through mud to reach her sister’s sickbed at Netherfield, arrived with her petticoats six inches deep in dirt and her face glowing from exertion, and she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”
The memory rose in his mind with perfect clarity. Elizabeth standing in Netherfield’s entrance hall, slightly breathless, her eyes bright with concern for Jane. Caroline Bingley had been scandalised, but Darcy had seen only devotion and determination.
“I knew then,” Darcy continued, his voice dropping lower. “Watching her tend to Miss Bennet with such devoted care, seeing how she would sacrifice propriety and comfort for those she loved, I knew that the love of this woman would trulybe worth winning. That if I could secure her affection, her regard, her hand in marriage, I would have gained something more valuable than all the advantageous matches society might approve.”
He looked at Anne, hoping she might understand. “I do not expect you to be happy about my choice, but I hope you can understand why I made it. Why I could not marry you or anyone else when my heart had already chosen Elizabeth.”
Anne’s face had been changing throughout his speech, her expression cycling through emotions Darcy could not quite identify. Now her features crumpled entirely, contorting with what looked like genuine anguish. She drew a shuddering breath, and when she spoke, her voice emerged raw with feeling.
“Elizabeth Bennet does not love you,” Anne said, and each word fell between them like a stone into still water. “You will be the one who is unhappy and disappointed if you go through with this marriage.”
The statement struck Darcy with physical force, stealing the breath from his lungs. He stared at Anne, at her face now twisted with what might have been pity, and felt the warmth that had been building in his chest transform into ice.
“What?” Darcy managed, though the word emerged barely above a whisper.
“She does not love you,” Anne repeated, and this time her voice carried a terrible certainty. “Whatever her reasons for accepting your proposal, genuine affection is not among them.”
Darcy rose from his chair with movements that felt mechanical. His footsteps carried him toward the door without conscious decision, his boots striking the floor with echoes that seemed unnaturally loud.
He had not thought Anne would react this way. Had assumed she had long accepted that they would never marry.She is jealous, he tried to tell himself,lashing out in her pain. Butthis did not seem the jealousy of a rejected woman. This was something else entirely. A warning delivered with apparent sincerity by someone who seemed to know things about Elizabeth that Darcy himself had failed to recognise.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt thunderous in his ears. Darcy stood in the hallway beyond, one hand still resting on the door handle, and felt the full weight of doubt settle over him like a shroud.
Chapter Eighteen
Elizabethsatquietlybesidethe fire, her shallow breaths barely stirring the air around her. Mrs. Jenkinson sat close by with her eternal needlework, her attention apparently fixed on the delicate stitches forming beneath her fingers. But Elizabeth had learned these past days that the companion’s focus was never as complete as it appeared. The woman possessed an uncanny awareness of her charge’s movements, could sense restlessness or intention with the skill of someone who had spent decades monitoring a fragile invalid’s every breath.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the French doors, casting long rectangles across the carpet. Beyond the glass, Elizabeth could see the path she needed to take visible as a gap between the trees at the far side of the expansive lawns. Jane was there. So close. Close enough that Elizabeth could have walkedthe distance in her own body without particular effort. But in Anne’s failing form, the journey loomed like an expedition to some distant country.
Lady Catherine had retreated to her private chambers after the dramatic confrontation about Darcy’s engagement, leaving the drawing room mercifully free of her overwhelming presence. Only Mrs. Jenkinson remained, a silent guardian who had said nothing about the day’s events but whose posture suggested disapproval of something. Whether she disapproved of Darcy’s choice or Anne’s apparent acceptance of it, Elizabeth could not determine.
A servant entered through the main door, approaching Mrs. Jenkinson with quiet deference. “Excuse me, ma’am. Cook wishes to consult with you about Miss de Bourgh’s dinner tray. She asks if you might come to the kitchen.”
