by Pamela Aidan
Darcy looked to Elizabeth, surprised that his host would abandon his guests so abruptly and wondering if this was a signal that he and Bingley should leave. But no one else seemed to take notice of their host’s odd behavior or move to conclude the evening, save to bid Mr. Bennet good night. Still, they did not stay long, and when he and Bingley rose to leave, Elizabeth followed him to the door and then outside, as had Jane with Bingley. With her arms wrapped about her against the chill, she watched him mount his horse. Looking down at her, her face turned up to him in the starlight, he was reminded of an evening a year ago outside the assembly hall in Meryton. So much had happened since that night that today had been resolved toward making him glad of the future. Yet in that same moment, he was restless as well. Elizabeth was his and not his, the companion of his heart but not yet at his side.
He leaned down to her. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. She nodded. “Tomorrow,” she mouthed and stepped away to her sister’s side, watching after them as their horses moved into the darkness.
Bingley was humming when, after urging his horse on, Darcy caught up to him. Tuneless, as usual, and progressing in fits and starts, the song drifted into the night. Darcy could only smile at his friend’s distraction and consider how light his own heart was. “And what creature are you summoning at this hour, Charles?” he teased him. “I believe all decent animals are tucked away in their barns.”
“Darcy, I am the most fortunate of men!” Bingley ignored his jab. “What a marvelous day it has been!”
“Quite,” Darcy murmured in agreement.
Bingley turned to him. “I say, it may not have been so marvelous for you to spend an entire evening with the Bennets. You have been a good friend to bear with it, Darcy, and I thank you.”
“Not at all, Charles.” Darcy dismissed it. “It is only natural that you should wish to be in the company of your fiancée as much as possible. I am, after all, here at my own invitation and can take myself away at any time.”
“You are very kind,” Bingley replied. He paused a little before adding in quite another tone, “And so very obliging as to lose Jane and me in the wood. How did that come about? We never saw you after the first half hour.”
“You did not wish to be so long alone then?”
“That is not what I meant.” Bingley laughed. “Well, I was not so concerned, not as concerned as Jane, certainly; for she had not seen how well you and her sister got along together at Pemberley. It was my thought that you lost us apurpose, for our sakes, and did not mind keeping Miss Elizabeth company while you did so.”
“Did you say as much to Miss Bennet?”
“Something to that effect. Should I not have?”
Darcy did not answer him immediately. Was there any purpose to keeping his joy to himself ? Soon it would be public knowledge, and Bingley was his close friend. In any event, he was desirous to hear himself say the words that would give substance to the events of the afternoon. And he was curious to behold Charles’s reaction. He brought his horse up close to Bingley’s until they were knee to knee. “You are only partially correct, my friend. I confess I had little thought for you and Miss Bennet this afternoon. My intent, upon your happy suggestion of a walk, was to devise a way to speak with Miss Elizabeth privately.”
“Speak privately!” Bingley pulled back on his reins and stared at Darcy in the moonlight. “What about, I wonder?”
“A private matter.” Darcy’s smile widened.
“Of course.” Bingley was not put off. “A private matter concerning what, might I ask?”
“Well might you ask —”
“Darcy!” Bingley’s voice grew menacing.
Darcy relented with a laugh. “Concerning the fact — and this may surprise you or not; for I can trust my own perception of myself no longer — that I have admired…nay, more than admired Miss Elizabeth almost since our first meeting.”
“Good Lord!” Bingley breathed out, astonished. “I suspected affection this summer at Pemberley, but since last autumn? You did nothing but spar with her!”
“Yes, that is true. We did not get on well last autumn. I blame my own behavior for her poor opinion of me at the start. But then there were also pernicious rumors concerning me set about by Wickham that fixed this opinion.”
“That rogue! And to think I must be his —” Bingley’s jaw snapped shut on that subject in favor of a more immediate one. “Go on, Darcy! You have loved her all this time! Well…” He drew in a breath. “This is truly marvelous! Rather like a play…that Shakespeare one. Oh, what was it…about that fellow…Benedick?”
