Page 62 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

He reached up to press one hand over his eyes, the other fisted briefly against his chest—a performance, she thought, and then immediately felt guilty for thinking it. Perhaps he was genuine. Perhaps she was simply too guarded to receive sincerity when it presented itself. After a moment, he lowered his hands and shook his head, a dry laugh escaping his lips. “The thing is, I knew you would refuse me. My mind told me it was presumptuous to make an offer before the reading of the will, to reveal confidences I ought not possess.” He tilted his head, his expression sheepish, disarming. “Pray, if you will not accept my premature proposal, will you at least accept my apology?”

“Of course,” she said, rising to her feet. There being nothing further to discuss with him, she walked to the door. It was time to join the others and face their disappointment. The sooner the better. She did not relish the task. What would she tell them?

Clasping her hands together, she walked down the hall and into the drawing room. It fell silent. Embroidery hoops, music sheets, and fashion magazines were lowered. Every eye moved from Elizabeth to the space behind her where Mr. Wickham had materialized, and then back to Elizabeth again. Mr. Wickham stepped past her into the room and addressed her father with a pleasant unhurried smile. “Miss Elizabeth has done me the honor of considering my proposal.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. She felt the words land on the room like a stone dropped into still water—technically true, carefully chosen, and entirely misleading. It was neatly done. She could not contradict him without humiliating him publicly or making herself the direct target of her family’s displeasure. She pressed her lips together and said nothing, grateful only that Robbie was not among those present to hear it. Where was he?

“It is my hope,” Mr. Wickham continued pleasantly, “that, given time, she may look upon my suit more favorably.”

Kitty gasped. Not to be outdone, Lydia gasped louder. Mama made a sound that defied description but was in no way pleasant. Jane’s hand stilled over her embroidery for a moment before she resumed stabbing her linen with focused precision, her mouth a thin, unhappy line. Papa saw Mr. Wickham to the door with every appearance of warmth, her mother fluttering at his elbow. Their guest was handed out of the house in a cloud of reassurance and friendship. Elizabeth stood still, contemplating whether to remain standing or to sit for the incoming storm.

The first crash of thunder broke the moment her mother returned to the room. “After all of the sacrifices we have made for you, Lizzy—” she began, collapsing into her chair and fanning her face. “I have not seen my brother and his family since the arrangement was made. Dear, sweet Jane has waited for you to marry so that she might improve her own prospects. Suitor after suitor she has ignored⁠—”

Kitty and Lydia moved over by Jane, wrapping their arms around her and resting their cheeks against her shoulders in a moving display of sisterly support.

“That will do, Mrs. Bennet.” Father’s voice was quiet. He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, regarding Elizabeth with an expression she had never in her life seen directed at her. Disapproval. It stung like a hand across the cheek.

Was this how Mr. Darcy had looked at his son? Elizabeth could sympathize more fully with Fitzwilliam Darcy, for there was nothing she wanted to do more at that moment than quit the room. To leave and see how they fared without her. But she held her peace and faced the confused looks.

“We are free of danger from the debt,” her father continued, “but we may not recover from the damage done to our reputation without a match grand enough to make our neighbors forget our disgrace. Mr. Wickham’s reasons for believing he shall inherit Pemberley are as solid as fact. An opportunity such as this rarely comes twice.” He paused, letting his words settle over her. “You must not decide only to please yourself when your sisters rely upon you.” Vexation pounded through Elizabeth’s veins and stung her eyes. It was unjust. She had done nothing to create their difficulties and yet was burdened with the expectation that she should spend her future correcting other people’s wrongs.

“How could you possibly refuse Pemberley?!” Her mother pressed her salts to her nose, the vile scent of vinegar permeating the room. “After all Mr. Wickham has done for us!”

Mary set her music sheets down with a resonant thud. “This is not right.” Her voice, usually so carefully modulated, was uncharacteristically blunt. “Are we not each responsible for our own happiness? Lizzy has given more to this family than any of us. Why should she sacrifice her future when she has already given so much?” Elizabeth bit her tongue to keep from crying out her accord.

“It would be a good match,” her father responded, more quietly, encouragingly. “Better than we could hope for after recent events. Mr. Wickham is a good man.”

Mary’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Not long ago you discredited him for being a steward’s son.”

“If Mr. Wickham is to inherit Pemberley,” Jane said quietly, without looking up from her linen, “then it is only right that Lizzy should accept his offer.” Her words cut deeper than their mother’s theatrics and their father’s disappointment.

The room closed in, hot, suffocating, flooding with expectation. Elizabeth drew a breath and raised her hands. “We have yet to see what the will says. We were summoned to Pemberley⁠—”

Mama interrupted. “The will! What does it matter what the will says when young Darcy is dead! Your father said Mr. Wickham showed him his signet ring. You are free to marry whom you please, and it is your duty to your family to marry well!”

Head pounding, heart aching, bone sore, Elizabeth pleaded with as much dignity as she could summon, “All I ask is that you allow me until after the reading of the will to make my decision.” She addressed her father directly. “Allow me that, and I will give you my reply the moment we return from Pemberley.”

Papa studied her for a long moment. Then, without a word, he unfolded his arms and left the room. It was not an agreement. Nor was it a refusal. It would have to do.

Feeling wretched, abandoned, and unable to remain in a room full of voices trying to convince her to accept an offer she did not want, Elizabeth went upstairs. She passed by her own room and directed her steps to the upper floor.

The east passage was dim and still, the household noise muffled to a distant murmur below. Her own heartbeat was considerably louder. She had tried convincing herself that friendship was enough, that gratitude explained what she felt, that a woman in her position could not afford the luxury of wanting more. All of it was pretense, and she was too tired to maintain it. She did not plan what she would say, only that she must know whether she was standing alone or not. She could not continue indefinitely on hope and inference, on the memories of glorious conversations and looks across crowded rooms. She needed to know—even if knowing cost her everything.

She stopped outside Robbie’s door, raised her hand, and knocked. Footsteps crossed the floor within. The latch lifted, the door swung open, and there he was—dark eyes, bearded jaw, his shirtsleeves still rolled from the afternoon’s work, his expression shifting from surprise to something considerably more careful the moment he saw her.

The question that had burned in her chest for over a week burst from her lips. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

Darcy gripped the edge of the door. As confident as he was in Elizabeth’s character, he had braced himself for the worst—Wickham’s triumph—for the sound of celebration drifting up from the drawing room below, for the long miserable hours of the evening during which he would have to sit across from her at dinner and say nothing.

He had not expected her to come to him. To find Elizabeth at his door, color high, eyes bright with the particular luminosity that meant she had either been crying or was working very hard not to, asking him the one question he was least equipped to answer honestly.

“You refused his offer,” he said. It was not a question.

“I cannot accept any offer until I am certain I am free to do so.” She held his gaze steadily. “You have not answered my question.”

He had not. He leaned against the door and looked at her, at the determined set of her chin, the slight tremor of her hands, and he thought about two more days. About the will, and about Wrayburn, and about the carefully constructed, sensible order of revelation he had planned. “There is so much I wish to tell you,” he said at last.

“Then tell me,” she pleaded. “You can tell me anything. I trust you, Robbie.” Darcy winced. I trust you. Her gaze dropped. “You do not trust me. Is that it?”