𝐖𝐚𝐢𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐞 || 𝐅𝐢𝐭𝐳𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐲 ||
A/n: Here's that Mr.Darcy fic I promised a million years ago.
The rain had begun before dawn.
By eight, it had swallowed Derbyshire whole.
It battered the windows of Pemberley in silver sheets, turned the gravel drive black with water, and dragged mist down from the hills until the woods beyond the estate seemed to vanish into the gray. The servants had spent the morning shutting windows against the wind and carrying extra coal upstairs, grumbling about the weather and the roads and the likelihood of flooding before evening.
Fitzwilliam Darcy noticed none of it.
He stood in the middle of his study with a letter crushed in his hand.
Not merely Pemberley, Derbyshire.
And somehow, despite being a man who prided himself on knowing precisely what occurred beneath his own roof, Darcy had been the last person to understand.
You had been a maid at Pemberley for nearly three years.
At first, you had simply been another member of the household staff,a young woman with a quiet manner, a soft figure, and an irritating tendency to smile at him when everyone else stiffened the moment he entered a room. You were short enough that you occasionally required a stool to reach the upper shelves in the library, something Darcy had discovered one afternoon when he had walked in and found you balanced precariously upon one.
He had caught you when the stool tipped.
One arm around your waist, your back against his chest.Your skirts tangled around your ankles and you had looked over your shoulder at him, mortified.
“Please do not tell Mrs. Reynolds.”
He had stared, you had stared back.
Then you had added desperately, “She has already forbidden me from using that stool.”
Darcy had very nearly smiled.
That should have been the beginning of his understanding.
There had been dozens of beginnings after that.
You bringing him coffee because you had noticed he had worked until midnight.
You sitting beside Georgiana when she was anxious and somehow coaxing laughter from his sister without making her feel foolish.
You standing beneath an apple tree with your apron filled with fruit, laughing when one dropped directly onto your head.
You asleep in a chair beside the library fire after spending half the night caring for a sick maid.
That had been particularly disastrous moment.
Darcy had discovered that beneath all your sweetness existed a stubbornness capable of rivaling his own.
“You cannot simply frighten everyone into agreeing with you.”
“I do not frighten everyone.”
“You frightened Mr. Harris so badly this morning that he apologized to a chair.”
“He walked into the chair because you were glaring at him.”
“You always look like that.”
Darcy had stared at you and you had stared back.
Then your lips had twitched.
And Darcy, God help him…had laughed.
He had begun finding reasons to remain home
Reasons to walk through rooms where he knew you would be.
Reasons to summon tea he did not want.
Reasons to ask Mrs. Reynolds questions about household matters that had never interested him before.
He knew the sound of your footsteps.
He knew your laugh from three rooms away.
He knew that when you were nervous, you worried the corner of your apron between your fingers. He knew you loved autumn and disliked thunderstorms. He knew you preferred sweet tea and stole strawberries from the kitchen when you believed no one was watching.
He knew you and yet somehow he had not understood what that meant.
Not until you had stood before him in the corridor, hands folded tightly over your soft stomach, your expression carefully composed as you informed him that you had accepted another position.
Darcy had felt something inside him drop.
He had answered with unbearable politeness.
You had looked at him for several seconds.
Perhaps hoping he would do something, would say anything…And yet nothing had happened.
Your smile had been small. “Well…goodbye, Mr. Darcy.”
That word had haunted him through the night.
And this morning Mrs. Reynolds had entered his study carrying several household accounts, mentioned casually that your carriage had departed for the station, and continued speaking until she realized Darcy had gone completely still.
Mrs. Reynolds had looked puzzled. “Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps twenty minutes ago.”
Darcy had stood so abruptly his chair struck the wall.
The letter he had been reading fell forgotten onto the desk.
"What time does her train depart?"
Mrs. Reynolds blinked. “Ten fifteen.”
Darcy looked at the clock.
Something inside him finally broke. It shattered every argument he had constructed over the past year.
You were beneath his station.
You had been employed in his household.
