Author's note: thank you all so much for your kind words! I'm really enjoying writing this story. This chapter took a different turn than I expected it would. I'm eager to see your reactions to the ending of it. Let's get Darcy and Elizabeth together!

Chapter 6

Elizabeth walked down the road that left to Pemberley from Lambton. She knew it was a longer distance than what she was accustomed to, but five miles was nothing when compared to saving her father's life.

At her side was Millie, the innkeeper's youngest daughter. At thirteen, the girl was old enough to act as a companion of sorts for Elizabeth while her uncle did what he could to help her father. He had admitted, however, the night before that they would be returning to Meryton in two days, as Mr. Darcy's refusal to meet meant nothing more could be done.

This was Elizabeth's only chance.

"Miss, I don't think we should be here," the girl whispered. "The beast will get us."

Elizabeth sighed again at the repetition of this familiar complaint that girl had made every five minutes once Elizabeth had informed her of their true destination.

"There is no beast, Millie. There is only a man— a very rich man, to be sure, but still a human being."

She had to admit, though, that there was a somewhat eerie feeling that came over the country as they got closer to their destination. Whether it was the increasing amount of dips and holes in the road, or the unkempt hedgerows that lined their path, Elizabeth's apprehension increased the longer the walked.

At last they came around a bend in the road at the top of the hill. Looking down upon the other side, Elizabeth's breath caught at the sight that unfolded before her. "Oh my!"

There, on the opposite side of the valley, sat Pemberley House. It was a large, handsome building made of stone, backed by a ridge of high woody hills. In front of the manor was a stream that swelled larger into a lake, but without any artificial appearance.

In fact, there was nothing artificial about the area at all; if anything, one would describe the fields and trees surrounding the building as wild. The grandeur of Pemberley, of which she had heard so much, was undeniable, yet the landscape that rolled out before her held a curious mixture of order and neglect.

The formal gardens, once clearly defined by crisp borders and geometric precision, were now blurred lines where the wild had begun to creep over manicured lawns. Bushes and flowers that were meant to be pruned and shaped into artistic forms had rebelled into their natural states, with roses sprawling untidily and hedges bulging beyond their constraints. It was as if nature, in its own quiet uprising, was reclaiming the land piece by piece.

They descended the hill and crossed the bridge, walking slowly down the path that twisted through the overgrown beauty. Here and there, glimpses of the estate's former splendor shone through—a statue here, an isolated flowerbed there, still groomed, as if out of defiance. The contrast was striking, creating a hauntingly beautiful tableau that spoke of a past glory and a present in flux.

As they drew nearer to the front drive, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded to think that Millie might be correct after all, and they should perhaps turn back the way they came.

Her courage rose, however, and she pressed on with Millie at her side, whimpering slightly. They approached the house itself, and the grand façade of Pemberley stood impressive and somewhat aloof amidst the encroaching wild. The stone of the building was as stately as ever, but the vines that crawled up its sides were unchecked, lending an air of an ancient ruin slowly being swallowed by the forest.

Elizabeth felt a thrill of excitement mixed with a pang of melancholy. It was clear that the estate had once been much loved and cared for, but only recently had been allowed to fall into neglect. She almost felt a deeper connection to Pemberley than he had anticipated, and it stirred something within her— almost a hope that there was more to understand and discover about the place.

She shook her head. Enough of this, Elizabeth! This is not a fairy tale, and there is no monster to be misunderstood behind these walls. This is the real world, and your father's life hangs in the balance. Do not fail him again with your whimsical folly.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Elizabeth lifted her hand to the knocker.

Someone was pounding a hammer on Darcy's head.

At least, that was how it felt as he emerged from his drug-induced fog. The haze that clouded his mind dissipated the moment he attempted to sit up.

"Reimont!" he bellowed before rolling over the side of his bed and losing his stomach contents.

As he lay there with his head dangling towards the floor, Darcy wished he could die. He wasn't certain which was worse - the taste of last night's dinner, or the stabbing pain behind his eyes. At least the pain in his head overshadowed the pain in his legs.

"Here, sir," Reimont said, helping Darcy back onto his pillow and pressing a glass into his hand.

