Page 96 of The Slipper Scandal
He sipped his claret with evident satisfaction, then added with a smirk, “And for heaven’s sake, do not store the Malmsey beside the Constantia. It is enough to drive a man to poetry.”
Later that evening, after dinner and his cousins’ departure, Darcy retired to his chamber where he sat in a chair by the fire and thought about Fitzwilliam’s comment, that he had laid out a path for Elizabeth and waited for her to take it.
He had. But waiting for her to choose the path he had laid out was not the same as stepping aside so she could choose a path for herself. She was independent and he knew it, had even said as much to her father, but he had not offered her independence. Not really.
And that was what he must do, no matter how much he did not wish it. If he loved her, he had to release her, not out of defeat, but out of respect. He had to trust her with his heart, completely and without condition, even if it meant she might not want it.
Only then would it be her choice. Only then could he claim it was love.
No more careful calculations, no more measured words. No more of the Fitzwilliam family’s wild strategies. No more of his own.
It was terrifying. But it was necessary.
And whatever the consequences that came after, he would face them. With heartbreak, perhaps, but also with the knowledge that he had done the right thing for Elizabeth.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elizabeth sat in the Abernathys' morning room, a book open upon her lap though she had not turned a page in nearly an hour. Her thoughts were too occupied with the events of the previous day. Her parents' mortifying quarrel, her own hasty retreat, and the look in Mr. Darcy's eyes as he had witnessed it all played endlessly in her mind. Each time she attempted to focus on the printed words before her, her mind would drift to her father's cutting remarks, her mother's wounded outrage, and the quiet dignity with which Mr. Darcy had weathered the storm of Bennet family discord.
A pang of shame stirred within her as she recalled how swiftly she had abandoned him yesterday. Yet beneath that shame lurked something far more troubling, an uncomfortable awareness that she had not been fair to him. She had not really given him a chance, always holding herself at a cautious distance. It was not a distrust of his character, nor any lingering resentment from their earlier misunderstandings that held her back. Rather, it was the fear, deep and haunting, that if she wereto allow herself to love him, truly love him, and then lose him to his regrets, the pain of it would be too much to bear. She was no stranger to heartache, but his regard had touched something more fragile within her, and in her effort to protect that part of herself, she had been ungenerous. It was a cruel kind of self-preservation, and she knew it.
Outside the window, London continued its ceaseless bustle, indifferent to her turmoil. Carriages rattled past on the street below; a maid could be heard humming softly in the hall; a clock ticked with vexing regularity, marking the passage of time that seemed both too swift and unbearably slow.
She had slept poorly, her dreams haunted by images of her parents as they might have been in their youth, hoping for love before obligation and resentment had corroded whatever tender feelings they might have shared. In her fitful slumber, their faces had gradually transformed into her own and Mr. Darcy's, a premonition of what might await them should they proceed with their engagement.
"Lizzy?" Arabella's gentle voice broke through her reverie. "Are you quite well? You have been staring at the same page since breakfast."
Elizabeth closed the book with an apologetic smile. "I confess I have not absorbed a single word. My mind is elsewhere."
"With Mr. Darcy, perhaps?" Arabella suggested, settling onto the window seat across from her. "He is waiting in the drawing room. Mother has agreed to allow you a private conversation."
Elizabeth's pulse quickened at the mention of his name. Since yesterday, she had alternated between dreading their next encounter and yearning for it with an intensity that alarmed her. It was most unsettling to discover how deeply his opinion and presence had come to matter to her.
“Where are my parents?”
“Preparing to return to Longbourn tomorrow morning,” her friend said softly.
"Did Mr. Darcy appear displeased?" she asked, setting her book aside.
Arabella considered the question. "Not displeased. Grave, perhaps. Determined, certainly. He requested to see you in private with such quiet authority that even Mother did not even hesitate or ask that the door be left open."
Elizabeth's heart quickened at this news. Part of her had hoped he might not call today, that she might have more time to order her thoughts. Yet another part, a part she was reluctant to examine too closely, had yearned for his presence since the moment she had fled the drawing room.
"I suppose I must see him," she said, smoothing her skirts as she rose. "Though I scarcely know what to say after yesterday."
Arabella took her hands, squeezing them reassuringly. “I wish I had some wisdom that might help. Just speak honestly to him, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth nodded, her heart a tangled skein of contradictory emotions: fear and longing, doubt and hope, caution and desire.
Mr. Darcy stood by the window when she entered, his tall figure silhouetted against the morning light. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and the intensity of his gaze caused her breath to catch. How was it possible that his eyes could convey such depth of feeling?
"Miss Bennet," he said, his voice low and controlled as he bowed. "I am grateful you agreed to see me."
Not Elizabeth. Miss Bennet. She felt cold.
"Mr. Darcy," she replied with a curtsy, proud that her voice betrayed none of her inner turmoil. "I trust you are well this morning?"
"I am as well as can be expected," he answered, gesturing towards the settee. "Might we sit?"