His relatives would object.
Lady Catherine would probably expire on the spot.
But none of it mattered, because suddenly Darcy could see Pemberley without you.
The library without you standing on forbidden furniture.
Breakfast without the tea you always remembered he preferred.
Autumn without you dragging Georgiana outside because the leaves were beautiful.
Some other house would hear your laughter.
Some other family would have your kindness.
His stomach turned at the thought, at the thought of some other man might discover what Darcy had been too cowardly and too proud and too damned slow to acknowledge.
Darcy was already moving.He crossed the study in three strides, seized his coat from the chair and stormed into the corridor.
Georgiana appeared at the end of the hall.
For one strange moment brother and sister simply looked at one another while rain hammered against the windows.
Then Georgiana’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
That single syllable contained an almost offensive amount of understanding.
Darcy pointed toward the door. “She is leaving.”
“She is going to the station.”
Georgiana’s mouth twitched.
Darcy frowned. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because you have finally realized you are in love with her.”
His expression collapsed.
Georgiana’s smile disappeared. “Oh,” she whispered. “You truly have.”
Darcy turned toward the stairs.
He was already descending them.
“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?”
That, perhaps more than anything, demonstrated the severity of the situation.
Fitzwilliam Darcy always had an idea.Today he had nothing except terror.He burst through Pemberley’s front doors directly into the rain.
A stable boy looked up in alarm. “Sir?”
Darcy dragged on his gloves while crossing the courtyard, rain soaking through his coat almost immediately. His hair was plastered against his forehead by the time his stallion was brought around.
“Are terrible,” the groom finished weakly.
Darcy kicked his horse forward.
Pemberley disappeared behind him.
Hooves struck mud with a violent rhythm beneath him.
The word seemed to beat through his body with every stride.
Water streamed down his face.
He bent lower over the horse’s neck.He could barely see the road.He did not care.For once in his life, Fitzwilliam Darcy was not thinking about what was proper.
He was not thinking about his name.
He was thinking about you sitting inside a carriage, believing he had allowed you to leave without caring.
Because that was what he had done.
You had stood before him yesterday and offered him one final opportunity.
And he had let you walk away.
The horse surged beneath him, mud sprayed behind them, his lungs burned from the cold air as he remembered your laughter.
He remembered catching you from that ridiculous stool.
He remembered your hand accidentally brushing his while pouring tea.
He remembered the afternoon you had found him alone after an argument with Lady Catherine and simply sat nearby without asking questions.
He remembered waking one winter morning and realizing the first person he wanted to see was you.
He had buried that realization immediately.
How extraordinarily stupid he had been.
The station appeared through the rain.
Darcy’s heart nearly stopped as steam rolled across the platform.
He urged the horse harder.
He saw luggage being loaded.
A conductor walking along the platform.
Passengers disappearing into carriages.
Standing beneath the station awning.
A traveling cloak wrapped around your body, your small trunk beside you, one gloved hand clutching your ticket.
Even from a distance he recognized you.
Darcy hauled on the reins.
His horse skidded through mud and gravel.
You turned at the commotion, your eyes widened as you placed your hand on your chest. “Mr. Darcy?”
He was off the horse before it had properly stopped.
The conductor called something.
You stared as he came toward you through the rain.
His coat was drenched. His boots were covered in mud. Water streamed from his hair and down his face, and he was breathing hard from the ride.
You stepped beneath the awning. “What are you doing here?”
Darcy stopped several feet away.
There were people watching with interest now and he did not care.
“I came for you.” His breathing heavy.
The conductor called, “All aboard!”
You glanced toward the train as panic seized him.
Your eyes snapped back toward him.
Darcy stepped closer. “No. Please.”
You had never heard that word from him quite like that.
Your fingers tightened around the ticket. "Mr. Darcy.."
His chest rose and fell heavily. “Please,” he said again, quieter. “Call me Fitzwilliam.”
The rain thundered against the station roof.
Such a small question.It nearly destroyed him.
Because there were a thousand answers.
