Page 61 of The Widower of Pemberley

“Lord! And this is what you think of me?”

He grimaced. “I do not know what you mean, madam.”

Elizabeth would have pressed her hands into her face if she were not holding Emily. “But what else can you think? You are not even wrong. I am mercenary. I ought to despise myself like you despise me. I do despise myself. You are right to not trust me. What have I ever done with respect to you that is worthy of trust?”

She sat down without looking at anyone, unwilling to face either Mr. Darcy or her sister. She pulled Emily close.

“This was a mistake,” Elizabeth said softly.

Poor, poor Emily.

But Elizabeth also knew that she could not bring herself to encourage Mr. Collins to renew his attentions.

“I do not know what you mean,” Mr. Darcy said.

Elizabeth opened her eyes. “We must speak privately together. No—Papa, stay here. We can go out to the garden to speak. And—”

Mr. Bennet was already struggling to push himself up, and Mr. Bingley instantly hurried to help him.

“I shall see what the rest of the house is doing.” Her father’s face was grave. “Lizzy, I can give you no advice. I only tell you to trust your own judgment and understanding.”

Elizabeth nodded. Her lips were numb. Her hands did not seem quite real. Everything was distant and quite odd.

“Miss Emily, can we play draughts again?” Mr. Bennet said to her. “I would very much like to play another game with you.”

Emily squeezed Elizabeth tighter.

“Please,” Elizabeth said to the girl. “I must talk with your papa for a little, and then—” Her voice caught. She had no business making promises of future happiness to the child. “And then we shall have another tea party with Mr. Nananoo. I shall be a guest, and your papa too.”

The girl grabbed Elizabeth’s face to look directly into her eyes. “You promise?”

“I can at least promise that.”

Emily ran off after Mr. Bennet, who had reached the door. Mr. Darcy helped Jane to rise and follow them.

His face was wan and his movements slow.

Once they were alone, he collapsed into her father’s chair, like his legs could not support him.

“What do you—” He paused. Swallowed. “Elizabeth, I beg you, I spoke in anger. And from fear. I was surprised to see Wickham here, but I should not have spoken with such mistrust. I only wished to know, to be certain, that you had nothing to do with him.”

“You can never have certainty,” Elizabeth replied. “You know that.”

It was a good thing for her to hear herself. She also could never have certainty as to whether she was making the right decision or not.

Mr. Darcy looked different from usual. He had transformed from the violent male animal who had demanded satisfaction from Mr. Wickham and who had promised to put a bullet through his heart. He now was smaller, wounded, and weaker.

Elizabeth forced herself to speak. “It cannot be right to marry without great affection between the parties. It cannot be. I have meant to…sacrifice myself for Jane’s happiness and well-being, but I…you also deserve a marriage in which you love and trust your wife.”

She tried to make her voice tell Mr. Darcy clearly that she would end the engagement. But she could not make the sounds come out.

Mr. Darcy stared at his lap. At the leather document case he had come into the room holding, and that he still held.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Mr. Darcy, you have not said anything. You see that we should not—”

“No.” He looked up at her now, directly. There was something firmer in his eyes again. He looked more like himself. “No.”

She could not meet his gaze, and she looked down.