Page 36 of Not Without Me, Miss Elizabeth

Darcy shut the door behind them and turned back to Elizabeth, only to find a very different scene from the one he had left. He saw that Elizabeth sat upon the bed, and had turned from him, her shoulders shaking as she fought to hold back what were plainly deep, wrenching sobs.

In truth, Darcy had never known what to do in the face of tears; his sister's had always undone him entirely, and Elizabeth's undid him now no less. Some part of him wished to quit the room altogether; a better part knew he could not.

He crossed to her and laid a hand upon her back. She flinched, turning her face further away, her sobs growing only louder. He patted her back gently for some time before, at a loss for any better remedy, he seated himself beside her and drew her into his arms. She stiffened a moment, then wept harder still, turning her face into his chest. He shifted to better hold her, still patting her back, and spoke low against her ear.

"Elizabeth, do not cry." His own voice caught on the words. "I am sorry. I have made a thorough mess of this. I am so very sorry."

She continued to weep, unable to stop now that the dam had broken, but nodded against him, as if in agreement, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as though she might otherwise lose her hold on something entirely.

Foolish imbecile!He thought of himself bitterly. Darcy had never meant to propose to her in anger; only she had failed, in her fear, to see what circumstance now plainly required of them both, and in truth he cared nothing for the impropriety of their present room, compromised as they already were beyond any real repair, whatever the world might later say of it.

Of course I must marry her, there had never truly been another course open to either of them. And yet she remained a lady deserving of rather better than the proposal he had just delivered her, thrown at her like an accusation, with no more grace or sense than a man losing his temper in a public house.

He spoke softly. "Elizabeth, I am so sorry.” He inhaled, trying again, to speak as softly as he could. “So very sorry, my darling." He pressed his face gently against her hair, breathing in the scent of rain and woodsmoke still clinging to it despite everything, then kissed the crown of her head, resting his cheek there after, in some desperate, half-formed hope of comfort, for her, or perhaps, he admitted to himself, for them both.

She answered only with a small, broken hiccup. He drew back enough to allow her to turn around. Her eyes were red brimmed, and he instantly took her face gently between his hands and tilt it toward him. Anger, sorrow, relief, and utter exhaustion; he could read every one of them plainly in her countenance, laid bare in a way he suspected she would never have permitted herself under any ordinary circumstance. His own eyes stood bright with unshed tears he did not trouble to hide from her.

"I am truly sorry, dearest." He looked at her earnestly, searching her face for some sign of what she felt beneath the tears, then pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

"You are the very worst, Mr. Darcy," she whispered, the words trembling somewhere between accusation and something gentler.

Uncertain whether she spoke in earnest or in jest, and not entirely trusting himself to guess correctly, he answered simply, "That I am," and kissed her forehead once more, resting his own against it after, his eyes closing briefly at the small relief of simply being allowed to remain so close to her.

"Will you ever forgive me, Elizabeth?" He asked, his eyes daring across her face in concern, while slowly moving a finger to caress her cheek, ever so gently.

She nodded, her forehead moving with his hands, the small gesture more eloquent than any words she might have managed just then. He smiled, feeling something in his chest ease for the first time since he had spoken so rashly. "Elizabeth, you are the loveliest woman I have ever known."

She said nothing, only looked at him, something unreadable and entirely new passing behind her eyes.

"Dearest, I must go and send word to my cousin, and to your father. I shall not be long, I promise you." He hesitated, reluctant even now to leave her. "Do you think you might manage your bath before I return?"

She nodded, and he pressed one last kiss to her forehead before forcing himself to rise and take his leave, setting off into the gathering evening to deliver the letters he hoped, with his whole heart, might secure their freedom at last.

CHAPTER 20

With the door shut and locked behind her, Elizabeth set at once to peeling away the layers of clothing that reeked of dirt, sweat, and days of travel, each piece stiff with dried mud, catching and pulling at her skin as she worked them free.

Once reduced to her chemise, she attended first to more pressing necessities before climbing into the small metal tub, just large enough to seat herself, her knees drawn up awkwardly above the rim, the metal cold and unforgiving against her bare skin until the water warmed it. Even so, the clear water felt glorious against her, almost painfully so, every small ache and scrape she had accumulated these past days making itself known at once, and turned rapidly brown as the accumulated grime lifted away from her in slow, drifting clouds.

Though the water had cooled somewhat, it remained warm enough that she ducked her hair beneath it, working with her fingers to loosen the worst of its tangles, wincing more than once as she found a snarl too stubborn to work free gently. She could only imagine what a fright she must look, and found, to her own surprise, that she had not the strength left to care much about it.

A sharp knock startled her, every nerve leaping at once, and she supposed for a moment, with a lurch of pure animal fear before reason caught up with her, that it might be anyone at all, before settling, more sensibly, that itwas most likely Mr. Darcy, finished already with his letters. Rising, she caught up a length of cloth to cover herself and moved behind the door before answering, her voice not quite steady. "Yes?"

"Yer meal, missus," came a small voice from without, a servant girl, by the sound of it, nothing more.

Relief loosened something tight in her chest. "Might you return in half an hour?"

"Aye, missus," the thin voice replied from behind the thick door.

Relieved, Elizabeth set the cloth aside and returned to the tub, taking what further comfort she could in the still-browned water, grateful past words to be free, if only for a little while, of days-old clothing.

After a further minute's soaking, she judged it wise to rise, expecting Mr. Darcy's return before long. Through her bath, her thoughts had turned repeatedly to the puzzle that was the man himself; sweet and severe by turns, stern and gentle, handsome and proud all at once. A contradiction of a man, she decided, climbing from the tub and reaching once more for the cloth.

And he wishes to marry me.This, she thought, was perhaps the most astonishing turn of the entire ordeal, more astonishing, even, than being fired upon while riding double with the man. That Mr. Darcy should wish to marry her, Elizabeth Bennet, when only days before she had held him in something very near contempt, seemed scarcely credible.

He was, without question, a difficult man; accustomed, she had learned through more than one contest of wills, to having his own way. That stubbornness, she suspected, would want careful management. He was used to commanding, and she doubted many had ever crossed him as she had. Would he, once married, seek to command her as readily? Would she find herself with any liberty left at all?

Dressing in the clothes provided her proved an awkward business, the chemise pinching too tight across the bust, the skirt falling shorter than was proper, the fabric coarse and unfamiliar. Still, she was glad enough to be free of her ruined walking dress, caked as it was in mud and worse.