5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

E lizabeth squeezed her fingers tightly against each other with all the strength in her hands. If she must sit and wait, she would find some way of burning off the anxiety that tingled in her limbs. Her aunt and Jane sat close beside her, their concerned glances flitting toward her as though they were waiting for her to shatter into a thousand pieces.

Outside, in her uncle's study, Mr Darcy and Mr Gardiner were discussing—no, arguing —over her future. She did not need to hear the words to know what was happening. Her fate was being decided by two men, without her, and whatever came of it would be delivered to her like a final, cold judgment.

"Lizzy," her aunt murmured, trying to soothe her, "at least Mr Darcy came. That is something, is it not? He must wish to offer aid in some form."

Elizabeth said nothing, her eyes fixed on the flickering flame of the hearth. She knew better. Aid? What could Mr Darcy offer that would save her now? Even if he were generous enough to give her a settlement—a lifetime's worth of security—it would not be enough to save her reputation. In fact, it would make things worse. People would whisper about her being a rich man's paid woman, living off the shame of Captain Darcy's indiscretion. No, money could not mend the ruin she had brought upon herself.

Her sisters were ruined, too— every Bennet daughter stained by the disgrace. There would be no invitations, no respectable proposals. And even though Elizabeth might scrape by on Mr Darcy's generosity, her future would never be honourable again. It was over. Her chance for marriage, for any semblance of normalcy, had been buried with Captain Darcy.

She covered her face with her hands, trying to hold back the sobs that threatened to escape. Harry! She had been looking forward to a life with him, a life she had convinced herself she could be happy in. No, he was not a man of fortune, but what did she have? A country girl with nothing more than an ageing father with an entailed estate and hardly any dowry to offer? They had been well-suited, or so she had thought. They got on well, and he had been there when she needed him. But now... he was gone, and with him, any hope of salvaging her life.

Jane leaned closer, placing a hand on Elizabeth's arm. "Lizzy, do not despair. We will think of something. There is always hope."

Elizabeth sniffed sharply and brushed Jane's hand away. "Hope?" she muttered, her voice edged with bitter humour. "For what, Jane? That a respectable man will suddenly appear and overlook the fact that I have ruined our family name? No. I've no illusions about what I have done." She laughed, though there was no mirth in it. "If I were truly clever, I would find a way to disappear quietly. Perhaps I'll take up residence in a small, forgotten cottage in the middle of nowhere. Live on my own means, far from the eyes of those eager to gossip."

"Lizzy, do not speak like that—"

"Oh, but why not, Jane?" Elizabeth retorted, forcing herself to smile through the tears that pricked at her eyes. "Let us not pretend. I brought this upon myself. There is no use in sugar-coating it. I have made my bed, and I shall lie in it. Though, in truth, I suspect it will be a rather lumpy bed, without so much as a decent pillow to rest my head on."

Her aunt shifted in her chair. "Elizabeth, you must not speak so. We will find a way to make things right—"

But Elizabeth shook her head. "Make things right? Aunt, I appreciate your optimism, but we both know there is no ‘right' to be found. What's done is done. I shall face whatever ruin may come with as much dignity as I can scrape together."

She managed to smile again, though it was a hollow thing, and quickly wiped her eyes before the tears could fall. She would not cry. There was no room for tears. If she could not have honour, at least she would have her pride.

Even as she began mentally crafting her escape plan—imagining a solitary life far from society's prying eyes—the drawing-room door opened. The manservant stepped in, his face as impassive as ever, but Elizabeth felt her stomach twist at the sight of him.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said. "Mr Gardiner wishes to speak with you in his study."

For a moment, Elizabeth's breath staggered, her heart in her throat. Her fate was waiting for her beyond that door. She barely registered her own words of agreement, her feet moving of their own accord as she stood and allowed herself to be led from the drawing room.

Each step felt like a step toward the gallows, her pulse quickening as the hallway stretched before her. She could feel Jane's eyes on her back, could hear her aunt's murmured reassurances, but none of it penetrated the fog of dread that had settled in her chest.

Before she knew it, she was sitting in her uncle's study, her hands folded tightly in her lap as she faced her uncle across the heavy desk. The room smelled of leather and ink, the fire casting long shadows along the bookshelves. But it was not her uncle who held her attention—it was the tall figure standing near the window, his back turned to the room.

Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Not the Darcy she knew. Not the man she trusted, but a taller, more formal shadow of him.

His hands were locked behind his back, his posture rigid, as if he were holding himself together by sheer force of will. Whatever had passed between him and her uncle, it did not seem like a discussion in which she had much say. Her heart hammered, her throat dry as she swallowed hard.

Elizabeth's voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. "Am I to be enlightened now?"

