by Gail McEwen
“Not at all,” she responded. “But I must—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “And I understand.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have been unfair—bursting in on you without warning and pressuring you to agree to what I want. But you have been wiser than I. As much as I do not want it, I understand the need to wait. Our mutual feelings of guilt over Wickham…your confusion…my impatience…all show that we should take some time before moving ahead. I need to respect your wishes. You need to learn to trust me. All I ask is that you give me the opportunity to prove that you can. If you promise me that, I promise to wait as long as necessary to make that happen.”
“Mr Darcy, please say no more!” Elizabeth’s heart pounded in her ears.
He looked at her with confusion and not a little hurt in his eyes.
“I appreciate your willingness to consider my feelings.” She clenched her hands together to keep them from shaking as much as her voice. “And I am grateful. I wish…” She dropped her eyes momentarily then looked up, lifted her chin and took a deep breath. “But before this conversation goes any further, there is something you must know. There is a child.”
“A child?”
“Yes.”
She watched as the news sunk in and the implications flickered across his face. He cleared his throat to ask the obvious question, and she braced herself.
“Is it mine?”
“Mr Darcy, I am so tempted… I wish I could simply say yes, but that would not be fair.”
“It is Wickham’s?” He nearly grimaced as he said the name. His mind reeled so, it took some minutes before he realised she had not answered.
“Elizabeth, is it Wickham’s?”
“I… I cannot say.”
His stomach dropped.
“I do not know.” Her voice was full of emotion. “I know what I wish, and I know what I suspect, but in truth, I cannot say for certain.”
When he said nothing, she continued, “So you see, it is a good thing I am here. I…we…shall live quietly in Griggsdon.
“I never thought you would find me,” she added softly.
“But it could be mine?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“And that is what you suspect?”
Again she nodded.
“In that case, how can I leave you to live quietly in Griggsdon?”
“Because there is also the other possibility. Although I was married to George Wickham for a year and no child was conceived, and it was only after you and I… However, I was his wife. I shared his bed, and I performed my marital duties faithfully. It could be his.”
“Enough!” Darcy winced at the thought. “I am well aware that you were married to that man. Why must you throw that aspect of it in my face?”
“I say nothing that you cannot help but think yourself in your darkest moments, and I do not trust that you can forgive me for it. I do not mean to be unkind, but there it is, and we are better off to acknowledge the truth and move on. I shall release you from obligation to both me and the child.”
Without answering, he looked down, kicking at the rocks in the road.
“How will you live?”
“I have George’s money, enough to support us in relative comfort.”
“I see. That is good.” He was clearly distracted in his thoughts, which showed in the bluntness of his next question. “How much?”
“Nearly £2,000.”
“Invested?”
“Yes, with the help of my uncle.”
“Good. Very good.”
After a good ten minutes of leading his horse in silence beside her while she wondered what he was thinking, he abruptly stopped.
“Forgive me. I must go.” He raised his foot to the stirrup and quickly mounted.
“Of course.” Elizabeth was not surprised, but however foolishly, she could not help but feel a measure of disappointment as she watched him ride away, certain she would never see him again.
* * *
All the next day, Elizabeth watched the clock, waiting for two o’clock to come and go, hoping that, when it passed, she could stop living in dreadful anticipation. But when the hour finally struck, she could not help indulging in a quick peek out the window, only to see Mr Darcy’s horse tied to the gatepost. The next moment, she heard the familiar knock, and she was nearly frozen with astonishment. Somehow, she made it to the door.
“I can live with it,” Darcy said decidedly as he walked in.
“With what?”
“You implied yesterday that I could not live with the knowledge that the child might be Wickham’s, but the answer is, I can.”
She stared at him, speechless, while he waited. When at last she could find the words, her response was not what he expected.
“I don’t believe it.”
“You doubt me?”
“Of course I doubt you. You cannot know what you are about.”
“I wish you would do me the courtesy of taking me at my word. I have thought it over; indeed, I have thought of nothing else. The child could be mine, and I cannot leave you, knowing that the likelihood exists.”
“Do you think it will be that easy?”
“Yes.”
“It will not, it cannot, be as easy as you say. We can never know for sure. You will always have doubts. “
“True, we may never know for certain, but is not that better? Then we can choose a truth that suits us best. The child is mine.”
“What you are suggesting… It all sounds very nice, but I fear it is too much to ask of any man. You are only human after all. You will do your best to be fair and impartial; but how can you help watching for any mannerisms or looks that can be attributed to George? And if the child is naughty? Will that be proof in your eyes of who the father truly is?”
“If the child is naughty, it will be proof that he is related to his Fitzwilliam cousins.” He ventured a smile. “Or for that matter, his aunt Georgiana.”
He waited, hoping she would smile in return, but her face was awash with conflicting emotions.
