Page 120 of Companions of Their Youth
He gaped. “Wickham? What does he have to do with anything?”
“You cast him off, did you not?”
“Yes. And I would do so again.” The words came too fast, too harsh. “You do not know what kind of man he is, Elizabeth. How in heaven’s name did you meet him?”
“He has joined the local regiment. I have seen him at gatherings—he has been kind and seems deeply hurt by your estrangement.”
Darcy’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Kind? He is not the sort of man with whom young ladies of good breeding should associate—I… I forbid you from speaking to him again!
The words were out before he could stop them, and they hung heavily in the air between them.
Elizabeth was stunned, then furious. “You forbid me?”
His face was like stone, and her heart nearly broke at the sight. “Yes. I—”
“You are not my father,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “And I would never choose to bind myself to a man who will try to forbid me from contact with anyone, including my family.”
“Your family?” he echoed, confused. “What does Wickham have to do with your family?”
The question hung between them, trembling in the air like a wire stretched taut.
“I cannot tell you,” she whispered.
He stepped forward. “Elizabeth—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “You speak of scandal as though it is some contagion to be avoided—but life is not so neat. You may pretend otherwise, but one cannot build a marriage on fear and control.”
“You are twisting my words—”
“And you have proven yourself to be the last man in the world whom I could ever marry!” Her voice trembled now. “You cannot accept that people make mistakes. That there is grace beyond disgrace. I love my family, Mr. Darcy. Fiercely. And I cannot marry a man who might one day look at someone I love and decide they are tooshamefulto associate with.”
He opened his mouth—only to realize he had no idea what she meant. The conversation had veered wildly, from Wickham to family to secrets, and he was too shaken to find the thread.
“Elizabeth, I do not understand—”
Silence fell between them, stretched tight like a string about to snap.
“Please,” she said, her voice hoarse, “let me go.”
She turned and fled up the path of the dying garden toward the house, skirts whipping behind her, hair coming loose from its pins as the wind howled around her. The first fat drops of rain began to fall, cold and insistent, dotting the stone walk and soaking into the wool of her pelisse.
She did not slow. She could not.
And as she reached the threshold, fumbling blindly for the door latch, she realized she could not tell whether the moisture on her cheeks was from the tears or the rain—or both.
∞∞∞
Darcy stood motionless in the garden long after Elizabeth had gone, the hem of his coat growing damp from the mist clinging to the air, the rain soaking into his hair and lashes. His hands hung useless at his sides, and his chest ached with confusion and grief. She had fled from him—again—and he had no idea why.
He had apologized. He had tried to explain. And still she had looked at him as if he were a stranger, a man she could not trust. A man she could not love.
Slowly, he turned and made his way back toward the house, each step heavier than the last. The rain was falling more steadily now, tapping against the windows like impatient fingers. Inside, the warmth of the entry hall was a strange contrast to the cold that had settled inside him.
He saw no sign of Elizabeth. A maid offered to take his hat and coat, but her murmured words barely registered.
“She is upstairs,” came Mr. Bennet’s voice from the doorway to the study. “Would you care for a game?”
Darcy managed a nod and followed him in, grateful to escape his own thoughts if only for a while.
