Page 8 of Time Stands Still

He finished, his proud face full of the expectation of a grateful, tearful acceptance. He, the master of Pemberley, had condescended to make her an offer no woman in her position could possibly refuse.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “I thank you for the honour you have done me. I accept your proposal.”

The words, once spoken, hung in the air between them, feeling monstrously false, yet strangely liberating, on her tongue. For a moment, he simply stared, his own composure for once utterly deserting him. He had been prepared for blushing confusion or grateful tears; he was not, it seemed, prepared for this quiet, unnerving self-possession.

“You… you accept?” he stammered, the word sounding foreign on his own tongue.

“I do,” she confirmed, meeting his gaze directly.

Then, his face softened, the severe lines of his countenance melting into a smile so rare and brilliant that it utterly transformed him, rendering him almost boyishly handsome. The sheer relief and unbridled joy in his expression were so genuine, so palpable, that Elizabeth felt a sharp stab of remorse, a cold knot of guilt forming in her stomach. This was no game to him; he was a man whose deepest wish had just been granted, and she was the instrument of a cruel deception.

“You have made me the happiest of men,” he said, his voice holding a rough, uneven quality, as if the very force of his happiness was a thing he could barely contain. “I promise you,” he murmured, his dark eyes searching hers, “I will devote my life to making you happy.”

As he spoke of his joy, of his plans for their future, a storm of guilt and confusion raged within her. Every word of his heartfelt gratitude was a fresh torment, a testament to the depth of her falsehood. She felt like a monster, a villain in a play of her own devising. How could she have done this? How could she sit there and accept the devotion of a man she had so thoroughly deceived? Yet, even as she was consumed by self-loathing, a small, treacherous part of her was fascinated by the transformation before her. The arrogant, prideful man was gone, replaced by a suitor whose tenderness was as profound as it was unexpected.

“Pardon my haste,” he said, his voice now softer, more tentative. “I feel I must make my intentions clear at once, lest I lose my wits with happiness. I am to leave for London in two days, as planned, but my purpose is now entirely changed.”

Elizabeth, forcing herself to meet his earnest gaze, murmured, “Changed, sir?”

“It is to make you mine, in the eyes of the world,” he said, a fervent resolution in his tone. “With your leave, I shall travel from London to Hertfordshire within the week. I must speak with your father, Elizabeth. I will not feel a moment’s peace until I have his consent.” The sound of her name on his lips, so possessive, so intimate, sent a fresh wave of indignation through her. Yet, she held her tongue. She had a role to play, and for the moment, silence was her most effective weapon. He paused, his expression becoming more serious. “Until that time, may I hope that we might keep this... this understanding... private? I would not have your family learn of it from any but my own lips.”

This was a perfect reprieve. A week. She had a week. Seven precious days to break this engagement before the consequences of her deceit became irrevocably tangled. For once his mission to Hertfordshire was accomplished, once her father’s consent was given, the news would spread like wildfire. And her mother… Elizabeth shuddered. To end an engagement to a man of Mr. Darcy’s consequence, once officially sanctioned by her father, would be an impossibility in her mother's eyes, an act of madness that would brand Elizabeth for life. No, it must be done before then. Before he had a chance to leave. She must break it tomorrow. The thought brought with it a fresh, sickening wave of self-reproach, but the alternative, this endless, maddening repetition, was far worse. “That is most sensible, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her agreement coming out more cheerfully than she intended. “Privacy would be for the best.”

“For so long,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, confessional murmur she had never before heard, “I have felt myself alone, even in the most crowded of rooms. I had resigned myself to it. To find a spirit like yours, a mind that challenges and delights me... I had not allowed myself to hope that such a woman could ever truly be mine.”

Elizabeth stared, her own experimental detachment momentarily forgotten. Alone? The great Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, with ten thousand a year, a man whose presence caused a flutter in every drawing-room, a man whom every unmarried woman in society was attempting to ensnare? How could such a man ever feel himself to be alone? The admission was so raw, so honest, it struck her with more force than his declaration of love.

