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She bit her tongue against the need to interrupt, to apologise, to pick up the book again and read as if nothing had been said. “Is that why?” she asked boldly instead. “Is that why you will not repeat your proposal?”
“Must…m-marry,” he blurted haltingly. “Likely…Matlock’s ch-choice…Caro. With…support…I might gudgeon…no…regain…estates…Georg-anna…control. Am not…madman! Need…earl.”
She felt the colour drain from her face. It was one thing, she suddenly discovered, to accept that he was no longer as ready for marriage as he once had been. It was quite another to be found lacking in comparison to the arrogant, self-centred Caroline Bingley. It was a terrible awakening to learn that he had already made plans, plans in which neither she nor her foolish love had ever had any part. Only then could she feel how much imprudent hopefulness had taken root within their shared affection. She scrambled to her feet.
“I perfectly comprehend your feelings, sir, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. I shall make arrangements to return to Hertfordshire, and at once.” With a hasty curtsey, she hurried from the room.
* * *
“Lizzy!” Darcy shouted, but he heard her, the next moment, open the front door and quit the house.
He was filled with an indescribable sense of loss, the tumult of his mind painfully great. Until this moment, the plan to marry Caroline had been an imaginary sacrifice, one to be contemplated at some future date—and as far in the future as he could possibly push it. He had not fully appreciated how in planning for that future, he must destroy every bit of happiness, now and ever after.
It was not fair to Lizzy, of course. She had his love, but he had foolishly pretended that she understood its hopelessness. And to watch her learn her replacement must be Caroline Bingley, of all people, the woman who had mocked and degraded her at every opportunity, who of course had been the one pointing out her family’s every foible and folly. It had seemed dishonest not to say it, but now it seemed even more dishonourable that he had.
Her astonishment was obvious; she had looked at him with such mortification and incredulity.
Because of course, he had been luxuriating in the enjoyment of holding her in his arms only moments before. The confession had cheapened his affection, turning it to something illicit, tawdry even.
All the if-onlys of his life choked him now.
* * *
Because her distress was too obvious, Lizzy did not call for Mr Frost to accompany her into town immediately to find the post, to pack, to leave. Instead, she escaped to the oceanside, its beating surf calming the wild pounding of her heart, the blustering sea winds drying her salt-laced tears.
As always, nature outdid her in emotion, whipping her hair from its moorings so even the cap could not contain it, its strands stinging her face.
She must, of course, face him again. Regrets, however, could always wait awhile before they must be dealt with, the choppy surface of the sea seeming an apt reflection of her own spirit.
My feelings are not his fault.She had told him they must not pretend, but she had eagerly indulged regardless. For a few brief days of affection, she had traded peace of mind and common sense. Sighing, she drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms about them; regrets were determined to have their way immediately. Why could she not be a practical, sensible girl? ‘Life isn’t one of your plays, Lizzy,’ her mother’s voice drilled into her head. ‘You’ll find it out soon enough, and don’t say I did not warn you.’
But Lizzy had insisted upon fairy tales and princes and happily-ever-afters. She had easily accepted his affection despite knowing she was no longer his choice. Pretending.
The icy wind lashed at her thin dress, slicing like knives, desolate chill shrouding her.
The sudden screech of gulls finally startled her into looking up. There was Mr Darcy, striding purposefully down the sandhills towards her. His overlong hair blew back, tangling; even though James had shaved him this morning, his chin was shadowed with a day’s growth of beard. The black of his coat gusted in the wind, like some gothic prince’s cape. There was no sign of weakness in the strength of his stride. In appearance, all told, he looked much more the part of a pirate than a country gentleman. She shivered, and not entirely because of the cold.
He knelt beside her, gently drawing his coat around her shoulders before looking away. The heat of it suffused her in a sudden rush. For long moments, neither said anything while the wind reproached and scolded. Then, they both spoke at once.
“I…frigging…apologise.”
“I am sorry.”
Lizzy was struck by a sudden sliver of humour. “I prefer your words this time. I frigging apologise too.”
She wrapped the coat more tightly around her, burying her face within her arms. After a few minutes, she felt the warmth of his body beside her as he settled himself in the sand, not attempting to touch.
“No…apology,” he managed, or something very close to it.
“I do not apologise for my feelings, only for expecting more of you than you are capable of giving,” she said at last. “And after all, who, of the two of us, will suffer most? My heart will heal, in time, whereas you intend to tie yourself to an arrogant, selfish woman at the whim of your uncle.” Then she sighed. “Also, a woman who is pretty, fashionable, rich, and the sister of your good friend. A good match, by any standard. I do not like her, but then, she does not like me. It is to be supposed that you might have a much better experience than any predictions of mine.”
He shook his head. “No.”
She looked at him. “I hope you are wrong. I wish you happy.”
“Frigging happy,” he said wryly.
She snorted, turning her head to peer at him.
