Page 75 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
Elizabeth fell silent, unable to deny the truth of her aunt’s perception. Despite her anger and disappointment, her feelings for Darcy had transformed during their months together. What had begun as a practical arrangement had deepened into genuine attachment—an attachment now tested by his error in judgement.
“What will you do now?” Mr Gardiner asked after a pause. “Do you intend to consult a solicitor regarding an annulment, as you mentioned in your letter? Your Uncle Phillips will certainly help. If not, then I can find someone.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I am uncertain. I have my meeting with Nocturne Publishing this week. Although I think I will go tomorrow. Perhaps after that, I shall decide my course.”
“The publisher has responded favourably to your manuscript?” Mrs Gardiner enquired.
“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied. “They requested a meeting to discuss terms. It is what I have dreamed of since girlhood. It is why we came south. The visits to Rosings and Netherfield were only part of our plans.”
“Then you must attend, regardless of your marital difficulties,” Mr Gardiner said. “Your talents deserverecognition, Lizzy. Do not allow personal disappointments to overshadow this achievement.”
Elizabeth withdrew the contract from her reticule, spreading it on the small table. “There is a complication. As a married woman, I require my husband’s signature to publish under my own name. Without it, I must use a pseudonym or forgo publication entirely.”
Mrs Gardiner examined the document. “A common requirement, I fear. The law grants a husband authority over his wife’s creative and intellectual property.”
“Do you think Mr Darcy would withhold his signature?” Mr Gardiner asked.
“No,” Elizabeth admitted. “Whatever his faults, he has always supported my writing. Indeed, he was instrumental in preparing the final manuscript when my wrist was injured.”
“Then perhaps all is not lost,” Mrs Gardiner said. “A man who values your talents enough to assist in their expression may yet prove worthy of forgiveness, once proper understanding is established between you.”
The conversation turned to practical matters—Elizabeth’s accommodations at the Gardiner home, provision for her appointment the following day, messages to be sent to Longbourn. On her uncle’s insistence, she allowed him to send an express to Rosings, so that Darcy might know where she was.
She did not like the idea, but understood he deserved to know as he would worry. As would Georgiana. However, she insisted her uncle write that he was not to come for her.
By the time she retired that evening, Elizabeth’s mind remained unsettled, but her heart was somewhat eased by her aunt and uncle’s counsel.
***
Elizabeth spent the following week at Gracechurch Street, writing when her mind would allow her to, walking with her aunt, and playing with her younger cousins.
No matter what she did, however, her thoughts travelled back to Mr Darcy time and again. She wondered how he was, if he hated her or if he might have already returned to Pemberley to speak to his solicitor about an annulment.
Each night, she would stare at the ceiling above her head, replaying their arguments, their tender moments at Pemberley, his expression when she had spoken of leaving him. Had she made a mistake? She had lied and concealed things from him and he had done the same. They were as flawed as each other.
Her thoughts spun around day in and day out but the morning of her meeting at Nocturne found her oddly at peace. As if the prospect of finding a home for her stories had settled her. She knew it may be difficult to secure an offer, given her and Darcy’s fraught connection.
She selected her finest day dress, a becoming blue muslin.
The publishing house occupied modest premises off Paternoster Row. Its narrow façade distinguished only by a discreet brass plaque bearing the company name.
Mr Morris of Nocturne Publishing awaited her within.
The meeting passed in a blur of conversation—Mr Morris’s praise for her manuscript, his enthusiasm for publishing the work, his discussion of terms that seemed most generous to Elizabeth’s inexperienced ear. She signed the preliminary agreement with fingers that trembled slightly, securing the publisher’s intent pending her husband’s final approval.
“You understand, Mrs Darcy, that we require Mr Darcy’s signature before proceeding to publication,” Mr Morris said as she prepared to depart. “The law is quite specific regarding a married woman’s literary property. I am disappointed he did not come along.”
“He was occupied,” she said, for this appeared the actually be the truth. “And I understand I shall obtain his signature with all possible haste.”
She descended the stairs, her heart lighter than it had been in days despite this remaining obstacle. Nocturne wished to publish her work. Her dream, the one comfort that had sustained her through the darkest moments of her father’s agreement with the Blackfriars, was now within her grasp.
As she stepped into the street, intent on returning to Gracechurch Street to share her triumph with her aunt and uncle, a familiar figure standing beside a carriage across the way arrested her motion. Tall, grave-faced, impeccably attired—Fitzwilliam Darcy waited; his eyes fixed upon the publishing house entrance.
Their gazes met across the crowded street, and the bustle of London seemed to fade around them. Elizabeth stood transfixed, unable to move forward or retreat, while Darcyremained equally motionless, his expression unreadable at such a distance.
Then, with deliberate steps, he crossed towards her, navigating between carts and pedestrians until he stood before her, close enough that she could see the fatigue etched upon his features, the tension in his shoulders, the uncertainty in his eyes.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low but distinct amid the street noise. “I have been waiting for you.”
