Page 38 of Mr. Darcy's Christmas Letters
“Elizabeth,” Jane warned.
“He is having second thoughts, as men do,” Miss Bingley said with a dismissive wave of the handkerchief. “But he will remember how well he loves me, and we will be happy together.”
“Caroline,” Jane said softly, “Mr. Darcy is very angry with you. Would you put yourself into the care of a man whom you have forced to wed? Is it a victory to be tied for life to a man who may leave you in the country on your own and lead his own life in the ton?”
Miss Bingley withdrew a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “He would care too much for the family’s reputation and my brother’s for that.”
Elizabeth’s blood froze to ice, and the room suddenly felt colder than the storm outside. Mr. Darcy was a man of duty. Hemightgive up his own wishes to protect his family name. He might not feel he had a choice.
She could not allow that to happen. Elizabeth cast her thoughts back to the letter Mr. Darcy had delivered to her at Rosings, the one in her room upstairs.
Her letter. That was it. She, too, had a letter—one thathadactually been written to her—and could produce it. But it was hidden. She thought to send a servant, but it would take longer to explain where it was than it would to retrieve it herself.
Jane knew of the letter’s existence, but she had not read it herself, and might believe that Elizabeth had destroyed it. Mr. Darcy had asked that she burn it, but she had not been able to do so, not when his gracious signature might be all she had left of him.
Jane took a step towards her, her expression concerned and sympathetic, and Elizabeth could not stand it. She whirled on her toes and fled while Jane called her name.
“Let her go,” she heard Miss Bingley say, miraculously recovered. “I daresay she should have her cry. She will feel better after.”
The words Elizabeth threw about in her head in response to Miss Bingley’s gloating would have had Mamma in a dead faint had she ever spoken them aloud. She raced up the steps to her rooms, careful to avoid any of the servants, though she knew that word must be spreading even now that Miss Bingley had a letter written by Mr. Darcy. From what she could see of Charles’s expression while he read it, she surmised it was a love letter.
A love letter. She hit her door with the flat of her hand and shoved it open. It swung back so hard it hit the wall with a bang.
Kerr jumped. “Miss Bennet,” she said. “I thought you would be downstairs for hours yet.”
“I am not here for long,” Elizabeth said, striding quickly to the wardrobe, opening one of the bottom drawers, and reaching all the way to the back of it to extract the wooden box where she kept her letters.
It had to be a love letter, but if it was, Mr. Darcy would not have written it for Miss Bingley. Had he written it for her? They had been unable to speak, and he preferred to write when his feelings were running high. This much she knew. Elizabeth’s heart soared with hope.
She cradled the box in her hands and hurried away, fearful that she would arrive only after Mr. Darcy had capitulated and made the hateful Miss Bingley an offer.
They would be miserable together.
Miss Bingley could be miserable the rest of her sorry life, and Elizabeth would not care. She had brought it on herself. But Mr. Darcy—it would kill him to have such a wife, and Elizabeth would not allow it. If Charles could not protect him, then Elizabeth would.
From halfway down the staircase, she saw the men returning to the parlour and closing the door behind them.
Elizabeth stumbled slightly and caught herself on the rail. She paused only a moment before continuing on and bursting into the parlour, making such an inelegant racket as she did that all four occupants turned to stare at her.
She must have been quite a sight, gasping for air, her hair mussed and her complexion bright from exertion and anger. But there was no time to be missish. She leaned back against the door until it clicked shut.
“Mr. Darcy wrote me a letter first.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes widened in surprise.
“What?” Charles barked, facing his friend with a scowl. “Darcy!”
“And I wrote one back.” She had not delivered hers, but she did not say as much.
“Elizabeth!” Jane exclaimed.
“So you see,” Elizabeth rushed to finish, “if Mr. Darcy is to be forced to wed, he must wed me.”
Miss Bingley shook her head. “No, it is not possible. And even if he did write Eliza a letter, surely he has regretted it since. Why else would he write to me yesterday?”
Elizabeth was panting now. It was not the running up and down stairs that had done it. She was used to walking great distances. It was her fear making her weak. She set the little box down on the nearest table with a thud and used her key to open the lid, furious that her hands were shaking.
Mr. Darcy was watching her, an impossible tenderness in his expression. “Elizabeth,” he said softly, and she caught her breath at the sound of her name on his tongue.
