Chapter 8

Eight

Elizabeth maintained her dignified countenance until the heavy inn door shut firmly behind them and they had walked several steps into the darkness beyond it. Suddenly she stopped, forcing Darcy to pause with her, and looked up at him.

"I have no idea where I am going," she said.

"I was following your lead."

She burst into laughter. "That is not at all wise, sir, when I have been out of my head for most of the day. I suppose your belongings are still at the inn?"

"A few bits and bobs only. Oh, and my man is there, awaiting my return. I suppose he might begin to wonder, if I did not."

She shook her head ruefully. "Let us turn back, then."

"I would never dream of spoiling such a perfect exit as you provided us. I will send someone to fetch him, and my coachman as well."

"It is long past dark, and unfair to drag them out," she worried aloud.

"Probably the innkeeper would insist upon our departure regardless—engaging in fisticuffs in his taproom is frowned upon, I am certain. My men will understand, once they know Wickham is in the vicinity. Besides we are a mere couple of hours, give or take, from town, and doubtless they would prefer to have their own beds."

Which they could have had long ago, had they not had to deal with me and my illness , she thought. The fact that Darcy's entire contingent would want to remove him from Mr Wickham's vicinity was no longer surprising.

Matching words to action, he gained the attention of a stableman, who promptly ran to do his bidding. People had a way of doing that, she noticed. In fact, it seemed like no time at all before once again, they were ensconced in his carriage, rumbling along the pavement. Moonlight flooded the vehicle, lighting the interior and yet Darcy remained cloaked in gloom.

Elizabeth had more questions than answers, but for some reason was reluctant to break the silence between them. He sat across from her, a large, silent, dark silhouette; with almost surprising boldness she heard herself burst out with the last words she had ever thought to utter.

"I wish you were not so far away from me." Realising how brazen she had sounded, she tried to explain. "It is difficult to speak to your shadow."

Instantly he moved into the space beside her, so quickly it was startling—almost as if he had very much wanted to sit next to her.

Well , she thought, since we are married, there is no reason why we should not begin to be comfortable with each other . And so she leant against him, and was gratified when he moved his arm around her and covered her hand with his much larger one. It was an unfamiliar feeling, to be resting in the arms of a man.

It was also sweet, satisfying some need she had never known she possessed.

"I am sure you require explanations," he said, but then did not offer any.

"Yes," she agreed.

More silence.

"Who is Anne de Bourgh?" she asked at last. It was the least of the questions brimming in her thoughts—but if he possessed an affianced bride, one that probably ought to be addressed quickly.

He made a small noise of displeasure. "She is my cousin. I can assure you, we never were betrothed, although my aunt likes to pretend it is so, no matter how often I remind her otherwise."

"That must be annoying," she replied. "I?—"

"I am so sorry," he interrupted, and his words spilled out in a sudden rush. "I am sorry for Wickham's insinuations, and for losing command of myself so completely that you were forced to witness violence. Further, if there is any way you could forget our argument, the things I said to you concerning him earlier today, I would be grateful beyond reason. I meant none of it."

"Your wish has already been granted," Elizabeth said, after a moment's bewilderment. "I have no recollection of any argument. My memories are random and erratic, having more to do with events that perhaps occurred earlier in the day? We argued about…Mr Wickham?"

He sighed. "I am unsure you were arguing at all. It was I who…behaved poorly at the mention of his name."

She thought about this, trying so hard to remember, it almost hurt. There was hardly anything, beyond the vague, nonsensical recollections of her mother, of Mr Collins, of the peppermints, and kissing Darcy. Some parts of the past, I think, probably ought to stay happily buried; no doubt he, too, has had cause this day to be upset . "I truly have no recollection of this quarrel. Mr Wickham behaved despicably this evening, however, and I shall henceforth call him no friend of mine. I suppose it is possible that he might spread rumours about me within his regiment, but my family's name is a good one. Hopefully he would not be believed."

"As to that," said Darcy, "I doubt he will return to Meryton. He does not usually behave so callously before witnesses, but his greed got the better of him, imagining, as he did, that he had caught me in a compromising situation."

"You were rescuing me! He is a churl!"

"In the end, it was your quick thinking that achieved the rescue."

Elizabeth could not see how quick thinking had entered into it, but before she could ask, he continued speaking. "I should perhaps better account for the, er, depth of my hostility. Wickham was a great favourite with my father, but my friendship with him was finished while still a schoolboy."

"I have heard his claim that your father left him a legacy, a valuable living—but you would not give it to him. I suppose he lied."

"Only if he neglected to mention that he was paid three thousand pounds to sign away any rights to it."

She sat up straight, looking at him. "Truly? Why, it is positively criminal to make such claims on you now, then!"

