Page 4 of A Prudent Engagement

Death was real.

Love was real.

Marrying beneath himself, doing worse than he could have, caring that her station in life was so decidedly beneath his own? That was not real. That was merely a reflection of reality.

She had loved her father. She must be miserable. That pain was real.

Darcy had walked with Elizabeth in this grove many times. Sweat from the warmth of the day beaded at the back of his neck. The scent of heavy growth and dampness from the stream that ran through a carefully maintained thicket to the side filled his nostrils.

Elizabeth hurt.

She delighted in the butterflies that flitted across the path, the birds darting about, chasing each other in the skies, and the warmth of the sun on her soft cheeks.

Darcy would take the pain from her breast and place it into his own. He would happily feel every sadness, every tear, and every ache of loss that he had felt after his own mother and father had died if he could spare her that agony.

It had pierced his breast when his mama had died.

And then again when his papa had followed.

It still hurt when he thought upon it.

The person he had depended upon most in the world, suddenly gone.

She must be scared for the future. She needed his help. More than ever, she needed his help.

He must be her hero.

Yet, wishing to be her hero, wishing to use this moment when she must particularly face material wants and concerns to guarantee her assent to his proposal—that would be selfish. That would be about doing what he wanted and needed, not what she wanted and needed.

She needed the promise of future security, yes. But a lover’s proposal, even a welcome one, as Darcy was confident his must be, would surely be painful at such a time.

It had hurt when his mother died.

When his papa had died, there had been greater warning, and he had already suffered such a loss once, but he had sobbed when his mama died.

He had sobbed once after his father died too.

Darcy took a deep breath.

The trees were heavy with fresh green leaves, nests of singing birds perched in the branches, and the sun filtered lightly onto the ground of his aunt’s park.

He straightened to his full height, shoulders back, arms at his sides, tall, a steady stance. Another deep breath.

It was time to go to her.

No more waiting.

She was in pain, and at the very least it would relieve her to know that she had no need to fear for her future support. It would in no way reduce the pain, but it would at least allow her to think about her father and her grief without additional anxieties intruding.

He would beg to be able to do anything that might help—he just wished to aid her, to see her happy, even though that was impossible. He only wanted to be there, to hold her hand, to embrace her, to let her cry when she needed to—even he had needed to cry when his parents had died, and he was a man.

Chapter Two

Elizabeth was filled with a stunned sickness when she entered Hunsford Parsonage.

Her papa could not really be dead, even though that was the clear meaning of the letter Mary had written. As soon as they entered the sitting room, Charlotte led her to the sofa, and a maid came with a tray of tea that was immediately pushed towards Elizabeth.

She was made to swallow back the hot liquid.