“Elizabeth,” he breathed, and the relief in his voice weighed upon her with a fresh burden of conscience. He stepped closer, taking one of her hands in his. The possessive warmth of his grasp sent a tremor through her. With his other hand, he gently reached up and cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking softly against her skin as if to assure himself she was real.

His eyes closed for a moment, as if to savour the reality of her presence. Then, his gaze met hers again, full of a profound emotion she had never witnessed in him. He leaned in. She found she could not move. She was frozen, a spectator to her own calculated experiment. She could smell the scent of the outdoors from his coat, hear the soft hitch of his breath as he drew near. His lips met hers.

The kiss held a profound tenderness, a gentle pressure that was more question than demand. A jolt of shock ran through her, followed by a confusing warmth that spread from her lips through her very veins. It was a physical response her mind could not control, and she recoiled from it in horror. In that single, gentle touch, she felt a promise of unspoken feeling, a love far deeper than his clumsy, prideful words had conveyed.

He drew back slowly, his eyes searching hers, a silent question passing between them. Elizabeth found herself breathless, her heart still hammering against her ribs.

"I... I should take my leave," he murmured, his voice a little rough. "I have much to arrange."

The kiss left her shaken. The man who had insulted her family, who had so callously dismissed her sister’s feelings, was capable of this? This gentleness? This depth of feeling?

The realisation that his feelings were genuine brought her only a fresh and terrible torment. This man, this arrogant, infuriating man, loved her, and she carried the heavy knowledge that, tomorrow, she would break his heart. Elizabeth could only nod, her tongue suddenly thick.

He hesitated at the door, turning back to look at her one last time, his face alight with a smile of such pure, unadulterated joy that it twisted the knife of her guilt still deeper. Then he gave a single, sharp nod, and was gone.

Chapter Seven

Elizabeth awoke to the sound of Mr. Collins’s voice, and the world, which for a brief, blissful moment had seemed full of possibility, dissolved around her. The same words. The same tone. The same inescapable morning. Her plan, desperate and dishonourable, had failed. The day had begun anew. Again.

A sudden sickness turned her stomach. She had accepted him. She had allowed him to kiss her, to speak to her with a tenderness that had unsettled her to her very core. She had seen the genuine joy in his eyes. And all for nothing. The day had repeated, and he would come to her again this evening, his heart full of the same ardent, pride-filled love, and she… what would she do now?

The lack of sleep for two consecutive nights had left her weary to her very bones, and she went through the day in a resigned daze, familiar events washing over her without purchase. She was still certain that Mr. Darcy's proposal was the axis upon which her world turned. She had tried refusing it with anger. She had tried avoiding it. She had tried accepting it with calculated falsehood. All had failed.

What was left? If the event itself was inescapable, perhaps the substance of their conversation was the variable she had not yet fully explored. What if, instead of merely reacting to his proposal, she used the inevitable confrontation to finally understand the man himself? An interrogation, then. A calm, quiet, and honest inquiry into the very sins that had so fuelled her initial disdain.

This new strategy felt different. For the first time, she felt a sense of purpose that was not born of panic.

When he arrived that evening, she was calm. The frantic energy of the previous days had given way to a quiet, almost cold, resolve. As she watched him enter the room, she could not help but contrast his current stiff and guarded demeanour with the memory of the previous night. The man who had smiled with such unbridled joy, who had looked at her with such raw vulnerability, was gone, replaced once more by the proud, severe master of Pemberley. The man was a mystery, a study in contradictions, and for the first time, she felt a flicker not of anger, but of profound curiosity.

She listened to his proposal without interruption, her mind now intent upon the man himself, his insults receding into the background. A man who, she now knew, was capable of a tenderness that belied his arrogant words. A man who loved her, however imperfectly he expressed it. When he had finished, she looked at him, her gaze steady, and said, “Mr. Darcy, before I can answer you, I must understand. There are matters that weigh heavily on my mind, and I must have them resolved.”