Darcy laughed. “Yes, very like!”
“But what happened between then and Pemberley?”
“We met again last spring, when she visited friends in Kent near the estate of my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. There was more misunderstanding and more abominable behavior on my part, I am sorry to say, but the nature of the problems that lay between us was finally revealed. When next we met at Pemberley, we found each other’s company much more agreeable.”
“Pray, continue!” Bingley urged as they set their horses into motion but slowly.
“We made a beginning, but that was all. When she was unexpectedly called home, it seemed unlikely that an occasion might arise when we might speak further.”
“A devil of a fix, that!” Bingley shook his head. “But then I spoke to you about Netherfield. No wonder you were so keen upon my coming back!”
“I remain forever indebted to you, my friend,” Darcy replied with a broad grin, “for your lamentable inability to come to a decision.” Bingley acknowledged his flaw with a hoot of mirth. “It provided exactly the circumstance to allow me to bring two vital matters to a conclusion,” Darcy continued. “First, to correct my inexcusable interference in your affairs, and second, to determine Miss Elizabeth’s inclination and whether a proposal might have any chance of acceptance.”
“A proposal! This is wonderful, Darcy! Why, of course she will accept you…what woman in England would not?”
“Oh, such a one exists, I assure you. This was not my first proposal.” Darcy looked at his friend’s surprised countenance. “The ‘misunderstanding’ I spoke of last spring…”
Bingley sucked in his breath. “Incredible! Elizabeth?”
“Is she not?” A note of pleasure sounded in his voice. They rode in silence as the lights of Netherfield Hall appeared through the trees. Darcy continued, more thoughtful now. “She sent me packing without ceremony, Charles. And I am forever indebted to her for that. I was bitter. I was angry for a time. But she humbled me and let me to know that all my pretensions mattered not a whit to a woman of worth and substance.”
“But this second proposal? She did say yes?” There was a worried, uncertain tone in Bingley’s question.
Darcy smiled. “She said yes.”
Rising in his stirrups, Bingley gave a shout, which was greeted with answering howls from the Netherfield kennels. His horse danced at the unusual activity, and Darcy’s shied. “Darcy, this is above everything!” he continued after regaining his seat. “Do you realize? We are to be brothers! Oh, Jane and I talked of this, wished for it, but thought it to be impossible. How surprised she will be!”
“Charles, I beg you will not speak of this until a formal announcement is made.” Darcy interrupted his exuberance. “I have yet to speak to Mr. Bennet, and there is some awkwardness…”
“Say no more.” Bingley laughed ruefully. “I understand and shall not speak, but oh, it shall be exceedingly hard!” After a few minutes of silence, he turned back to Darcy. “Shall we get lost again tomorrow?”
“The paths of Hertfordshire are largely unknown to us,” Darcy offered.
“Indeed!” Bingley agreed. “Damned tricky place!”
After dinner the following evening, Darcy approached Longbourn’s library door. A pool of candlelight seeped weakly from under it, but there was nothing to be heard. A quiet knock brought him a muffled “Yes?” from within. Softly, he turned the
knob and opened the door. “Your pardon, sir. May I have a word with you?”
“Mr. Darcy!” Mr. Bennet’s eyebrows were raised in frank surprise to see him in the doorway. Recovering himself, he rose from a desk of scattered papers and books, bade him enter, and motioned him to a chair beside the desk. “Would you like something to drink? No?” He set down the decanter he had raised. “Well then.” He resumed his seat. “Well then, how can I be of service to you? I believe my wife has already offered you all of the birds on my lands. I will not gainsay her if that is what concerns you.”
“No, sir. That is most generous of you, but I have come about quite another matter.” He paused. There was nothing for it but to launch into the matter directly.
“It is my honor to inform you, sir, that I have asked for your daughter Elizabeth’s hand in marriage. She has consented, upon your approval, to make me the happiest of men.”