“I do not deny that we will face struggles,” he said, “but I had much rather face those struggles with you than contemplate any sort of life without you. I want to be with you, Elizabeth. I want you to believe that, no matter how your child came to be, I shall be the father and raise it as my own.”
“But what if it is a son? Can you raise him to be your heir without reservation?”
“Yes.”
“If we should have other children…other sons…will you still feel the same?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be sure?”
With a sigh, he sat down next to her and took her hand.
“Because I cannot do otherwise. I cannot live otherwise. I do not deny that I wish we did not have to face this, but from our first meeting, nothing has ever been easy between us. Why should this be different?”
“You are a man with a name and a legacy to be proud of, so much so that last year you could hardly bear the thought of a connection with me. And that was when your greatest objection was a silly mother and an uncle in trade. So much has happened since then; I am so degraded, and everything is so much worse… What of your pride now?”
“I am not the same man I was a year ago, and I have found that pride is a cold companion in the night. I want to have you on my terms, but if I cannot… If you can say that you love me in return, I will take you on yours.”
“What do you mean, my terms?”
“Yesterday, I told you I would wait as long as you required. But to claim the child as my own, we must be married as soon as may be. However”—he raised his hand to forestall the objections he saw rising to her lips—“if you will not come with me to Pemberley, then I shall go with you where you wish.”
“You would stay here in Griggsdon?” She could not help but indulge in a smile.
“If that is what you want, though it might be a little too close to Rosings and Lady Catherine for our comfort. We wo
uld do better to find a small farm somewhere in the country and live quietly off the land.”
At that, the smile turned into a full, genuine laugh.
“Why do you laugh?”
“I am sorry, but I cannot get past the image of Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, dressed in rough clothes, working the fields, and trying to coax a team to pull a plough.”
“Well”—he chuckled—“at least we shall not have to live solely off the fruits of my poor labour.”
“Thank heavens for small favours!”
“But I am in earnest.” He sobered. “We may have to move forward more quickly now than you wanted, but we can live, and live quietly, anywhere we wish after that. And we can learn to care for and trust each other in time.”
“You make it all sound so simple.” Elizabeth sighed. “And tempting. But I jumped too quickly into marriage once before, and the possibility of making another such mistake terrifies me. I would like some time to think.”
“There is no time to — ” Darcy started to say then stopped. “Forgive me. I meant to say, take all the time you need. I shall ride out to the market road again tomorrow.”
“One day may not be enough.”
“Then I shall be there the next day. And every day after that.”
* * *
For three days, Elizabeth stayed away, unable to come to a decision, thinking herself into circles. When she looked with a hard, unbiased eye, it was all so clear, but her personal experience taught her to be wary of the promises of men. Would she not be a fool to give up her newfound autonomy and modest resources? She loved her little house and the peaceful life she had begun to build for herself. Yet, even as she delighted in what she had achieved, Mr Darcy’s declaration echoed in her ears. You will not want this forever. There is too much life in you to be happy this way for long.
And she knew it was true. With no other choice, she would have stayed in Griggsdon, lived frugally and quietly, and done her best to provide for her child alone. But as she thought about it, the long lonely years of shouldering the burden on her own began to feel more real and more daunting. With no other option, she would do it willingly, but now a choice was before her. There was no question about what she wanted to do, but frightened of making the same terrible mistakes, she was not as clear on what she should do.
From a purely pragmatic point of view, the choice was obvious. Mr Darcy had the means to provide a good life for her and her child — better than she could do herself and better than George ever could have done.
Yet, Wickham’s original £4,000, combined with his income from the regiment, would have been sufficient to provide a comfortable if not lavish life. He had simply been unwilling to sacrifice his personal wants and needs for anyone else. Mr Darcy, on the other hand, stood ready to turn his back on his heritage, his estate, and his social status in order to be with her.
But the question kept coming back: Was she willing to give up everything she had so recently found and put herself and her child at the mercy of another—even if that other was Mr Darcy? Could she trust in love? Could she trust him? Could she trust herself?
Oh, there was no doubt she wanted to, but then she looked around the small house, and a feeling of satisfaction welled up within her, and she could not imagine ever leaving it, yet…
You will not want this forever.
* * *
For three days, Darcy rode out to the market road and then back to Rosings Park without encountering any sign of Elizabeth. On the fourth day, he had all but lost hope, but when he came to the turning in the road, he saw her sitting on a boulder in the shade of a tree. Her stern expression held at bay the relief that wanted to flood over him. Jumping down, he led his horse into the trees and, without a word, looked at her in question.
“I have conditions,” she said simply. “And they are unusual—unheard of, I should say—and quite possibly insulting.”
“Go on.”
“I also have a confession to make, and I had better start with that. Will you not take a seat?”
Tossing the reins over a low-hanging branch, Darcy sat on the grass underneath a nearby tree and waited.
