“Elizabeth, leaving, of course.”
“Miss Bennet has wanted to leave Pemberley for some time now. I should not have allowed our cousin’s delays to inconvenience her for so long.”
“You are sending her away!” Georgiana cried. Her eyes were rimmed in red. He had not seen her weep since the day he informed her he was leaving for the continent. “You will regret this for the rest of your days.”
He reeled back as if his sister had slapped him across the face. “I beg your pardon?”
“Can you not see that she is the perfect woman for you?”
Darcy stared at her unblinking. Of course he could see that. He had known it even in Hertfordshire. But it mattered little. He was not the person he had been in Hertfordshire, either.
“She has stood by you when those cats in London whispered the worst. She sought out your family to give them peace when you were away. I see her walk through this house and know in my soul that she belongs here—”
“Enough!” he cried, as the pain in his chest turned to agony. “Enough, Georgiana!”
Her mouth clamped shut but she glared at him with baleful eyes. She was not the girl he’d known last summer, who trembled and fell to pieces at the mere suggestion she might displease him. The one he’d been so careful not to frighten when she faced a heartbreak of her own.
Would any of this had happened otherwise?
He clenched his jaw. “You will forgive me if I do not think it your place to decide upon the suitability of a romantic attachment.”
Georgiana’s tiny little gasp almost undid him.
“Georgie—I’m sorry—” he blurted.
“You are not,” she snapped at him. “But you shall be. Later and for the rest of your life. You saved me from allowing Mr. Wickham to ruin my life, but you are going to let him destroy yours. Yours and Elizabeth’s both.”
And then she turned on her heel and swept from the room.
Darcy did not follow her. He did not do anything. Never before in his life had he felt such inability to act. When his father died, he and his cousin made every arrangement to ensure a smooth transfer of authority of the estate, to guarantee that little Georgiana would not lose herself to grief. When his sister came to him at Ramsgate with her news, he instantly divined how best to manage it. When he was at Netherfield, when he was in London, even when he was in Switzerland—he could decide upon a course of action and then set forth with no hesitation, no delay.
But now—now, he just stood.
Could Georgiana be correct?
Time passed—he hardly knew how much, and then there was a soft tap at the door.
“Enter.”
Mrs. Reynolds stood on the threshold. “Sir, Miss Bennet’s carriage is ready to depart. I have congregated the household staff. Do you wish to see her off?”
It was the proper thing to do. And the master of Pemberley was nothing if not proper. “I shall be there presently.”
But when she withdrew, he stood as frozen as a stone statue in the gardens. If he went outside, Elizabeth’s carriage would drive away. He would never see her again.
Perhaps he would make her wait until the end of time.
He looked down at his desk, where the leather portfolio still lay. How different this year might have been. How different he might have been. He might have been a man who took Elizabeth’s affections for granted. Who expected her to want him because he was—what? A Darcy of Pemberley? A guarantee of riches and status? He’d never wanted that. He’d wanted a woman who knew him—really knew what he was—and loved him for it.
Georgiana thought Elizabeth the perfect woman. Well, he did not disagree, but that did not make him perfect for her. Her countenance the previous night was one he would never forget—utter astonishment at the unguarded sentiments he’d expressed in his letter. And she had only read the one. What horrible things might she think of him if she knew how hard he had grieved?
If he knew how desperately he loved her?
But he had never given her the chance. He’d never sent those letters, and he had attacked her when she tried to look at them last night.
He snatched up the portfolio and strode for the door.
The day was cool and windy, with an overcast sky threatening dark storms on the horizon. As Mrs. Reynolds had promised, the servants of Netherfield were lined up outside to bid Elizabeth farewell, along with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Georgiana, who was weeping openly. He would deal with that later.
Elizabeth was just settling on the seat of the carriage. The footman had not yet closed the door. He marched up to the carriage. Her head popped up. Her fine eyes met his, for the last time.
“Mr. Darcy.” Her voice shook, and he nearly lost his nerve.
“Miss Bennet. You must not leave anything behind. These belong to you.” He held out the portfolio.
She looked at the portfolio. “I do not believe—”
“I assure you, they are yours. I was mistaken last night in thinking otherwise. They were meant for your eyes, always. What you choose to do with them I cannot know.” He bowed and turned away. She might toss them in the dirt. It mattered not. He marched back into the house without another word, without another look at his family.
His fate was in the hands of God… and Elizabeth.
Chapter 31
Elizabeth hardly knew when the carriage began to move. She did not look out the window to catch once last glimpse of Pemberley or Georgiana’s tear-streaked face. No, she stared in unblinking fascination at the leather portfolio on her lap. Her gloved hands hovered above it as if it were a live animal, one that might suddenly jump up and snap at her.
She did not know what it contained.
She dreaded finding out with every fiber of her being.
And yet, she could do nothing else. With a final deep breath, she reached down and unwound the leather straps holding it closed.
Papers—so many papers. Hand drawn maps of alpine paths and sketches of mountain villages. Were they done by Darcy’s own hand? She had not known that he could draw. She had not known so many things about him.
