Darcy answered at once, lifting her hand and pressing it briefly between both of his. “You have nothing to apologise for, Elizabeth. I should think less of you if you were not cautious. All I ask is that you allow me time—to prove myself worthy of your trust.”
Once again, Elizabeth could only stare at him, and Darcy found himself unaccountably gratified by the return of colour to her cheeks. She stepped a little closer—close enough that he wondered whether she meant to close the remaining distance between them herself. The thought pleased him more than he cared to admit, for he would welcome any intimacy she chose to offer, however chaste; yet he held himself still, resolved that he would not be the one to press her.
The thought was interrupted by a sound at the door. They turned towards it together, and Darcy did not relinquish her hands as it opened.
“Our carriage is ready, and they have begun carrying our trunks downstairs. We must depart if we are to make any progress today—and, Mr Darcy, you will need to return to Pemberley if you are to make your own preparations as well,” Mr Gardiner said.
Reluctantly, Darcy nodded, finally taking his leave of theGardiners and Elizabeth with the promise that he would join them at the Old Bell Inn that very evening.
Four
Later that evening
Elizabeth awaited Darcy’s arrival at the inn that evening with a degree of anxiety she would have preferred not to acknowledge and yet could not entirely suppress. Her uncle had succeeded in convincing the inn’s proprietor that he was, indeed, the gentleman for whom Mr Darcy had sent his servant ahead to secure rooms, and so they sat in the small private parlour prepared for them, time stretching unpleasantly without his coming. Her aunt and uncle would have retired long ago, but Elizabeth had been determined to wait for him, and they would not dare leave her alone here.
The book resting in her lap lay entirely neglected, its pages still as her thoughts strayed inexorably towards Longbourn—towards what they would find there, towards the cost of Lydia’s folly to her family, and, more unsettling still, towards how she herself would bear whatever awaited her upon her return.
Now, the weight of the day pressed heavily upon her, leaving her nearly as fatigued as she might have been after a long walk to and from Oakham Mount. Yet it was not exertion that had exhausted her, for shehad spent the greater part of the afternoon confined to a carriage. Instead, she felt stiff, restless, and curiously lethargic all at once, her body ill at ease and her mind no better. She longed to be at home, where a brisk walk might have quieted her thoughts, steadied her spirits, and restored her nerves.
That she should even be attending to hernerves—thinking of them at all—gave her pause, and she frowned slightly at the unwelcome recognition.Am I becoming like my mother?she wondered, the thought unsettling in ways she would not have believed possible only weeks earlier. “Oh, what would Fitzwilliam think of me now,” she murmured, before she could prevent herself, drawing a look of concern from both her aunt and uncle.
Elizabeth shook her head at once and forced a small, reassuring smile, hoping to dismiss their unease even as her own remained unresolved. At that moment, a commotion arose beyond the door of the parlour, voices and movement carrying faintly from the crowded passageway.
It was late, and the Old Bell was already much occupied—a circumstance that rendered Fitzwilliam’s foresight in dispatching his servant ahead all the more evident. Upon their arrival, their rooms had been ready and their supper awaiting them, an efficiency she appreciated now more than ever. She admired his foresight, his ease in the world, and considered—once again—how much she still had to learn from him.
More troubling still was the question of how he had ever come to love her in the first place. When they had a moment not consumed by her family’s difficulties, she resolved to ask him. Still, the thought of such a conversation both intrigued and unnerved her. It was not a subject she would dare raise in the company of others, and there was little hope of privacy during the remainder of their journey. Depending upon how matters stood at Longbourn, she began to doubt whether they would be able to marry as swiftly as he hoped.
Beneath all these concerns lay one she scarcely wished to name. There was a small, persistent part of her that wondered—despite his many reassurances—whether he might yet desert her. Even if he did not, would he come to resent her in time? Would she find herself in amarriage like that of her parents, in which affection had once existed but had given way to disappointment and quiet reproach, where one partner felt himself ensnared by a woman who had proved, in the end, not to be what he believed?
It was strange to suppose he might one day resent her, when she had so lately come to know the full depth of her love for him; yet the longer he remained away, the more those fears preyed upon her.
These thoughts were cut short when the door opened and Darcy himself was shown in.
For a moment, Elizabeth could do nothing but stare at him, all else forgotten. He looked well, despite having obviously travelled the same distance as they, not to mention having had to deal with his guests. Still, his expression as he gazed at her was intent in a way that set her heart racing. Whatever she had expected to see upon his face—distance, hesitation, fatigue, even disgust—it was not this.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. The tears she had spent the entire evening holding at bay rose unbidden, blurring her vision despite her efforts to master them.
It was only then that Elizabeth became aware that Darcy was not alone. A slight movement behind him drew her attention, and his sister stepped forward, her presence momentarily disorienting amid Elizabeth’s confusion.
“Mr Darcy,” her uncle said, having risen the moment Darcy entered the room. Elizabeth watched as he went to greet him, taking his hand and murmuring a few words of welcome which her tired mind could not quite follow. Her own attention remained fixed upon Darcy—upon the simple fact that he was here at all—and upon the sudden, overwhelming mingling of relief and fear that accompanied that knowledge.
Mrs Gardiner approached Georgiana at once, but Elizabeth remained seated, uncertain what to say to either of them. At last, Darcy released her uncle’s hand and crossed the room towards her. He did not hesitate, nor did he pause to consider who might be watching; his attention was fixed solely upon her as he advanced in long, purposefulstrides.
Something of her feelings must have shown upon her face for he lifted the neglected book from her lap and set it aside before gently taking her hands and helping her to stand. Her fingers trembled faintly in his, and she was suddenly conscious of how unsteady she felt upon her feet, as though the room itself had shifted beneath her.
“Dearest,” he said softly, for her alone, “will you not greet us? Georgiana is aware of our purpose in travelling to Hertfordshire, and she is anxious that you should think poorly of her for her own unfortunate misstep with Wickham. She is determined to help however she may, as am I.”
“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, leaning into him and drawing what strength she could from his presence. For a moment, she forgot entirely that they were not alone. She threw her arms about his waist, and her heart thrilled when he returned the embrace. “I have worked myself into quite a state wondering what you might think or say when you arrived—if you arrived at all.”
She rested her cheek against his chest, attempting to order her disorganised thoughts. “I know what you have told me, and I do believe you, yet still I find myself questioning how matters between us stand. It is not because I do not love you,” she added in a low voice, “but because I think I love you too much. It is strange, is it not, that I once believed I quite despised you, and now I cannot bear the thought that you might think ill of me. I cannot bear the thought that you might come to realise how very foolish a match with me is, especially given how poorly my family behaves.”
Darcy drew her more fully into his arms, equally heedless of the others in the room. For a moment, he rested his cheek against her hair, holding her as though he could shield her by nearness alone. When he bent to speak, his breath stirred the curls at her temple, and his voice was low enough for her alone.
“Elizabeth, dearest, I understand you all too well. I lived for months believing you thought ill of me—and with good reason. I know now what it is to exist without your regard, and I have no wish to endure it again. Whatever awaits us at Longbourn, I will not have you meet it alone. If there is a burden to be borne, then allow me to bear it withyou, and be assured that I am resolved to remain where you are. I tell you now, in the words of Ruth:”
Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.
Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.
