Page 63 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
“I would have told you,” she said. “I wanted to when I returned home but then there was tea, and then we were in thedrawing room, and then we rode out…” The excuses sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“Trust, Elizabeth,” Darcy said, “is the foundation upon which a marriage must be built. Even a marriage such as ours requires honesty to flourish.”
They had reached the entrance hall now, the butler holding the door open for them, his face carefully blank. Darcy paused, then addressed her with formal courtesy.
“I believe I shall retire immediately. The evening has been… taxing. Good night, Mrs Darcy.”
“Good night, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, watching as he ascended the stairs without a backwards glance.
She remained in the hall for a long moment after he had disappeared, her thoughts in disarray. How swiftly their newfound happiness had been threatened by this unwelcome truth. The warmth and understanding that had grown between them during their weeks at Pemberley seemed suddenly fragile, a delicate structure built upon shifting sands.
With a heavy heart, she made her way towards her own chamber, the distance between it and Darcy’s seeming greater tonight than ever before.
Chapter 22
Elizabeth
The Netherfield ballroom could rival London’s grandest balls with musicians stationed at one end, elaborate chalk drawings on the hardwood floor and the scent of roses and lavender covering those odours one might expect when crowds of people congregate in confined spaces.
A full two day had passed since the disastrous dinner at Longbourn, and in that time, Elizabeth had scarcely exchanged a dozen words with her husband. He had slept in the dressing room adjoining her chamber, a circumstance that had left her tossing through the night, her thoughts in disarray. She had risen with the firm intention of speaking to him, only to discover he had departed at first light to shoot with Mr Bingley. They had stayed at a hunting cabin overnight, robbing hr of a chance to speak to him.
When he finally returned to Netherfield, it was merely to change his attire for the evening’s ball, allowing no opportunity for private conversation.
Now she was left to seek her husband out among the crowd, watching him converse with Sir William Lucas, his visage a mask of propriety and politeness.
“You appear deep in thought,” Jane said, joining her sister. “Is all well?”
Elizabeth summoned a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Merely observing the company.”
Jane’s gaze lingered on Elizabeth’s face. “You need not pretend with me, Lizzy. I know you too well to be deceived by false cheer.”
Elizabeth sighed, glancing towards Darcy once more before turning to her sister. “You are right, of course. Darcy and I find ourselves… at odds. The revelation of my acquaintance with Mr Wickham has created a breach between us that I know not how to mend.”
“I feared as much,” Jane said. “There was a coolness in your manner towards one another that spoke of discord. Has he been very severe in his displeasure?”
“There have been no harsh words, no recriminations. Indeed, that might be easier to bear than this careful politeness. It is as though the intimacy we had developed has been replaced by the formal courtesy one might extend to a mere acquaintance.”
Jane placed a gentle hand upon her sister’s arm. “Perhaps he requires time to reconcile himself to the matter. Men, I believe, often need solitude to order their thoughts.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth conceded. “Yet I cannot help but fear that I have shattered something precious through my silence. I ought to have told him of my connection to Wickham the moment I discovered their history.”
“Why did you not?” Jane asked, her tone free from judgement, though she had advised her sister to do just that.
“Fear. Fear of harsh judgement, fear of something changing between us. Alas, that has happened now anyway.”
“Have you explained your reasoning to him?”
“I attempted to last night, but my words seemed inadequate in the face of his disappointment. He believes I did not trust him enough to confide in him.”
“Then you must speak with him again,” Jane urged. “The truth, even when painful, is less destructive than omissions.”
Elizabeth looked at Darcy again, wishing he would turn towards her but he did not. “You are right, as always. I shall seek a private moment with him this evening.”
The music concluded, and Elizabeth watched as Darcy excused himself from Bingley’s company and moved towards a side door. Here, she thought, might be her opportunity for private conversation.
She had taken but three steps in that direction when Mrs Bennet appeared before her, a determined gleam in her eye.
“Lizzy, I must speak with you,” Mrs Bennet declared, taking her daughter’s arm and steering her towards an alcove partially concealed by a large potted palm. “It is a matter of the utmost importance.”