His hand was neat and tidy—she’d noticed as much last night—even on lists of inventory or items needed to purchase that were jotted down on scraps of foolscap. All these she looked over quickly, then set aside. She knew where the real treasure in this portfolio lay.
Dear Elizabeth…
Her eyes drank in every word, every line. In these pages she saw the man she had come to know. A man compelled by duty to family and friends and what he believed to be right. A man crushed with grief by the death of someone he had known all his life, and driven nearly mad with guilt by the thought that he’d had a hand in his demise.
These did not come as a surprise. Elizabeth had seen these aspects of his character in the man she had met in Pemberley Woods, that first morning after his return from the continent.
But there were other sentiments enclosed in these letters. Sentiments she’d barely sensed a shadow of. Feelings he had denied when she pressed him on them last night.
But you—you were the rarest of all. The things I never told you, my dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. How you spoke to me as no one has ever spoken before. You did not care for all the things I thought were the most valuable about me, and so I thought you unrefined. I did not realize that your good opinion was more worth the earning because it could not be bought.
A hundred debutantes with twenty thousand pounds apiece might be thrown at my head, but they would matter not at all in the face of your hem, six inches deep in mud and you laughing defiantly. Hems were nothing to a sister in need.
I believe that, too. I didn’t let myself, but it is the truth. To truly care for one you love—the trappings of good society are nothing to that.
Why would he give her these letters? Why now, if his affections had truly diminished, as he had claimed? Why let her know that he had loved her in Hertfordshire, in Switzerland, if he did not love her now at Pemberley?
She read another
letter, and another, each revealing some description of his devotion, some declaration of his desire. Her cheeks heated and her hands trembled until the words blurred before her eyes.
He had been raised for an heiress, or some daughter of a lord, like his father before him. But a man who scaled mountains and rode through rainstorms and laughed at the sky—that man loved her. Elizabeth Bennet. His dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.
“Stop the carriage!” she shouted. The driver rolled on. She rapped loudly on the roof. “Oh, stop, please do stop.”
It rolled to a halt. A moment later, the servant same around to open the door. “Miss? Is everything well? Are you ill?”
“We must turn around. I can go no farther.”
His eyes widened. “We’re halfway to Lambton already. The roads should be smoother there, if you are feeling ill.”
“I am not ill. I merely wish to return to Pemberley at once.”
“Yes, miss. It shall take a while, however. The coachman and I shall have to unhitch the horses…perhaps I can make you comfortable in the lane.”
Elizabeth shook her head. She could not wait. It could not be more than a mile or two back to the house. “I shall walk.”
The footman appeared taken aback but was too well-trained to argue. “Very well, miss. We will meet you on the road once we have turned about.”
She set off at the quickest pace her feet and lungs would allow. The clouds which had blanketed the sky all morning were darkening swiftly, and she could smell rain in every gust of wind. This was folly. She should have waited for the carriage.
But she could not. She could not wait for one more moment than necessary to see Mr. Darcy again. She was certain that one look from him would be enough for her to know if any of the things he’d put in those letters remained the truth.
The rain began before she crested the top of the next hill, and by the time she had reached the bottom, it was coming down in sheets. Where were the horses? She would look quite a fool when the carriage arrived for hurrying off into this storm without them.
Ahead of her, she caught sight of a rider upon a dark horse, cresting the hill in front of her. He stopped for a moment, and she thought she recognized the figure.
She hoped it could be no one else.
The horse took off in a gallop down the hill toward her and she stood, rain pouring down, her heart beating so fast it matched the horse’s hooves. He slowed and stopped before he reached her, keeping Peaseblossom from spattering her skirts with mud, and jumped down from his mount. The brim of his hat streamed with rain. His curls lay plastered to his face when he whipped the hat off.
“Miss Bennet!” he cried through the downpour. “What are you doing here? Where is the carriage?”
“I could not wait,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”
“I could not wait.”
They stood there for a long moment, staring at each other, breathing hard.
“Where is a yew when one is required?” Elizabeth asked at last.
Mr. Darcy broke into a laugh then. A great, hearty one, like the one she’d heard all those months earlier, in their last rainstorm.
Even then, she realized in shock, even then he had loved her.
“Are we both half-wild, then?” he asked.
“I rather think we are. Poor Miss Bingley. She will be so disappointed in you.”
“I don’t care,” he replied, breathless. “I don’t care for anything but you. Elizabeth, is this real?”
“It is. I am.”
He swept her up in his arms and lowered his head to hers to kiss her. In that moment of abandon, she did not even feel the rain.
Mr. Darcy was kissing her. His arms were about her shoulders, and she was pressed up against his broad chest. Her lips parted and she deepened the kiss, and his hands tightened around her, as if he might squeeze the very breath from her body.
But, soon enough, there was the sound of horses and carriage wheels, and he pulled away. “Ah, our rescue.”
Elizabeth could not have replied for all the world. She clung to his arm, not certain she could even remain upright. Mr. Darcy had kissed her. And she—she had kissed him, too.