“Elizabeth?” Mr. Bennet sat up straight, his face gone pale, and with an unsteady hand he put down his glass of wine. “You must be —” His mouth shut down on what he had been about to say. After a moment, he continued in another vein. “Elizabeth…Elizabeth is of a lively mind and disposition. I hope you will not take offense, but are you sure you are not mistaken? She may have said something in jest.”
“No, sir, I am not mistaken,” Darcy replied, surprised by such a response. “I am well acquainted with her temperament, and I assure you, she has consented.”
From the look of him, Mr. Bennet was in no way reassured. “Mr. Darcy, you astonish me!” He fell back, shaking his head. “How has this come about? I have seen no evidence of affection between the two of you. I have heard nothing.”
“No doubt you have not expected this.” Darcy drew himself up. “I can easily imagine your dismay that my suit has come upon you without warning. It appears sudden, I know, but it is not without foundation. My admiration for Elizabeth has grown over the months I have known her. In truth, sir, it began when I first met her last year.”
Mr. Bennet’s brow furrowed. “That is as may be; you have said it is so. But my concern is for my daughter. You seek my blessing.” He looked across his desk at Darcy. “But are you certain that there exists a true and abiding affection between you?”
“My attentions to your daughter were not always reciprocated — this I admit, and acknowledge my many faults.” Darcy rose from his seat. “But I have won Elizabeth’s heart in spite of everything! I tell you, sir, I love her; and I vow to you that her happiness and welfare is and will always be my first concern.” He stopped, then continued in a lowered voice that was no less direct. “I do ask you, Mr. Bennet, for your blessing.”
A sigh escaped his listener, and Mr. Bennet appeared to shrink into his chair. Moments passed. Then the man’s chin rose slightly as he broke the silence. “It is no secret that my Lizzy is the child of my heart, Mr. Darcy. I have had a special fondness for her since she was a babe. I believe I always shall. Her happiness concerns me deeply, for I know what she, more than her sisters, will suffer in a marriage that is indifferent to her character and unequal to her mind. You seem to be a sincere and honorable man. If you have won Elizabeth’s heart, I will not withhold my consent.”
“Thank you —”
Mr. Bennet held up his hand, restraining his words of gratitude. “You stand to gain an uncommon treasure, Mr. Darcy,” he continued, “but I caution you, sir, it will be yours only if you are wiser than most men.”
“Indeed, sir.” Darcy bowed to the sagacity of his warning. “I love Elizabeth above all things. I will not disappoint you.”
“Then you will be the most blessed of men, Mr. Darcy.” He raised tired eyes to Darcy’s. “You have my consent.”
“Thank you, sir.” Darcy bowed again. But instead of offering a shake of his hand or a request for the figures he meant to settle upon Elizabeth, his future father-in-law went to his library door and opened it to the hall.
“Please,” Mr. Bennet directed him, “send Elizabeth to me.”
“Woolgathering, Mr. Darcy?” He turned at the beloved voice. For the third time in as many days since their engagement he had been sent out of doors to await her retrieval of her bonnet for what had become daily walks and had fallen into a sort of reverie in which how undeserving he was of his very good fortune was the primary subject. Now, there she was, her face wreathed in smiles and her eyes alight with mischief under her impertinent bonnet.
“Come!” he commanded with a grin and pointed his chin toward a path that led quickly away from the house. Once out of sight, he reached out his hand and discovered that Elizabeth was of the same mind. As he clasped her hand to him, they started out. Their strides at first were rapid and punctuated with laughter in their eagerness to be away from the notice of others, but when their aim was accomplished, they slowed; and the truth of their new understanding cast a warmly intimate sobriety over their spirits. The contentment Darcy felt was like nothing he had ever known, and he searched for a way to speak of it to her apart from the simple words that most readily came to mind. She deserved a sonnet, but he was no poet. He had just decided that those simply phrased sentiments might serve better than silence when Elizabeth swept all before them with a question.
