Page 27 of Time Stands Still

She jabbed a finger in his direction, her entire body rigid with fury. “I warned my sister what would come of marrying so far beneath her station, of binding the name of Fitzwilliam to a gentleman of no particular note, though I grant you his fortune was considerable enough to tempt any sensible woman, even one of our station. But she was sentimental. She spoke of love! And what did her great love bring her? An early grave, and nothing more, leaving behind you and your sister to carry on a name that, while respectable, lacks the ancient dignity of her own! This marriage to your cousin,” she gestured with renewed vehemence towards Anne, “was to have been a redemption! A way to finally restore the dignity to our Fitzwilliam line! It was the least you could do to atone for your mother’s folly!”

That was enough. The insult to Elizabeth had been intolerable, but this desecration of his mother’s memory, this twisting of her love and her life into a sordid transaction, was a sin he would not forgive.

“I have heard you, madam,” Darcy said, his voice so dangerously quiet that the air in the room seemed to grow cold. “And I find I can no longer tolerate your presence. You are my aunt, and for that reason alone, I have afforded you a respect you have now proven you do not deserve. But my patience is at an end.” He paused, his final words delivered with the cold finality of a judge passing sentence. “You will speak of my mother’s memory with reverence, or you will not speak of her to me at all. From this day forward, you are no longer welcome at Pemberley, nor in any house of mine.” His gaze found his cousin Anne, his expression softening for a fraction of a second. “Anne,” he said, his voice regaining a measure of warmth. “You will, of course, always have a place with me, should you ever wish for it.”

He did not wait for a reply. He took Elizabeth’s arm, his grip firm and steadying, and prepared to lead her from the room. He turned his gaze back to his aunt, his eyes chips of frozen steel. “You have made your sentiments clear,” he said. “I shall depart Rosings at the earliest opportunity. You need not fear that I, or my sister, will ever trouble you with our presence here again.”

He did not wait for a reply. With a final, dismissive glance at his stunned and speechless aunt, he turned his back on her. He led Elizabeth from the room, his head held high, leaving behind the wreckage of his family relations without a single backward glance. The final test had come, and he had not been found wanting. The world could repeat its course a thousand times more, but this, he knew with an unshakeable certainty, was a bridge that would forever be burned.

Chapter Twenty

The walk from Rosings to the parsonage was a torment. A cold, hard fury, unlike any he had ever known, was a living thing in Darcy’s breast. His hand rested on Elizabeth’s arm, and the light pressure of her presence was the only thing tethering him to the world, keeping the storm of his rage from breaking its bounds. He could feel the tremors in his own fingers, a testament to the violence of the emotions he held in check. With every step, his aunt’s words echoed in his mind, a litany of her venom, her cruelty, and her unforgivable attack on the memory of his mother; with each echo, a fresh wave of revulsion washed over him.

They were halfway across the park when he knew he could not continue. He could not maintain this quiet façade of a simple walk home, not when his entire world had been upended. “Miss Bennet, your visit to Kent is at an end,” he stated, the words emerging clipped and harsh, strangely loud in the stillness of the wood. “I will not have you remain here a moment longer. To be subjected to such insult, to have your character so maligned… That it should come from my own family is an unconscionable disgrace.” He stopped, his hand clenching into a white-knuckled fist. The memory of her venomous sneer was a fresh brand on his mind.

He turned to face Elizabeth fully, his eyes blazing. “She does not know you. She knows nothing of your heart, your mind, your character. She sees only fortune and connection. To have her speak your name, to have her pass her vulgar judgement upon you… It is an offence I will not tolerate.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping, becoming thick with a conviction that came from the very depths of his soul. “I will not allow it. I will not allow anyone, not my aunt, not the whole of society, to dictate my life or to disrespect the woman I love.”

He had spoken as if to himself, a declaration made to the universe, but the words hung in the air between them, stark and absolute. He saw a dawning comprehension in Elizabeth’s eyes, a profound stillness that belied the tremor in her lower lip. She simply watched him, her gaze filled with an emotion he could not decipher.

