Page 36 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
Elizabeth
Elizabeth sat opposite Darcy in the small family dining room. Though the summer evening remained light beyond the windows, tradition dictated candles at dinner, and Elizabeth found comfort in the familiar ritual. The first course had been served and removed, the second presented with quiet efficiency, yet she had scarcely tasted a morsel. Her thoughts remained tangled in the letters from home, in the unexpected discovery of Wickham’s portrait, in the growing complexity of her situation.
“The fish is excellent,” Darcy remarked, breaking a silence that had stretched uncomfortably long. “Cook has a particular talent with trout.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, though she had hardly registered its flavour. She took a small bite, knowing she ought to make some effort at conversation, yet finding herself uncharacteristically bereft of words.
Darcy studied her face in the flickering candlelight. “The letters from your family,” he began gently, “I gather they contained distressing news?”
Elizabeth set down her fork. “Not news, precisely, but confirmation of what I feared. My departure has caused considerable upheaval.”
“That was perhaps inevitable,” Darcy observed. “Though I imagine their reactions varied.”
“My mother’s letter was particularly…” Elizabeth hesitated, searching for a tactful description, “…vivid in its expression.”
Darcy’s mouth curved slightly. “I suspect Mrs Bennet is not one to conceal her emotions.”
“No, indeed. She has taken to her smelling salts with remarkable frequency, it seems.” Elizabeth paused, then continued with a sigh. “My mother believes I have ruined the family’s reputation by my actions. The Blackfriars have not been silent regarding the broken engagement.”
“What tales do they spread?” Darcy asked, his expression darkening.
“They accuse me of covetous motives and capricious character. Of leading Jonathan astray only to abandon him for a wealthier prospect.” Elizabeth’s cheeks burned with the unfairness of it. “As if I had sought you out with calculation rather than chance.”
“Such accusations reflect poorly on their own character, not yours,” Darcy said. “No person of sense would believe them.”
“Meryton is not overpopulated with persons of sense, I fear,” Elizabeth replied with a rueful smile. “My mother is quite certain our neighbours whisper behind their hands whenever the Bennet name is mentioned. Her only consolation is that I have married into wealth and consequence.”
Elizabeth did not mention her mother’s none too subtle hints about financial assistance, nor her explicit request that Darcy help break the entailment on Longbourn.
Something in her expression must have revealed the omission, for Darcy regarded her with those keen eyes that seemed to perceive more than she wished to share. He did not press, however, but merely nodded and waited for her to continue.
“My father’s letter was more measured,” she said. “He expressed disappointment that I had not confided in him regarding our acquaintance before my departure. He believes he might have arranged matters differently had he known.”
“Would he have?” Darcy asked. “Given what you have told me of the Blackfriars pact, I wonder if your father would have been willing to set it aside, even for a more advantageous match.”
“He admits his fault in not being transparent regarding Longbourn’s finances. That is something, at least.” Elizabeth traced the pattern on her plate with her fork. “He acknowledges he should have accepted my uncle’s assistance rather than pursuing an alliance with the Blackfriars.”
“A painful admission for a proud man,” Darcy observed.
“Indeed.” Elizabeth took a sip of wine. “He declines your offer of a banker’s assistance,” she continued. “He suggests my Uncle Gardiner has arranged matters satisfactorily, though he does not elaborate on the particulars.”
“I am pleased to hear he has accepted help from family, at least,” Darcy replied. “Though my offer remains open should circumstances change.”
Elizabeth nodded, then found to her mortification that tears gathered in her eyes. She blinked rapidly, determined notto give way to emotion at the dinner table, yet found herself unable to master her feelings.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, pressing her napkin to her eyes. “I had not expected to be so affected.”
Darcy set down his knife and reached across the table, his hand covering hers in a gesture of comfort that startled her with its warmth. “There is nothing to forgive. Your concern for your family is natural and commendable.”
Elizabeth stared at their joined hands, struck by the unexpected intimacy of the touch. In their fortnight at Pemberley, they had maintained a careful physical distance, though often she wished for that gentle touch the morning he had wrapped his arm around her.
Yet now his fingers curled around hers, strong and steady, offering silent comfort. The gesture seemed to bridge the careful space they had maintained between them, creating a connection that transcended all they planned for.
Something in Darcy’s expression suggested he might rise from his chair, might come to her side, might offer an embrace of comfort. But the moment passed, and he withdrew his hand, his posture straightening as if to reassert the boundaries of their understanding.
“My own family’s responses have been similarly mixed,” he said. “My Aunt Catherine has written a letter comprising fifteen pages of outrage and recrimination. She suggests I have been bewitched by arts and allurements, and demands I seek an annulment posthaste.”
Despite her distress, Elizabeth could not suppress a small laugh. “Bewitched by arts and allurements? That sounds most dramatic. I fear I possess no such powers, or I should have conjured myself a less wrinkled wedding gown.”