Because he loved hearing you laugh.
Because Pemberley felt warmer when you were inside it.
Because his sister adored you.
Because you challenged him.
Because you irritated him.
Because you were compassionate when no one was watching.
Because you treated stable boys and dukes with precisely the same kindness.
Because he had spent months walking into rooms and searching for you without realizing he was doing it.
Because yesterday you had said goodbye and the entire world had become unbearable.
Your ticket slipped slightly between your fingers.
Darcy breathed shakily. “I love you.”
The whistle sounded again.
“You…” Your voice was almost lost beneath the rain. “You cannot possibly mean that.”
“I rode through half of Derbyshire in a storm.”
Despite everything, your mouth twitched. “That does seem unusually dramatic for you.”
“I am discovering that love has made me extremely unreasonable.”
A laugh escaped you, it was tiny, trembling and beautiful.
Darcy’s expression softened instantly.
He had nearly lost that sound.
You looked down at your ticket. “You said nothing yesterday.”
“You knew I was leaving.”
“I stood there waiting for you to say something.”
His face tightened. “I should have.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly.
Of all the idiotic things he had said in his life, those two words might haunt him forever.
“I was afraid.” He whispered.
That brought your gaze back to him.
Darcy was not a man who confessed fear easily. He stepped beneath the awning, water dripping from the hem of his coat. “I have spent my entire life believing that if I controlled myself sufficiently, behaved correctly, fulfilled every obligation expected of me, then I could avoid making mistakes.” His voice lowered. “Instead, I nearly made the greatest mistake of my life.”
Your eyes filled. “You were my employer.”
Darcy took another step. “You are not returning to Pemberley as my maid.”
Your brows drew together. “What exactly do you imagine I am returning as?”
There was the stubbornness.
Darcy almost smiled. “I had hoped…” For the first time since you had known him, Fitzwilliam Darcy appeared genuinely nervous. “…my wife.”
Behind you, the conductor shouted again. “Final call!”
Neither of you looked away.
His eyes closed for half a heartbeat at the sound of his name on your lips.
When he opened them again, there was nothing guarded remaining in his expression.
“I know what people will say.” Your smile faded. "They will say you married a servant.”
“They will say I trapped you.”
“They will say I do not belong at Pemberley.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Then they may say it somewhere else.”
He stepped closer. “Because anyone who insults my wife will not be welcome in my home.”
Your eyes widened. A laugh broke through your tears. “You have already decided I am your wife?”
“No.” His expression softened. “I am hoping rather desperately.”
The train hissed beside you.
Steam curled around the platform.
Your eyes moved toward it.
Darcy’s heart pounded.He could not command this.Could not purchase it. Could not arrange it.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he had placed everything that mattered into someone else’s hands.
He loved you enough for that too.
“If you wish to go,” he said quietly, “I will not stop you.”
You looked at him. "But?"
Darcy gave a breathless little laugh. “But I am asking you not to.”
He swallowed. “Stay.” The word was nearly lost beneath the storm. “Stay with me.”
You looked down at the ticket in your hand.
The conductor raised his whistle.
You slowly tore the ticket in half.
You tore it again.Then you dropped the pieces into the rubbish bin beside the bench.
The train doors slammed shut.
Darcy stared at the bin then at you. “You....”
“You rode here through a thunderstorm.”
“I was somewhat occupied.”
“Your horse looks offended.”
Darcy glanced over his shoulder. The stallion did, indeed, look deeply offended.
When Darcy turned back, you were smiling through tears.
“I suppose,” you whispered, “I shall have to marry you.”
For several seconds, he did absolutely nothing.
Then Fitzwilliam Darcy crossed the remaining distance between you.
His hands settled around your waist.
You had just enough time to gasp before he pulled you against him.
Your soft, curving body fit against his as though he had spent his entire life unknowingly waiting for precisely this moment.
Not like the restrained gentleman who had spent years mastering every expression and impulse.
Darcy kissed you like a man who had ridden through a storm believing he might arrive too late.
