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Elizabeth sat in the parlor beside her father. She tried not to listen as he recounted the events that had taken place while she’d dressed, including Mrs. Bennet being overtaken by nerves. Her mother reclined on a stately sofa, waving a kerchief about her face in distress. Elizabeth didn’t truly wish to be present, but she knew she was too tense to take a nap and felt oddly disinclined to be alone. She was starting to feel the effects of lack of sleep, though. Wickham had left, which she found to be an enormous relief. Jane and Bingley had gone upstairs, as had Georgiana, tears in her eyes.
Mr. Darcy was writing letters, someone had mentioned. She supposed he would have a lot to see to, now. She felt a bit guilty for the solution she’d posed, for it would drain his finances. Still, it seemed like the only reasonable resolution, one that would end what was becoming a dangerous series of poor decisions on Mr. Wickham’s part.
“I cannot believe you climbed into that carriage, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Bennet wailed, breaking into the half-daze Elizabeth had succumbed to. “You should have found another way. Now you will never find a husband and when Mr. Bennet dies, I don’t know what will happen to you.”
“That will be enough of that,” Mr. Bennet said.
Elizabeth looked at her father in surprise. She’d never heard Mr. Bennet speak to his wife so firmly.
“I was simply—”
“Elizabeth needs our support, not our censure.” Her father patted her hand.
“But it will be harder for our other daughters to find husbands because of Elizabeth.”
“Would you rather have lost a grandson? Who knows if he would have been returned if Elizabeth hadn’t acted as she did.”
“Bingley would still have an heir,” said Mrs. Bennet, sitting up. Apparently, her nerves were secondary to arguing with her husband. “Of course, Jane would be very upset if Charlie was lost, and so would I, but at least I would have one grandchild. Charlie is the oldest son, but Thomas is a healthier baby. Jane and Bingley would have recovered, but if Lydia, Kitty and Mary don’t find husbands, we’ll all be sorry Elizabeth didn’t accept Mr. Collins. My nerves are fluttering and I—”
Elizabeth surged to her feet. Her mother broke off, looking at her with wide eyes. Elizabeth shook her head, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. She was so upset, so angry and yet miserable all at once, that she couldn’t think of anything to say. Stifling a sob, she ran from the room.
“Elizabeth,” her mother called, but she kept going. She couldn’t stand to hear any more. Not today. She hurried to the stairs, intent on her room.
“Elizabeth,” a new voice said; a soothing, kind voice.
She looked up to see Mr. Darcy at the top of the staircase. She stood, unmoving, as he hurried down, unsure if she wanted to run past him to her sanctuary, or wait there for the comfort she knew his company would provide. She quickly dashed her handkerchief at her eyes, to make sure her nearly shed tears wouldn’t fall.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, stopping before her, at the base of the steps. “I meant, rather, Miss Bennet.”
“I’m sure all sorts of people will now take liberties with my name,” she said, her tone bitter.
He looked down at her, his gaze seeming to search her face. His gaze was oddly intense, and she suppressed a shiver.
“Would you like to take a walk in the garden?” he asked.
Wordlessly, she nodded.
After getting cloaks, he offered her his arm for the first time in their acquaintance, and she took it. He set a slow pace, keeping to the paths near the house. Mr. Darcy’s silent strength was as soothing as she’d hoped, his presence a balm after all she’d been through. She found her gaze on the point where her hand rested on his arm. It calmed her to know she could remove her hand whenever she liked, and Mr. Darcy would do nothing to keep her there against her will.
Yet, the thought disturbed her as well. Would she worry about being trapped now, manhandled, by any man she encountered? Well, not her father or Mr. Bingley, of course, or Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy, she reflected, was a taller, broader man than Mr. Wickham, and surely possessed greater strength. In fact, when she’d first met him, she’d found his stature a touch intimidating, though her pride wouldn’t have let her admit it. Now, she found it comforting. Mr. Darcy’s strength, Elizabeth knew down to her core, would never be used to harm her, only to protect. She looked about the garden, glad to know that Mr. Wickham was far away.
Unbidden, her gaze moved to Mr. Darcy’s face. She studied the hard angles of his jaw. His lips were pressed into a firm line. She knew this was the same face that had seemed so emotionless and daunting when they’d first met. Now, though, she could see the subtle lines about his mouth and eyes that bespoke of a man who did, indeed, smile, and even laugh. She could see past the aloofness and read the worry in his hard gaze. Mr. Darcy wasn’t emotionless and cold, so much as private and contained.
It was an honor, she realized, that he’d let her into his world during the weeks they’d spent together in Netherfield. They’d walked together, and laughed together. They’d each shared some small part of themselves. It struck her forcibly how empty her world would be the moment Georgiana gave the word and they left, possibly departing her life forever.