Darcy took a large gulp, then made a face. "Water? No, I need medicine."

Reimont's lips pursed together. "It is quite early in the morning, sir. Are your legs paining you that badly already?"

"Head," grunted Darcy, unable to muster the strength for more words.

He watched as Reimont once again filled the glass, then pulled out a small bottle and carefully tilted it to allow two drops of laudanum to fall into the water.

"More," he growled when the valet held it out.

Reimont's lips pressed together even tighter, then he once again tipped the bottle to allow a third drop.

"More," Darcy repeated. "Hurts."

Hesitating, Reimont finally allowed a fourth bead of liquid splash into the cup. Darcy grunted his approval, then eagerly pressed the glass to his lips and guzzled it down, ignoring the bitter taste.

Within minutes, the megrim faded away as a blissful warmth spread from his stomach to the tips of his fingers and toes. His head began to feel as though it were floating, and he closed his eyes, reveling in the elation only the opium-laden tincture could provide.

How long he lay there, he did not know, but the euphoria quickly was interrupted by the same pounding that had awoken him.

"What the devil is going on?" he ground out, infuriated that his precious moments of felicity had been cut short.

"I'm sorry, sir," Mrs. Reynolds said— When did she come to my chambers? — "but there is a young gentlewoman at the door who is demanding to speak with you."

He opened an eye and peeked at the housekeeper, who was wringing her hands. "I told Horace that I was not at home to visitors. Everyone in Derbyshire knows that by now. Send them away."

"We tried that, sir," Horace replied— When did he arrive?— "but she was quite insistent. Says she'll stay all day if she has to, and even into the night."

"Well, she'll find it a might uncomfortable to sleep out in the cold," he said, closing his eyes once more.

Darcy's determination to ignore the unwanted guest lasted all of five minutes when the pounding on the front door resumed again. With an angry roar, he flung the bedsheets off his body, threw on a banyan, and stomped down the stairs. He swayed a few times, once only barely catching himself from tumbling down the steps.

He was unable to prevent himself from falling entirely, however, and he landed painfully on his hands and knees. The sudden jolting caused his scars on his right leg to pull tight, and he let out another bellow - only this one of pain.

"Hello?"

Darcy looked up from his place on the ground into the most beautiful pair of eyes he'd ever seen.

Elizabeth gaped down at the man crawling on the floor.

She had heard the shout from outside the door and decided enough was enough— she was going inside Pemberley. To her astonishment, she came face-to-face with the man who could only be the beast of Pemberley.

One side of his face was terribly scarred, and half his long hair was falling from its tie and covering one eye. He wore an untied banyan, and he looked as though he hadn't taken a bath in weeks. As she met his eyes, she noticed that the black pupils were so small as to practically disappear entirely.

The man let out another growl and slowly climbed to his feet, swaying slightly. A rough-looking man hurried over and said, "Here, Mr. Darcy; allow me to help you."

Darcy jerked his arm away and said, "I do not need any help!"

Unfortunately for him, the sudden movement caused him to once again lose his balance, and he began to pitch forward over again. Elizabeth, from sheer instinct, reached out and grasped his arm in an attempt to steady him. It was only then that she realized just how tall and well-formed he was. His immense size would have caused them both to topple over had the servant not grabbed his master's other arm.

After Elizabeth was assured that Darcy wouldn't fall again, she released her hold on him. He glared down at her and snarled, "Who are you, and what do you want?"

Doing her best to remember that she could catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Elizabeth curtsied and said, "I apologize for the intrusion, sir, but it is a matter of life and death. My name is Elizabeth Bennet, and I am here on behalf of my father."

When he gave her a bewildered look, she added a bit testily, "The man you had arrested for theft over your roses."

Darcy scowled. "Those were my mother's, and he was destroying them."

"It wasn't his intention to cause any harm. You see, I had heard about the roses from my aunt, who used to live in Lambton. I grow my own roses, and I asked my father to bring me some clippings. He knew I was upset with him because… well, it is of little importance. But my father is very ill, and the doctor says he will die if he remains in the gaol for the winter—"

"Then perhaps he should not have taken something that didn't belong to him," Darcy ground out, his voice slurring slightly.