One hand moved up your back while the other remained firmly at your waist, holding you close as your arms slipped around his shoulders. Rain blew beneath the awning, cold against your cheeks, but his mouth was warm and trembling against yours.
The train began moving behind you.
Carriage after carriage passed.
The journey you had intended to take disappeared down the tracks without you.
Darcy finally broke the kiss only because breathing had become necessary.
His forehead rested against yours. “You stayed.”
Something in his face changed.
A tenderness so naked that your chest ached as you parted your lips. “You thought I would let you leave?”
“Yes.” Darcy grimaced. “I should prefer if we never discuss that particular failure again.”
His arms tightened around you.
“So I have been informed.”
“Yes.” You reached up and pushed wet hair from his forehead.
Darcy leaned unconsciously into your touch.
Then you glanced toward the rain. “How exactly are we returning to Pemberley?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Fitzwilliam.”
“You expect me to ride through that?”
He glanced toward the torrential rain, then back toward you. “It appeared somewhat less severe when I was motivated by romantic desperation.”
A carriage driver nearby was openly watching the entire exchange with extraordinary interest.
Darcy noticed. His aristocratic composure returned immediately. “Sir.”
The man straightened. “Mr. Darcy.”
“And someone to return my horse to Pemberley.”
Darcy reached for your trunk.
You immediately caught his sleeve. “What are you doing?”
“You have servants for that.”
His eyes met yours. "Yes."
Darcy picked up the trunk anyway. “But I am attempting to impress the woman I intend to marry.”
He carried it toward the waiting carriage.
For the first time, you noticed several passengers stranded beneath the station roof staring at you.
One elderly woman looked delighted as she clasped her hands together.
A younger gentleman appeared scandalized.
The conductor, now standing beside the empty track, shook his head.
You covered your face. “Oh, God.”
“You kissed me in front of an entire railway platform.”
For years, he had been a man constructed from restraint, wealth, duty, pride, expectation layered carefully over everything tender beneath.
Now he simply held out his hand. "I nearly lost you because I cared too much about what everyone else might think."
You looked at his hand then at him.
“I have no intention of making that mistake twice.”
Slowly, you placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours.
You stepped into the rain together.
Darcy immediately pulled you against his side and opened his coat around you in a futile attempt to protect you from the downpour.
“You realize,” you said as you hurried toward the carriage, “that Mrs. Reynolds is going to know.”
“That you chased your maid to a railway station and proposed to her soaking wet.”
He looked unbearably pleased with himself.
Darcy helped you into the carriage. Then climbed in after you, the door shut against the storm.
For several moments, neither of you spoke.
You sat beside him, damp and breathless, your cloak dripping onto the floor.
Then his hand found yours between you.His thumb moved gently across your knuckles.
“You truly came after me,” you murmured.
Darcy lifted your hand and pressed his lips against it. “I should have come sooner.”
He wrapped an arm around your soft waist and drew you close until your head rested against his shoulder.
Outside, the carriage turned toward Pemberley.
The railway station disappeared behind you.
Darcy kissed your temple.
And after a moment, very quietly, as though the confession still amazed him, he murmured against your skin, “I love you.”
You smiled against his coat. “I know.”
You laughed. “You rode through a storm for me, Fitzwilliam.”
“You nearly killed yourself getting to that station.”
“Your horse would disagree.”
You tucked yourself closer against him.
Outside, thunder rolled across Derbyshire.
Inside, Fitzwilliam Darcy held you as though he had finally understood where home was.
And when the carriage reached Pemberley, Georgiana was already waiting beneath the portico.
The moment she saw Darcy climb down and turn to help you from the carriage, your hand firmly held in his, her entire face lit up.
Darcy looked at his sister.
Georgiana looked at your joined hands, then towards her brother “I had assumed,” she said delicately, “you caught the train?”
His fingers tightened around yours. “No.”
And for once in Fitzwilliam Darcy’s meticulously ordered life, missing it had been the best thing that had ever happened to him.