And then, she moved. In two swift, silent steps, she closed the distance between them, rose up on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.

The world stopped. The rage, the tumult, the righteous fury that had been consuming him, all of it vanished, extinguished in an instant by the soft, impossible pressure of her mouth on his. For a long moment, he was frozen, his mind unable to process the sensation.

Her hand came up to rest on his cheek, the warmth of her touch an undeniable truth that broke through the ice of his shock. He reacted not with thought, but with an instinct that had been suppressed for months, his arms closing around her, his mouth answering hers. It was a kiss born of a desperate, long-denied hunger, a torrent of feeling that overwhelmed the dam of his considerable self-control.

She met his ardour with a startling sincerity of her own. Her arms wound their way around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape in a gesture of such unreserved trust that it sent a shock through him more potent than passion itself. It was a complete and utter surrender, given freely, and it stripped him of his own carefully maintained control. His hands moved from her waist to her back, pressing her more firmly against him as if to assure himself she was real.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, he rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. The silence between them was fraught with the weight of all that had just passed. He felt as though he had been holding his breath for months, and could only now begin to breathe again.

“Elizabeth,” he said at last, his voice a choked and broken thing. He could not bring himself to let her go, his arms holding her as if she were the only solid thing in a world that had come undone.

“I know,” she whispered, as if she had heard the question he had not asked. She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, and in their depths he saw a warm and certain conviction that mirrored his own. “I do not know how it has happened, or when it began, but it is so. You have become the only man in the world for me.”

Her words were the sun breaking through the darkest of storms. A joy so pure, so overwhelming, flooded his soul that he felt light-headed with it. He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Elizabeth,” he breathed again, the name a prayer on his lips. “My Elizabeth.”

He lowered his head and kissed her again, a kiss that was no longer born of desperation, but of a deep and reverent love. It was a slower, softer kiss, a question and an answer all at once. It was a joy so profound it was almost painful, a quiet, perfect moment of consummation that promised a lifetime of such discoveries.

After a while, he pulled away, though he still held her fast. “Marry me,” he said, the words a hoarse whisper. “I do not wish to be parted from you ever again.”

A jubilant, tearful laugh escaped her lips. “Yes,” she breathed, her voice full of a happiness that mirrored his own. “Yes. I will marry you.”

He crushed her to him then, his relief so profound he could not speak. He buried his face in her hair, simply holding her, anchoring himself to this new, unbelievable reality. After a long, blissful moment, she leaned back, a familiar, teasing light returning to her eyes. “I must confess, Mr. Darcy, your proposals have improved significantly.”

The remark startled a laugh from him, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. He looked down at her, his heart so full he felt it might burst. “If you are to critique my efforts so keenly, you must at least afford me the courtesy of using my name. My given name.”

A slow, lovely blush stained her cheeks. “Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, testing the sound of it.

“Say it again,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

“Fitzwilliam,” she repeated, and this time she smiled, a brilliant, beautiful thing that he knew he would never tire of seeing.

For a time, Darcy knew only a profound and perfect happiness. The world, which had been a place of duty, honour, and a quiet, gnawing loneliness, had been utterly transformed. He held Elizabeth in his arms, the scent of her hair, the feeling of her heart beating against his, a reality more potent than anything he had ever known.

“I find myself at a loss, Elizabeth,” he murmured against her hair, his voice full of a joyous humour he had not known he possessed. “Having achieved the single greatest desire of my heart, I confess I have no notion what to say next.”

She leaned back, her fine eyes sparkling with a familiar, teasing light. “Perhaps you might begin by asking when I first began to have feelings for you, sir. I believe that is the customary line of inquiry in these situations.”

He laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. “An excellent suggestion. Very well, when was it, precisely, that you decided I was no longer the most odious man of your acquaintance?”