Is he drunk? she wondered, then shook off the thought. No, Papa's pupils become larger on occasion when he's had too much port.

"I do not disagree with you," she replied. "I am here to beg for leniency. He did what he did out of love, not greed."

"That doesn't change the consequences for his actions."

Elizabeth began to feel a bit desperate. "Please, sir, have mercy on him. We need him. The estate is entailed away, and if he dies, we are homeless."

"That isn't my problem." Darcy turned away and began to walk towards the stairs, swaying slightly. "Horace, get her out of my home."

The butler walked towards her, a sympathetic look on his face. "Miss, it's time for you to leave."

"No!" she cried out. She raced forward and to stand in front of Darcy. "Please, Mr. Darcy, please take pity on us. My sisters will lose their homes, their standing as gentlewomen. Even if you allow him to come home until the assizes so he can recover his health."

He shook his head and attempted walked around her, but she fell to her knees. "Please," she begged. "I'll do anything."

"How do I know your father won't simply refuse to return for trial? I do not have the time to hunt him down."

"I swear he'll return. I promise on my grandmother's grave."

"That's not good enough. Anyone can make a promise."

Thinking frantically, Elizabeth said, "Perhaps he could leave his books behind? The ones he purchased at the auction? He would come back for those."

"Books?" Darcy scoffed. "No, your father might decide he values his life more than books."

Tears filled her eyes as she wracked her brain, desperately trying to come up with something this man— this beast of a man— would accept as sufficient collateral.

Me.

The thought struck her like an arrow through the heart. Can I do it? Could I remain in prison in his place?

Darcy sighed and walked around her. His foot rose to the first stair, and there was no time to think. Panicked, Elizabeth cried out, "Take me!"

He spun around to stare down at her. "What?"

"I'll stay. Take me as your assurance."

There was silence for several moments as Darcy looked down at her, his bare foot— how did I not notice before that he has on no shoes?— resting on the step. Then he sneered and said, "You are tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.

"You're no beauty yourself," she retorted hotly, standing to her feet.

"I have no need for a mistress."

She gasped in outrage. "That is not what I meant!"

"Then what did you mean?"

Lifting her chin and clenching her fists, Elizabeth said coolly, "It's clear I'm not the only one. No wonder you keep yourself locked away from the world. If anyone but a servant saw you like this, you'd be the one locked away."

He turned from the stairs and took a menacing step forward, his face only inches from hers.

"You mean, like a beast?"

Darcy held his breath, waiting her response. This woman was unlike any he had ever met. She stood up to him— challenged him, even— though her father's life was in his hands.

He felt alive, truly alive, for the first time in years.

It was for this precise reason that he even continued to engage with her. It felt wonderful to have someone speak to him without cowering in fear or flinching with horror. He couldn't decide if he wanted to kill her or kiss her.

The clarity that always appeared half an hour after the laudanum's numbing bliss was finally coming into sharp focus. He noticed every single thing about her, from the way her eyes sparked to the trembling of her hands.

Trembling?

She was afraid of him! Now that he realized it, he could practically smell her terror. Instead of making him losing his admiration, however, it caused her to soar even higher.

Elizabeth swallowed— hard. Her hands were clenched so tightly that she felt as though her nails were slicing into her palms.

But she refused to surrender.

Just as she was about to allow her tongue free reign to tell him that yes, he was exactly like a beast, she saw it.

There, in the depths of his eyes— past the bloodshot rims and the pin-prick irises— was fear.

It reminded her of the time when she was thirteen years old that a young fox became trapped in one of the snares set by Longbourn's gamekeeper. The animal was ferociously trying to liberate itself, even to the point of gnawing on its own leg to achieve freedom. When she tried to put her hand out to calm it, it bit and clawed at her.

The despair and hopelessness in its eyes were almost identical to what she saw in Darcy's.

So instead of responding by attacking at this man's bite, Elizabeth acted as she did all those years ago: with kindness and understanding.

"No," she said softly, "not like a beast."

She watched as he reared back, as if he had been struck. He stared dumbly at her for several long moments, then said, "Very well, you may have your wish."

He snapped his fingers at the butler, who— along with a woman she assumed must be the housekeeper due to the ring of keys at her waist— had been gawking at the feuding pair.