But he only sighed again. "That, along with another thousand my father left him, satisfied the monetary requirements of the will. But he wanted the obligations and commitment of family…to the point of attempting an elopement with my fifteen-year-old sister. I have no doubt of your secrecy on this matter—I only hope you might more fully understand how the very mention of him creates misery for me. I will admit that I have wished to throw that punch for several months now, and was finally given an excuse."

His young sister? Elizabeth could only gape, shaking her head in disbelief. "No," she whispered. "He is a monster."

He hesitated, piercing her with the intensity of his gaze even in the dim carriage, and then added, "Especially when it is you who shows interest in him. There is no excuse for my jealousy—it was never within your power to understand how great a scoundrel he is, and I certainly enlightened no one."

We argued over Wickham because Darcy was jealous ?

"That seems incredible. Before today, you did not even like me."

He huffed a soft breath of what might have been laughter, and before she could even realise what had happened, his mouth was on hers, his big hands alternately framing her face or his fingertips threading through her hair, stroking her scalp.

At first Elizabeth was shocked, holding still as a trapped bird, her heart beating wildly. Yet, the astonishment could not remain, not with the taste of him, the heat of his mouth, igniting a fervour in her blood. Before she knew she would even want to touch him, her own hands were seeking, tracing the breadth of his shoulders, searching, even slipping beneath his coat to find more of his precious warmth and closeness. It was the kiss from her memories except more, even, as if the fire of his passion had kindled ever more hotly in the interim, striking sparks everywhere they touched.

"In case you were unsure," he said, spreading kisses up her jaw to a delicious place below her ear, "I have been dying for this—to hold you, to kiss you, to make you mine."

"I cannot think," she murmured. "I cannot tell whether I am still dizzy or if I have forgotten how to breathe."

At her words, he halted mid-kiss, tilting his head back to look at her. After a moment, he let a breath out, resting his forehead against hers.

"I am a beast," he said. "You have been ill."

"You are my husband," she said softly. "You need not stop. Although we do have a problem—I am not of age. I suppose my father will not challenge it, however, and would give his permission after the fact."

But at this he reared back. "What did you say?"

Elizabeth was confused by his obvious astonishment. "I am only twenty. It is yet a good four months until my birth?—"

"We are not married!"

"You said we were!"

He gaped. "I am sure I never did."

"I could hardly have made up such a thing! You said it!" Realising that she was still seated on his lap, she hurriedly moved off onto the upholstered bench.

Elizabeth was mortified. Had she imagined it? Were his words a mere product of her imagination and illness? But no, she was certain!

"You spoke of the honour and privilege of marrying me, when I regained consciousness at the inn. It was almost the first thing you said to me. I am sure you did!" She grimaced. "I think."

His brow smoothed, a hint of white teeth showing her a slight smile. "And so it would be both honour and privilege. You misunderstood me, my dear. I said that I told the innkeeper we were married, justifying our travel alone together. I only meant to explain to you that a marriage might become necessary, if circumstances did not permit our remaining anonymous. Many know me. These things have a way of getting out—as you know, now, for yourself."

"You did not argue the marriage when I announced it to my mother and Wickham!"

He gathered up her hands in his, holding on when she would have pulled away. "Of course I did not. You were brilliant. I will get a licence and we will quickly turn the lie into truth."

She stared at him. "What you mean is that from the moment you heard of Mama's plotting, you were doomed, your choices surrendered. What you mean is that I have forced you into a marriage, without your consent."

"Rather, I think it was the push I needed, to take the step I wanted. I stupidly allowed the inferiority of your connexions and that total want of propriety so frequently displayed by your mother and your three younger sisters to stand in the way of my feelings."

Elizabeth saw it then, all too clearly. He had been attracted to her, perhaps deeply attracted. But mere desire would never have been enough for him. He had expected to…to do better.

"In other words, had you not been forced by your conscience to rescue me, you would never have asked me to marry you. There are trunks atop this carriage. You were already packed when you received word of this plot by Mama and Mr Collins. You would have departed Netherfield and never looked back."

Even in the near-darkness, she could tell his gaze slid away from hers; her heart dropped to her half-boots.

"What does that signify? I was wrong. My eyes have been opened."

"Your desires have been tempted. It is not a good enough reason."

"A few minutes ago, it was," Darcy said, jaw clenching. "You were prepared to accept the marriage when you did not recall it."

She tugged her hands away from his. "I was prepared to make the best of an unfortunate situation. I trusted that if you said we must be married, we must already be."

"And so we must. You have announced the marriage to your mother—not known for her discretion—and who else heard, one can only guess. Collins, for one, has seen you in a disreputable circumstance. Will he be quiet? Not to mention Wickham."

"My father can enforce my mother's silence. Mr Collins is a fool—I cannot believe anyone would care for a word he utters. Mr Wickham believes us to be wed, and you have already said he is unlikely to return to Meryton to learn differently. If you take me to my uncle Gardiner in Cheapside, I can stay with my ‘inferior connexions' until it all blows over and some new scandal comes along for small minds to fuss about. It might take some time, but if nothing comes of this incident, it will all be forgotten eventually."