D arcy stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the street below, though he saw none of it. His fingers twitched at his sides, every muscle tense as he fought the urge to turn and face Miss Bennet. He had no desire to look at her, not now—not while the reality of what was being arranged hovered like a weight he could not shrug off. But he could hear her behind him, could feel the oppressive silence filling the room as Mr Gardiner prepared to speak.

This was how it had to be. The arrangements had been made, the proposal delivered, and, despite the doubts roiling within him, Darcy felt a grim satisfaction in having done what was necessary. Mr Gardiner, for his part, had proven surprisingly reasonable. Darcy had expected more resistance, more outrage, from the man who had written that damning letter to his brother.

But there had been none. Darcy had not even been required to produce that letter for reference, nor even to speak of it directly. They understood one another well enough. Gardiner had listened to his proposition with calm deliberation, and the relief that passed through the man's expression had been excruciatingly clear, despite the civility with which he masked it.

The Gardiners, it seemed, had been at a loss as to what to do with Miss Elizabeth. The affection the man bore for his niece was evident, but so, too, was his frustration. Darcy had recognised that same quiet exasperation in the aunt and sister he had met earlier. Miss Elizabeth's actions had been reckless, had dragged her whole family into the mire of disgrace, and yet… Gardiner had agreed to Darcy's terms without hesitation. A quiet marriage. As soon as possible. Darcy would even secure a special license so that the whole affair could be conducted within the privacy of the Gardiner home. No public spectacle, no fanfare, and—most importantly—no witnesses beyond the immediate household.

Gardiner had, with some hesitation, asked about bringing her family from Longbourn to witness the marriage, but Darcy had declined. The family, surely, would prefer to distance themselves from this scandal, and it would be better for all if the matter were patched up quickly and discreetly from afar.

And besides, he was in mourning. As would she be now.

Darcy had assured Gardiner that he would settle a generous amount on Miss Elizabeth, that she would have enough to ensure a future of relative comfort—respectable enough, if she played her role. The rest would depend on her. This marriage, this arrangement, was about necessity. There was no room for sentiment, no room for the romantic gestures she might have once dreamed of with his brother.

As Mr Gardiner spoke, relaying the details of the arrangement to the lady, Darcy kept his back to the room, staring at the empty street outside as though it might somehow offer solace. Occasionally, he dared to glance over his shoulder at Miss Bennet. Her face was pale, her hands folded tightly in her lap, but he could see the rising colour in her cheeks as Gardiner continued to speak. She was angry—rightfully so—but she was holding herself together for the moment. He had expected this much from her, though her silence unnerved him more than her anger.

What was she thinking? Was she cursing him for robbing her of the man she had meant to marry? Did she even know it was his fault? The heat of her gaze on his back felt like a physical thing, and despite his attempts to remain impassive, Darcy could not ignore the scathing reproach that built with every passing second.

When Gardiner finished, the silence that followed was deafening. Miss Bennet did not speak, but Darcy could feel her eyes burning into him, daring him to turn and face her. For a long moment, he could not force himself to move. There was something whenever he looked into her red-rimmed eyes, something that pierced through his carefully constructed walls, striking him with an emotion he could not quite name.

Finally, he turned, his throat working as he swallowed. There was a strange, unaccountable urge in him to apologise to her, to offer some small word of regret for the way things had turned out. But the words stuck in his throat. He could not give her that. And he certainly could not offer her the ridiculous, romantic gesture of kneeling before her as though this were a love match.

Instead, he forced the words past his lips. "Will you accept my terms?"

Elizabeth Bennet's face tightened, her jaw working as she fought to steady herself. He could see the tremor in her shoulders, the way her hands clenched in her lap as though she were holding herself together by sheer force of will. She swallowed hard, her whole body shivering with the effort to control her emotions.

"Yes," she said, at last, the word clipped, devoid of any joy. It was a word of resignation, one that felt like a death knell in Darcy's ears.

The room seemed to close in around him. That single word—small and sharp—had sealed not just her fate, but his own. He had set this course in motion, and now he would live with it, no matter how it felt like his own doom.

"Very well." Darcy bowed to her, then to Mr Gardiner, his throat constricting. "I will send my man of business with the settlement offer. The rest of the details will be arranged." He straightened, his voice cool and formal. "We will be married by the end of the week. After the ceremony, I intend for us to leave for Derbyshire without delay."

He glanced once more at Miss Bennet. Her jaw was set, her cheekbones sharpened by anger, the fire in her eyes still burning, though she remained silent.

She nodded once, not trusting herself to speak.

Darcy bowed again, a stiff, perfunctory gesture, and without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room.

Four Days Later

T he morning light filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale shadows across the small room. Elizabeth sat at her dressing table, staring at her reflection. Her hands trembled as she tried to pin up the last of her hair, but it was no use—her fingers were clumsy today, shaking with a mixture of nerves and something that felt a great deal like terror. Reluctance. Her heart was heavy with the knowledge that this day—her wedding day—felt more like a sentencing than the beginning of a new life.