"Horace, take this young woman to the stables. It appears she will be remaining in Derbyshire. Send a note with my seal to the blacksmith; have him release the thief."

Then he was gone.

Elizabeth's legs could no longer support her. She collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. The housekeeper who had been watching the confrontation rushed to her side, with the butler close behind.

"There, there, miss," the woman said, rubbing her back. "Take nice, slow breaths."

Once her heart stopped trying to beat its way from her chest, Elizabeth looked up at the two of them. "Thank you," she whispered.

"No, thank you," the woman said. "No one's had the courage to speak to the master like that since… well, for a long time."

Each grabbing an arm, the two servants helped Elizabeth to her feet. "I'm Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper. Thea Reynolds."

"And I'm Mr. Horace, the butler here at Pemberley, but everyone here just calls me Horace," the man said, his voice gruff. "I don't need nothin' — er, that is, anything— fancy. I was a Major in the army, and a soldier's what I'll always be."

"Very pleased to meet you both," Elizabeth said automatically, the years of training as a gentleman's daughter guiding her words. "Now," she said in a stronger voice, lifting her chin, "I believe you are to show me to my accommodations, Mr. Horace?"

Horace winced and looked at Mrs. Reynolds, who shrugged helplessly. He frowned and said, "Don't seem right, takin' a gentlewoman to the holding cells."

"Nevertheless, that is the bargain I made with your master, and I intend to keep my word." Elizabeth's voice was firm, but she gave him a gentle smile. "I absolve you of any wrongdoing in this matter, if that helps."

The butler muttered something to himself, then motioned towards the front door and said cantankerously, "We'll not be taking the servant's entrance, I'll tell ya that much."

In spite of the difficult circumstances, Elizabeth was forced to stifle a chuckle at the young soldier's persona of a grumpy, old man. "Lead the way then, please, Mr. Horace."

She took the arm he extended towards, then walked deliberately towards her fate.

Darcy watched from his bookroom window as Horace escorted the young woman— Elizabeth Bennet, the name turned over and over in his mind— to the stables. He had eschewed returning to his rooms, as it was past time for him to be working on the books. The outside of the estate might look unkempt, but he prided himself on maintaining the integrity of the tenants' lands.

"Sir?"

Mrs. Reynolds stood at his door, her voice hesitant. She had been more cautious of him ever since his encounter with the thief— Mr. Bennet, the voice in his head hissed at him— and he hated that he had sparked such fear in the long-time servant who had known him since his early childhood.

He forced himself to respond in a gentle voice. "What is it, Mrs. Reynolds?"

She came into the room and took a deep breath as if to brace herself. "Do you truly mean to have that young woman be in the gaol all winter? Her safety aside, she is a gently-born girl whose reputation will be in tatters."

"What else would you have me do?" he replied sharply. "She can't exactly stay here, now can she?"

"She could as your wife."

The room was silent for several seconds as Darcy absorbed the impact of that statement. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She spoke quickly, as if the faster she could get the words out, the less time he'd have to become angry. "Sir, you need an heir, especially with Georgiana gone. You've said yourself that you will never marry because no woman can stand the sight of you. Well, this girl can and did."

Darcy's head was swimming. He could feel the pressure begin to build inside his head, and he knew it wouldn't be long before the knives were back, driving themselves deep into his skull, piercing his brain. "Medicine," he rasped.

Mrs. Reynolds shook her head. "Mr. Darcy, this dependence you have on laudanum cannot be good."

"Medicine," he growled, sitting back in his chair and clutching his head.

"Marry her," Mrs. Reynolds replied. "Secure Pemberley for another generation."

At this point, Darcy would have agreed to give Pemberley to Wickham if it meant he could return to the pain-free bliss that came with the tincture of opium. "Oh, very well. I'll marry the chit."

The housekeeper beamed. "Very good, sir. Perhaps, as a wedding gift, you could pardon her father?"

"Out!" he roared. "Get my medicine!"

As he sank back into his seat, doing his best not to cast up his accounts from the pain, he could have sworn he saw Mrs. Reynolds give a little skip as she left the room.

Marriage it would be.