"You and Miss Bennet must always be excluded from any like criticism of inferiority," he said. "I did not mean to insult you."

"Of course you did not. To you, it is simply truth—you are of one rank, and I am of another, a much lower one. My portion is abysmal, my nearest relations are embarrassing. Imagining Mama as your mother-in-law is unbearably preposterous. Why would you do anything else except depart and call it a lucky escape?"

He appeared to be struggling to find words to refute hers. And then he said ones she had not expected. "Because I love you."

Almost, she threw herself back into his arms. It was the first time anyone had ever made such a declaration to her, and she was mightily tempted to hold onto it, to treasure it…to believe it. But she had an education in this particular circumstance that he likely did not. Briefly she touched the roughness of his cheek, her heart breaking, her conscience forcing her to be truthful, to not do the easy thing.

"My father fell in love with my mother many years ago, and nothing would do but that he should quickly marry her. Relating it now, it always becomes a cautionary tale to his daughters. They have been very unhappy together, I think. What you and I feel for each other is desire, an apparently fleeting emotion that cannot survive the first year of wedlock."

"Thank you for explaining my feelings to me so fully," he said, frustration in his voice. "Has it occurred to you that you might be wrong? That your father will be unable to prevent rumour and scandal, affecting not only you but your sisters as well? That not everyone will think Collins's tales ridiculous? That you might be exposing us both to the world for disgrace and dishonour?"

It was hard to hear the anger and hurt in his tone. It was difficult to consider that her choices now might poorly reflect upon her sisters. She did not know whether she loved him; her feelings had only recently undergone a rapid transformation. But she knew that, once she had accepted as fact a belief that they were married, she had felt neither panic over the future nor distress in the present. Instead, it had been as though she had been handed a gift; upon opening it, she had glimpsed something of inexpressible value, a dream she had never dared to dream.

Now she was tossing the gift back at him, as if it were worthless.

"I do this for you," she made herself say. "Your honour demands immediate action—you are literally unable to do aught but try to protect me. I also do this for me—lest with any and every future disagreement, I wonder how many regrets you harbour over this day."

His jaw firmed at her words as the silence grew fraught between them. Abruptly, however, he sighed. In that sigh, she heard acceptance.

He sees the sense in it now , she thought, even as regret filled her. Had she wanted him to argue? Refuse to take ‘no' for an answer?

Yes , her fickle heart answered for her. Yet, her sensible brain realised his cooperation was for the best.

For what seemed an endless time, they sat in a silence grown miserable, at least to her—side by side, but as if a brick wall had arisen between them. The well-sprung carriage swayed with the undulations of a rough patch of road beneath the wheels.

"Can you give me your uncle's direction? I will relay it to Frost at our next stop."

It was nothing less than what she had asked for—to be taken elsewhere, away from him. But regret was an ache in her heart and a lump in the pit of her throat. Quietly, she gave him the information. He only nodded in response, and silence fell again.

The night was cold. She had not noticed it before, but now that she had no distractions it was positively frigid. She wrapped her arms around herself, wretched, and tried not to think, not to remember, not to hurt.

But his words would not leave her mind.

"To call you wife would be an honour and privilege for any man. I understand you do not know me well. I beg that I might be given a chance to earn your respect."

"I have been dying for this—to hold you, to kiss you, to make you mine."

"Because I love you."

She was trying so hard to do what was right, what was best—only to have his words haunting and taunting the honour she attempted. In situations such as these, a good memory was unpardonable! Why was it so difficult to leave him, when she had known him so little? Yesterday, she had thought them practically enemies! Beyond that, she was fatigued, heartsick, and freezing. The first tear fell, and then another. She did her best to weep silently, desperately not wanting him to know, but even a small sniffle sounded loud in the quiet between them. Perhaps, however, he would politely pretend not to notice, thereby leaving her dignity intact.

"Elizabeth," he said, his voice low. "Come here." He turned towards her, breaching the invisible distance, pulling her into his arms.

Instead of refusing as she ought, she went easily, burrowing into his warmth willingly, allowing him to cradle her unresistingly as he wrapped the edges of his greatcoat around her and held her close.

"You are so cold," he said, by way of excuse for both of them. It was an insufficient one; he might have offered to give her the coat instead.

But it was the last time she would ever feel his arms around her, safe and soothing. One final memory to cherish, as the sound of horse hooves and the grind of carriage wheels against the gravel, his strong heartbeat beneath her head, created an odd sort of lullaby. Her tears dried almost instantly on her cheeks within the peace of it, and—though she tried to fight it, to stay awake, to relish every remaining moment—between one breath and the next, she slept.