“I love you.” Her solemn expression forestalled any happiness he might have otherwise felt at finally hearing the words. “I have loved you, in fact, since the day of Jane and Bingley’s wedding. I watched you that day, and even under your reserve and tension, I could see your goodness, and I understood what I had lost when I refused you. So there I was, a married woman, still newly wed, in love with another man.
“Despite that, I tried to be a good wife to George for a time, but any esteem or regard we once imagined we felt for one another quickly eroded, and I soon stopped trying. And every time you and I met, I knew that I loved you still and more. And I hated myself for it. I hated George. I hated you. I hated you for being everything I wanted but could not have.
“And because I hated George, I was willing to let him die. You say you would not have helped him even if I had asked, but I did not know that—and I still did not ask.
“I have done and thought things of which I never could have imagined myself capable—that no woman of any worth would be capable. I have no one to blame for any of this except myself. I have brought unhappiness and pain to my family, and I have been a burden and an embarrassment to my friends. I always had a high opinion of myself—my wit, my judgement, my worth — but it took less than one year of unhappy circumstances to turn me into someone of whom I am ashamed. I cannot understand why you would still want me after you have seen me for what I am. If you do, I have more to say, but I think, for your sake, it would be best to get on your horse this moment and ride away forever.”
He plucked at the grass, taking his time to come up with the right words.
“I know only too well of what you speak. I, too, had a great opinion of myself. I was spoilt by my parents, given good principles but left to follow them in pride and conceit. In short, I have been a selfish being all my life, and even as I told myself that everything I did was for your sake, I acted for myself just as much or more. But”—he looked up and met her eyes—“none of that changes what I feel for you or, I hope, what you feel for me. Despite everything, despite what you have done and despite what I have done, I still love you.”
He paused.
“I still love you,” she whispered.
“Like you, I am not proud of my behaviour, but what is between us is stronger even than pride. Can we not stop looking back and look forward instead? You said you had conditions. I would like to hear them.”
She hesitated for so long that he was not sure she would speak after all, but suddenly she blurted out, “I want to keep my money!”
“What? Why?” He blinked in surprise.
“It is all I have. It is my security,” she tried to explain. “When I married George, I was trapped, powerless, and without any means to help myself. I cannot bear the thought of ever being in that position again.”
“You do not trust me.”
“Forgive me, but no, not entirely. Please do not think I compare you to George or believe that you are like him, but when I think of losing control of my life again, of putting myself in the power of another man, any other man, even you, it terrifies me. I do think I may learn to trust you in time. I am asking for that time.”
“So you want me to provide you with the means to leave should you take the notion?”
“Not provide. The money is mine. I just want to keep it.”
“Why would I allow that?”
“Because I ask it of you. If you wish me to learn to trust you, you will have to learn to trust me as well.”
“What else?” he asked, not yet able to acquiesce.
“I do not want to live at Pemberley, at least for now, or in London, ever.”
“We have already established that, I believe. Anything more?” His mouth compressed into a thin line of displeasure.
“My sisters,” she forged on. “My actions have hurt them, damaging th
eir chances to make a good marriage. If you are willing, I would like a little something settled on each of them, to help.”
“Is that all?”
She could not tell if he was being ironic.
“Yes.”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to sit and wait while Darcy continued to pluck at the grass, deep in thought. Nearly ten minutes passed in silence before he looked up at her.
“Very well, but I have a few conditions of my own.”
“Go on.”
“I will help your sisters, but in such a way that either Bingley or your uncle gets the credit. If it is known to come from me, it will appear as if I am trying to buy your pardon with your family. True reconciliation will take time and must be accomplished without any undue influence.”
“I do not want credit; I just want to help them.”
“As for how much I shall give… Since you appear to be quite attached to your £2,000, would a similar sum for each of your unmarried sisters be acceptable?”
“There is no need to be unpleasant,” she snapped, anger flashing in her eyes.
“You must forgive me, but I never anticipated such a demand from you. I do not quite know how to take it.”
“Take it as an irrational request from a fearful woman.”
“My next condition,” he plunged ahead without responding. “Your London and my London are two very different worlds; therefore, I make no promises regarding living there except to say that I shall consult your feelings before making such a move. I do agree to live away from Pemberley for the time being; however, I insist that we be married from there.”
“Why ever for?”
“It is my home. Ten generations of Darcys have married in that chapel, and it is important to me to carry on the tradition.”
“But there will be gossip and—”
“Hear me out, Elizabeth. We shall arrive with our heads held high, we shall marry quietly in the chapel, the servants will enjoy punch and cake, and the villagers will feast in our honour. We will then retire to a quiet corner of the country and leave them to gossip, or not, as they will. By the time we return, whenever that will be, they will have talked themselves out and grown used to the idea.”