Page 12 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
“Not at all.” He gestured towards the bench. “May I?”
She nodded, shifting to make room. The gentleman seated himself beside her, maintaining a respectful distance.
“I realise it is unusual for me to intrude upon your privacy,” he said at last. “But I could not in good conscience pass by without helping. You seem to be in some difficulty.”
Elizabeth gave a hollow laugh. “That, sir, is an understatement.”
“Would it help to speak of it?”
She studied him, this unexpected Good Samaritan. There was something in his manner that inspired trust, despite the impropriety of their meeting.
“My name is Elizabeth Bennet,” she said, deciding that if she were to confide in him, he should at least know her name.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” he replied. “At your service.”
“Mr Darcy.” She tested the name. It was familiar, her Aunt Gardiner had spoken of a prominent family of that name in Derbyshire, but the surname was hardly rare. “I fear my situation is one for which you can provide little remedy, kind though your intention may be.”
“Allow me to be the judge of that,” he said. “What troubles you, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. But what choice did she have?
“I have run away from my wedding,” she said at last. “I was to be married today, but I found I could not go through with it.”
Mr Darcy’s expression remained neutral, betraying neither shock nor censure. “I see. And your family? Do they know where you are?”
“No. I fled without word or direction.” She twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “I cannot return home. They would only force me back to the church, back to him.”
“The gentleman you were to marry,” Mr Darcy observed. “I take it the match was not one of mutual affection.”
“It was an arrangement,” Elizabeth said bitterly. “My father is in financial difficulty. The marriage was to save our family from ruin.”
“Ah.” A shadow crossed Mr Darcy’s face. “Such arrangements are not uncommon, though they rarely lead to happiness.”
“This one would have led to misery,” she replied. “The gentleman in question made it clear that after our marriage, I would be permitted no pursuits beyond those he deemed suitable for his wife. No reading beyond what he approved, no writing whatsoever, no independence of thought or action.”
“Writing?” Mr Darcy raised an eyebrow. “He would not permit you to write to your family?”
“No,” she said. “Stories. I am—foolish as it may sound—an aspiring author.”
“I see.” Mr Darcy’s expression softened. “And you have nowhere to go? No friends or relations who might offer sanctuary? My carriage is not far from here, I could loan it to you. I could send a maid with you to take you to your destination.”
“That is kind, but I have nowhere to go and no one who would not send me back.” She sighed. “I have acted impulsively, I know. But I could not bring myself to speak those vows, to bind myself to a life of such constraint.”
“No,” Mr Darcy said quietly. “I understand the impulse to resist a marriage arranged without regard for one’s wishes.”
There was something in his tone that suggested personal experience, a hint of sympathy beyond mere politeness. Elizabeth glanced at him curiously.
“My own family is currently engaged in similar collusions,” he continued. “They wish me to marry a lady of theirchoosing, a match advantageous in terms of connection and fortune, but lacking in more essential qualities.”
“Such as affection?” Elizabeth ventured.
“Or even basic compatibility,” Mr Darcy agreed. “The lady in question is accomplished in the conventional sense—she plays, she sings, she draws—but we have no common interests, no shared understanding.”
“And yet you are expected to spend your life with her.”
“I am expected to make an offer, yes. Though I have resolved not to do so.”
Elizabeth felt a sudden kinship with this stranger, this Mr Darcy who, like herself, faced the pressure of family expectation in matters of the heart. “It seems we are both in rebellion against the matrimonial designs of our families.”
