Page 66 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
And the agreement was if one or the other felt there was no merit to the union anymore after the agreed upon term expired, they would suffer the scandal of annulment and be free once more.
He hadn’t thought he would ever entertain such a thing but now he had to wonder, was everything that had grown between them based on dishonesty? He did not think she was a fortune hunter like her mother, but she had lied. And if she had lied about Wickham, what else had she lied about?
Chapter 24
Elizabeth
The morning dawned cheerless and grey, the heavy sky pressing down like Elizabeth’s spirits. Within the hour, they would leave Netherfield behind for Kent, where Lady Catherine de Bourgh and the Earl of Matlock awaited at Rosings Park. Elizabeth stood at the window, watching grooms ready the carriage, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the cold glass while her mind dwelt on the peculiar events of the previous evening.
Jane’s face had fallen when Mr Bingley, all warmth and attention throughout the ball, had vanished before the final set without so much as a goodnight. The memory of her sister’s brave attempt at a smile still stung.
“Perhaps he was called away,” Jane had murmured as Elizabeth helped her into the carriage. “Though I had hoped we might walk in the gardens before the ball concluded.”
Elizabeth had nodded and squeezed her sister’s hand, but a scene she’d witnessed earlier haunted her thoughts—Darcy and Bingley in heated conversation on the terrace, followed by Bingley’s sudden change, his easy manner replaced by something formal. And Darcy himself, growing more distant by the hour.
A soft knock broke her reverie.
“Come in.”
Sarah appeared with a curtsy. “Mr Darcy says the carriage will be ready in half an hour, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
When the door closed, Elizabeth sank onto the chair before her dressing table. The mirror reflected a pale face, shadows beneath her eyes from a night of restless turning. Darcy’s wounded expression when she’d mentioned Wickham flashed in her memory. But there was something else there too, something beyond mere disappointment at her secrecy.
She found him in the entrance hall with Bingley. Both men fell silent at her approach.
“Good morning,” she said, the words hanging awkwardly between them. “I trust you are well?”
“Tolerably well, Mrs Darcy,” Bingley replied, his usual animation nowhere to be found. “I was assuring Darcy your journey to Kent should be pleasant, the roads are clear.”
“You’re most kind,” Elizabeth said, watching him carefully.
“The carriage is waiting.” Darcy glanced towards the door. “We should leave now to reach Rosings before dark.”
Their farewells to the Bingleys were hasty and colder than she had expected. They had already said their goodbyes to the Bennets the night before, though Elizabeth intended to call on them on her return from London later that week. As the carriage pulled away, Elizabeth cast one last look at Netherfield, her stomach tight with foreboding.
Darcy stared at his book, though Elizabeth noticed his eyes weren’t moving across the page. She gazed out at the passing countryside, gathering courage for what needed to be said.
“Fitzwilliam,” she began at last. “I must apologise about Mr Wickham.”
“I don’t wish to discuss it further.” He snapped the book shut. “Not now. My mind is elsewhere.”
Elizabeth studied his face but found nothing there—no anger, no warmth, only a distant civility that hurt more than rage would have.
“I can tell something else troubles you,” she ventured. “Beyond Wickham. Won’t you tell me?” She wondered if her family had made him so uncomfortable during the dinner and the ball thereafter, he might have withdrawn from her. They had not acted any differently than they usually would, but what was usual to her might have been alarming to Darcy. Her sisters and their boisterous natures could be difficult to get used to, especially when one was accustomed to more formal surroundings, as he was.
Darcy’s gaze fixed on something beyond the carriage window. “I’m merely concerned about Rosings. My aunt isn’t known for flexibility or generosity towards those who thwart her wishes.”
“I’ll try not to provoke her unnecessarily.”
“A challenging task.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips before vanishing. “Lady Catherine considers provocation her exclusive privilege.”
They lapsed back into silence. Elizabeth opened her borrowed volume of poetry but found herself reading the same lines over and over, the words blurring as her mind circled around the change in him. Not angry but… disappointed. As though something fundamental had shifted. Yet, with him unwilling to discuss the matter, she had to sink back into silence for now, and hope that somehow, they would find their way back to each other again.
They passed the remainder of the journey speaking of nothing—the weather, passing villages, a flock of birds—while avoiding anything of substance. By the time they crossed into Kent, dread had settled in Elizabeth’s chest. Darcy had not spoken much of his family since the initial letters had arrived. She knew what to expect, knew they were often of ill humour; that she had gathered from Colonel Fitzwilliam.
During his visit, he had painted a picture of the Fitzwilliam side of the family that had shown her just how much Darcy had risked when they ran away together. She wanted to reach out and ask how he felt, and if things had been normal between them, she would have. Alas, as things stood now, he was as likely to round on her as to ignore her, and thus she said nothing.