What a cheerless occasion! If only there were something to look forward to, something to soften the blow of leaving everything and everyone she knew behind. At least now, Jane could have a future. Perhaps Mr Bingley might return, and perhaps her uncle would let the gentleman see her. The possibility was small comfort, but comfort all the same.

She turned her gaze to her reflection again. What sort of man was Fitzwilliam Darcy? The question lingered in her mind like a dull ache. Harry had told her very little about his brother, though she supposed she had never asked. There was never time for such things. She had been so focused on her own plans with Harry, so caught up in the notion that her future was secure, that she had never thought to learn more about the man to whom she would now be bound—the substitute husband.

In truth, she had known little about Harry either, but at least she had known him personally. His body language, his clear, open expressions—she could read him easily. His face was pleasing, his manner comfortable, and she had felt safe with him, as if everything would work itself out in time.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, however, was another matter entirely. Harry had spoken of his brother as a man of duty, a man who could be relied upon, someone whom Harry clearly admired. But to Elizabeth, the portrait he had painted was of a severe man, rigid and cold. Someone who would do what was required of him, but without finding any joy in it. A dutiful husband, yes, but one whose sense of obligation left no room for warmth or affection. A cold, impersonal marriage awaited her.

Her hands trembled more violently as she fumbled with a hairpin, and she let out a soft sigh of frustration, dropping it onto the table. At that moment, there was a gentle knock at the door. Aunt Gardiner stepped in quietly, saying nothing as she crossed the room. She came to stand behind Elizabeth, resting her hands on her niece's shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Mrs Gardiner offered a small, tight smile.

Elizabeth sniffed, her fingers idly plucking at the borrowed gown she wore, smoothing the soft fabric as if it might distract her from the day ahead. "The lace is lovely," she murmured. "Thank you for lending it to me. It is much finer than anything I brought from Longbourn." She hesitated, the corner of her mouth lifting in a faint attempt at humour. "Except for my ballgown. But a girl can hardly get married in a ballgown. Only think what my future husband would think of that!"

Mrs Gardiner's smile wavered, and she sighed. "We should have taken the time to alter it," she said, her hands gently squeezing Elizabeth's shoulders. "It is a bit too large for you."

Elizabeth shook her head, forcing a small, bitter laugh. "I will only be wearing it for a few minutes," she replied, her eyes fixed on her lap. "I'll be changing into my travel attire soon enough. Besides, I doubt my husband will care one way or another." She swallowed. "He probably already thinks me more indecent than I am."

Mrs Gardiner's expression tightened, her lips thinning as she fell silent. Her hands stilled on Elizabeth's shoulders, her touch now more of a quiet comfort than anything else. The silence between them grew, and Elizabeth stared at her own reflection until her gaze blurred and she almost forgot that was herself in the mirror.

After a long pause, she focused to meet her aunt's eyes in the mirror once more. "Is Pemberley truly as beautiful as you have always said?" Her voice was tentative—all she wanted was some scrap of hope to cling to.

Mrs Gardiner smiled again, this time a little more earnestly. "Yes. Pemberley is everything I have described and more. If nothing else, Lizzy, you will have beautiful grounds to walk on. Better than London. It is a fine estate."

Elizabeth nodded, her fingers still toying with the lace of her gown. Beautiful grounds . That did sound… not awful. But would she walk them alone? Fitzwilliam Darcy certainly did not seem like the kind of man to join her. She could not imagine him strolling through gardens or engaging in quiet conversation. Certainly, he would not stoop to daydream or jest with his wife. He would do his duty; that much was clear, but she doubted he would ever be more than a stranger to her.

There was another knock at the door, this time softer. Jane slipped into the room, her face filled with gentle concern. She smiled at Elizabeth's reflection in the mirror, then came to her side, taking her hands in her own. Elizabeth turned on the stool to face her sister fully.

"Mr Darcy has arrived. And the clergyman is with him."

Elizabeth felt her blood run cold. Her heart gave a sickening lurch, and she paled, her grip tightening on Jane's hands.

Jane squeezed her fingers. "Lizzy… it is not too late." Her voice trembled ever so slightly. "If you wish to call it off—if you truly cannot bear it—you do not have to go through with this."

For a moment, Elizabeth could not speak. Her mouth felt dry, her head light, as if the room were spinning. But then she drew in a deep breath, steeling herself against the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She gave Jane's hands a final squeeze and squared her shoulders, rising to her feet.

"Yes, Jane," she said softly, her voice firm despite the tightness in her throat. "It is too late."

She stepped away from the dressing table, her movements slow and deliberate, every step taking her closer to the fate she could not avoid.