“When did you begin to fall in love with me?” she asked, her brow arched provocatively. Darcy looked down into her face and smiled. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning,” she continued airily, “but what could set you off in the first place?”
“I cannot fix on the hour or the spot…” He listed and then laughed at her expression of impatience with his indecision. Stopping their progress, he bent and captured her eyes with his. “Or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”
“Where was your middle, I wonder?” She pursed her lips at him.
“Of that I am not entirely sure, lady.” He paused and looked at her speculatively. “But most probably it was the day I became a thief.”
“A thief!” Elizabeth laughed. “A man who has everything! Why would you turn thief, sir?”
“I was a man who thought he had everything,” Darcy corrected her. “But one thing I lacked — the love of an exceptional woman.”
She blushed at his compliment but did not allow it to deter her. “And this theft?”
“You will not think ill of me if I confess it?” He feigned an anxious countenance, delighting in their play.
“Even better, I shall act as your confessor!” Elizabeth fell in with his conceit. “Confess then, and I shall absolve you!”
Darcy laughed again. “Do you remember what volume enthralled you in Netherfield’s library during your sister’s illness?”
She shook her head. “Such a wealth of books, who can remember? I was there only a few minutes.”
“You were there long enough to drive me to distraction! I believe it took me three attempts to get the sense of every page! No, you were there quite long enough, and left a token to mark your place.”
The memory lit her face. “A few threads…in a volume of Milton. I remember!” Her brow wrinkled. “I returned for the book but could not find my place.”
“That was because of my theft. I took them…and kept them for months afterward…here.” He patted the pocket of his waistcoat. “Rolled about my finger and tucked in my pocket when I was not using them as a mark myself.”
“And where are they now?” She looked up at him, her smile gentle.
“Providing some fledglings a nest, I hope. When I could stand to tease myself with them no longer, I left them to the wind last spring on my way to Kent.” He laughed ruefully. “I had finally determined to forget you. Putting away those threads was to be the beginning. Much good it did me.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it reverently. “For there you were, dearest Elizabeth, the reality behind those threads, and I was completely and utterly lost.”
“Here now, Fletcher, the man must breathe!” C
olonel Fitzwilliam came languidly to his cousin’s rescue from the safe distance of a chair across Darcy’s Netherfield dressing room.
“My dear Colonel, I assure you he can!” Fletcher protested. “There now, sir,” he directed his master, “one more twist of the cloth and you may bring down your chin, but slowly, sir, slowly!” Darcy groaned but complied. “There now, sir. Yes! Behold, sir!” Fletcher held up a mirror to reveal an exquisite array of folds, knots, and twists gracing Darcy’s neck and falling elegantly upon his waistcoat.
“What do you call it, my good man?” Dy inquired, his lorgnette held superciliously to one eye as he looked over the new masterpiece with interest.
“The Bonheur, my lord.” Fletcher inclined his head.
“Happiness? That is bold, but then so was the Roquet.” Dy tucked his eyepiece into a waistcoat pocket. “Fletcher, I congratulate you.” His Lordship turned to his friend and tapped him on the shoulder. “You must promise to lend him to me, Fitz, when it is my turn for leg shackles, or I shan’t invite you.”
“Done!” the bridegroom replied and turned back to the mirror. For all the annoyance, it looked rather well; and it was, after all, his wedding day. He turned his head this way and then the other, testing the restriction. It was bearable. “Richard, what do you say?” he called over his shoulder.
Colonel Fitzwilliam unwound from his comfortable observation post and cautiously approached. Crossing his arms, he studied his cousin thoughtfully. “It’s not a uniform” — the men hooted at the jibe — “but Fletcher is a genius, as everyone knows.” He grinned and laughed. “You look quite well, Cousin. Miss Elizabeth shall say ‘I will’ on the basis of your neckcloth alone!” Darcy threw a towel at him.
“Thank you, dear Richard.” Darcy looked up to his valet. “Fletcher, excellent work.” He rose from the seat, checked the clock on the mantel, and motioned to his new blue frock coat. “Are we ready for that now?”