Half-wild? No, they were far away gone.
The footman, spattered with mud, scurried around them, taking Peaseblossom’s reins and pulling out a step stool. “Sir, she insisted. She demanded we turn around and then she ran off—”
“It’s quite all right, Saunders. Just return us to the house.”
Elizabeth was bundled inside, which was when she saw the mess she had left on the bench. Papers spilled out all over. She did her best to gather them up before Mr. Darcy joined her inside, dripping and wet but smiling from ear to ear.
For a moment, she thought he might kiss her again. He certainly cared not a bit for the disordered papers spilling, topsy-turvy, out of the portfolio. He stared only at Elizabeth, as rain dripped down his face.
“You could have just given them to me,” she chided, holding out the papers. “You needn’t have sent me away.”
“There are many things I need not have done, I gather. And still other things I never did, but must before I burst.” And with that, he fell to his knees on the crowded floor of the carriage. “Elizabeth, you have given me reason to hope as I scarcely allowed myself ever to hope before. Could you care for me as deeply as I admire and love you?”
She took his hand in hers. It was cold, and wet, but she did not care. “I can and I do. I did not allow myself to know it until recently, and I have hoped for even less time than that.”
“And will you consent to be my wife?”
Her heart leaped and her eyes overflowed with tears. “You must make me a promise.”
“Anything.”
“You must promise to never run away again.”
“Me?” Mr. Darcy replied, smiling. “You must promise to never run away again, either.”
“Oh I do. I most certainly do!”
The rain subsided while they were still on their way back to Pemberley, and by the time the carriage pulled up to the house, it had stopped completely, which Elizabeth allowed must be a relief to coachman and footman, seated above. As Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth emerged from the interior, still damp and certainly disheveled, it was to see Georgiana exiting the door of the house, all aflutter.
“You have returned!” she cried in relief. “He caught you, then. He caught you in time.”
Elizabeth gave Mr. Darcy a quizzical look.
“I had intended upon overtaking you when the horses required a rest,” he explained. He turned to his sister. “I did not even get as far as that. Elizabeth was struck by a desire to return to Pemberley before they had even reached Lambton.”
“Oh, was she?” They looked and saw that Colonel Fitzwilliam, too, had joined them on the gravel. “How very fortuitous.”
“I am glad you have decided not to go, Elizabeth,” said Georgiana. “We’d be bereft without you.”
Elizabeth looked at the face of her beloved and blushed. “I shall return to Longbourn, though, Georgiana. I shall have to do so soon.” She would have to go home and tell her family of this news. And Mr. Darcy, too, would need to visit her father and apply for her hand.
“We shall all go south,” Mr. Darcy declared. “I believe I have had enough of travel without my family to last me a lifetime.”
Georgiana turned to him, curious. “South…to London?”
“I do not fear the sharpest tongue in town, my sweet sister. Not with you and Elizabeth Bennet by my side.”
The girl’s eyes grew wide, and her smile blinding. “Does this mean—?”
“Yes, dearest!” cried Elizabeth. “We have made the decision to bury the past and forever be happy!”
It was certainly only a coincidence that the sun chose that moment to break through the clouds.
Epilogue
The wedding took place on a cold, bright day in early January. The groom could not wait another month, it was said, whether or not there were
any flowers to be gotten. Though the bride’s mother despaired, the hothouses were scoured, and enough blooms gathered for bouquets, with evergreen garlands to deck the church door and the table at Longbourn where they held the wedding breakfast.
The bride was radiant, of course, but everyone had always said she was the most beautiful young lady of the neighborhood and had the best chance of any of the Bennet daughters of marrying very well, indeed. And so she had, as her groom was blessed with a fine fortune.
That her sister had only a few months earlier quite unexpectedly married a man of twice the groom’s significance was—it must be confessed—occasionally remarked upon. But of course, there was that other matter, from last winter, involving the same gentleman. If it really had occurred in the manner that they had all heard, which now seemed somewhat shocking even to have considered. Perhaps they’d been mistaken. How had they ever considered such a wild tale to start?
At any rate, the bride and her sister, as well as their husbands, were all very good friends, and the topic of conversation at every house within ten miles of Meryton was about how they were all due to start out on a wedding tour together, from Netherfield Park, a few days after the wedding breakfast.
At least, that was the plan that everyone had heard. But perhaps these accounts are as inaccurate as that shocking one from last winter. One never knows, with such horrid gossips in the country.
And, speaking of shocking, Lord Byron’s latest antics with Lady Caroline Lamb are not to be believed!
Mrs. Darcy ate very little at the wedding breakfast. Perhaps it was the excitement, or all the needlework that she and her sisters had been doing lately to prepare Jane’s trousseau, but she felt rather ill. Her husband, darling man, tried to tempt her with every sweet on the table, and of her now numberless sisters, only the two newest, Caroline and Louisa, did not do likewise.
But she persevered through the party, for the sake of dear Jane, who seemed incandescently happy to be married at last to the man of her dreams.
In Darcy's Dreams Page 22