“Thank you, Uncle,” Darcy said, his voice carrying genuine appreciation. “Your counsel has been invaluable, as always.”
Lord Matlock smiled, the expression transforming his rather stern features. “That is what family is for, nephew. To help navigate difficult waters.” He moved towards the door. “Now go. Rest. You have had an extraordinarily trying day. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but they can wait until you have recovered your strength.”
The blue guest room felt different when they returned to it. Elizabeth moved to the window without conscious decision, drawn by the view of London beyond the glass. Twilight had settled over the city while they were in the library, street lamps beginning to glow.
Darcy remained near the door for a moment, giving her space, before following to stand beside her at the window. Not too close, but near enough that she could feel his presence as a comforting warmth.
“I think Lord Matlock’s solution is a good one,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Time will help. And a proper ceremony at Longbourn, with my father and Jane and all the familiar faces of Meryton watching, will make it feel more real. More like something I chose.”
“I am glad,” Darcy replied, relief evident. “Three weeks should allow you to settle your feelings, to prepare yourself for the changes ahead. And it will give our families time to adjust as well. Your mother will appreciate the opportunity to plan a proper celebration, I expect.”
Elizabeth felt a smile tug at her lips despite everything. Mrs. Bennet would be in transports, would throw herself into preparations with enthusiasm that would probably drive the entire household to distraction.
“She will be impossible,” Elizabeth agreed, warmth in her voice. “But yes, she will appreciate it. And my father...” She paused, thinking of Mr. Bennet’s expression earlier. “He suspected something was wrong today. Did not know what, but sensed that the woman he was giving away was not quite his Lizzy. A second ceremony will give him the opportunity to actually give me away properly.”
Darcy’s hand lifted slightly, as though he wanted to touch her shoulder but thought better of it. “Until then, you will be treated as mistress of my home without any demands placed upon you. I want to be very clear about that, Elizabeth. I will not press for intimacy you are not ready to grant. Your comfort and peace of mind matter more to me than my own desires.”
The frankness of the statement made Elizabeth’s cheeks warm, though she appreciated his directness.
“What does that mean, practically?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the window. “How will we arrange things?”
“Separate bedchambers,” Darcy replied immediately, his tone businesslike. “My townhouse has a mistress’s suite adjacent to the master’s chambers, connected by a door that shall remain locked until you decide otherwise. You will have complete authority over all household matters. The housekeeper will answer to you. All decisions about menus and guest lists, these will be yours to make.”
Elizabeth felt her heart squeeze with sympathy for this proud man who was trying so hard to meet her needs.
“I already like Georgiana,” Elizabeth said, shifting the conversation to safer ground. “She seemed sweet when I met her, though too shy to speak much. I look forward to knowing her better.”
Darcy’s face transformed at the mention of his sister, warmth flooding his features. “She will love having you at Pemberley. She has been lonely, I think, with only me for company. You willbring liveliness to our home, remind Georgiana that there is joy to be found in the world.”
“I will try,” Elizabeth promised, meaning it sincerely.
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching darkness settle more completely over London.
“When should we travel to Longbourn?” Elizabeth asked. “I will need to speak with my father about having the banns called, since Sunday is only two days away now.”
“Tomorrow, if you feel well enough,” Darcy suggested. “Or we can wait longer, if you need more time to recover. There is no rush; the banns could wait another week, too.”
Elizabeth considered the options. “Tomorrow,” she decided. “I want to go home. Want to see familiar faces and familiar rooms. Then the first banns could be called the day after.”
“Then tomorrow it is,” Darcy agreed. “I will make arrangements with the stables to have the carriage ready.”
They remained at the window, watching twilight deepen into true night. Their hands rested on the windowsill, so close that Elizabeth could feel warmth radiating from his skin though actual contact remained absent. It would take only the smallest movement to close that gap, to let their fingers brush in a gesture that would mean nothing and everything simultaneously.
Elizabeth did not move. Not yet. But she thought perhaps she might, eventually. Thought that given time and patience and continued honesty between them, she might learn to reach for him without hesitation. Might discover that the foundation they were building could support something real and lasting.
The future remained uncertain, full of complications they had barely begun to address. But standing here beside Darcy, with London settling into evening around them and tentative hope stirring in her chest, Elizabeth thought perhaps uncertainty was not such a terrible thing after all. Perhaps it was simply space forpossibility, room for something unexpected and genuine to grow from the strangest of beginnings.
She let her hand shift slightly on the windowsill, closing half the distance between them. Not quite touching, but closer than before. An offering, or perhaps a promise. Time would tell which.
Chapter Thirty
Everythingwaswrong.Anneknew this before she opened her eyes properly, before full consciousness returned with its crushing weight. Her lungs felt like they were wrapped in wet cloth, each breath requiring conscious effort, each inhalation bringing less air than her body needed.
No.
The denial formed without words, a primal rejection of what her senses were reporting. Anne tried to lift her hand and found it trembling, the fingers thin as twigs and just as fragile. She knew these hands. Had lived with them for years of slowly increasing weakness, watching them grow more transparent with each passing season until the veins showed blue-green beneath skin like tissue paper. These were her hands, her cursed, failing hands, and they should not exist anymore because shehad escaped this body, had traded it for something better, something strong and whole.
But Elizabeth Bennet had stolen it back.
