“Good morning, Brother,” she greeted him with a smile of the deepest affection. “Lizzy is still asleep, as some of us are apt to be at this hour in the morning,” she teased, just as affectionately. “Have you slept at all?”
He merely shrugged and forbore to tell her it was the second night in a row that he had slept little and poorly. The first was on the road, in his fearful rush from town. As for the last, she must have understood his restlessness already.
“How is she?” he asked instead.
“Martha could not tell. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully. But neither of us wished to check her brow to see if she was still feverish and risk waking her.”
He reluctantly allowed the wisdom of that with a nod, then restrainedly gestured towards his writing desk where the sketchbook still stood, carefully closed this time.
“I thought you should return this to where it belongs. And… thank you, sweetling. I have not said as much last night, if I remember rightly.”
“No need,” she smiled and came to hold his hand. “In truth, as you would imagine, I do feel more than a little guilty for discovering her deepest secrets and sharing them as well. Goodness knows what I would have done had I not known your thoughts already. But… as it stands, it gives me some measure of comfort to think it would have hurt her a great deal more to find you cautious and reserved. There has been too much reserve between the pair of you of late. And after everything that came to pass she is bound to be grave and silent in her turn and give you no encouragement. I did not wish for your consciousness to get in the way…”
“My consciousness!” he echoed with a short, strained laugh. “Pray tell me, Little Miss Matchmaker, just when have I become such an open book to you?”
“Yesterday,” Georgiana smiled, then shrugged. “Besides, we are alike. I just needed to grow up sufficiently to see it. And I believe I have grown up in the last four-and-twenty hours more than I had in years. And, oddly enough, largely due to Mr Wickham. But never mind that now,” she promptly changed the unpalatable subject. “We should sit down for breakfast.”
“We should,” her brother unenthusiastically conceded. “But on a different note, the scheming you were so kindly offering…?”
“Fitzwilliam, ‘tis not even nine o’clock yet!” she chided with vast sympathy and no less affection. “Have breakfast. Go for a ride – ‘tis a dry day today, thank goodness. Or a long walk, if you have had your fill of riding. Just go and come back at noon. If she is not too ill to leave her bed, by then my scheming will have been successful.”
Her smile grew wider and unmistakably maternal when she heard him exclaim in near-horror.
“Noon?!”
“Aye. Noon. Now take pity on those poor carpets, cease pacing and be off with you.”
* * * *
Darcy did not go for a ride; nor for a long walk either. Instead, he escorted his sister to the breakfast parlour, to have several cups of coffee and absent-mindedly crumble his toasted muffin on his plate, then asked her to sit with him in the morning room and recount the previous day’s events, which he had not been able to fully take in the first time they were mentioned.
While reluctant to put him further on edge with a narrative that was bound to anger and distress him, Georgiana readily accepted that he must have a good command of all the facts before he saw Elizabeth. So she gave them without concealing anything, from Miss Fenton’s first visit to Pemberley to misguidedly assist Mr Wickham in insinuating himself there, all the way to the young lady’s last, when she came to earnestly apologise for her errors of judgement.
It was a good thing that the carpets in the morning room were very sturdy, a mark of excellent craftsmanship, for they had much pacing to endure that day.
* * * *
Meanwhile, in her chamber above stairs, Elizabeth awoke to stretch under the bedcovers and, still aslumber, mindlessly luxuriate in the warm softness of the bed for a few blissful moments – until wakefulness settled in earnest and she sat up, cringing at the magnitude of the task ahead.
She had not been successful in making her escape from Pemberley the day before. And now, over and above the dreadful awkwardness of encountering Mr Darcy, she had to justify her attempted flight to Georgiana. Goodness knows how much her dear friend had already learned. And goodness knows how she was to face him.
She sighed. With vast difficulty, it seemed. Especially if he persisted in his unaccountably altered manner. Her cheeks flushed at the recollection of the ride to Pemberley. Deeply improper and equally affecting. His closeness. His arm around her waist…
She shook her head, forbidding her senseless thoughts to wander down that wretched path. Still senseless, they wandered down another. To his choice to ride after her in the rain and bring her back. Out of guilt? Pity? She shuddered at the latter. And once he had brought her back to Pemberley, to ludicrously insist on carrying her within, as though the gossips did not have enough fodder already.
Good gracious! Gossip! The sketchbook! Had any of the maids seen it when they had unpacked her bag? Was the sad tale of her fascination with Mr Darcy now a juicy titbit spreading like wildfire through the household?
She flung the covers aside and jumped out of bed so swiftly that it made her dizzy. She steadied herself on the bedpost and looked around in panic for the wretched bag.
It was nowhere to be seen. In the dressing room perhaps? She hastened there barefoot, only to come across young Martha sitting by the fire with her mending.
“Mornin’, Miss,” she cheerfully greeted her. “Are ye feelin’ any better?”
“Pardon?”
“Yer fever, Ma’am. How is it?”
Fever? There was no fever. Just the feverish need to find out where her bag was. Ah! There. By the fire. Peeping from behind Martha’s chair.
“Pardon me for askin’, Miss Bennet. ‘Tis juss that Miss Darcy most particularly wished to know. She said I were to come down to tell her as soon as ye were awake an’ let her know how ye’re faring.”
To please Georgiana and get Martha out of the room sooner, Elizabeth demonstratively brought her hand to her cheek.
“No fever. I am well.”
“Grand, Miss,” the girl beamed. “Miss Darcy’ll be mighty pleased to hear it. If ye don’ need me now, I’ll dash to tell her.”
“Yes. Pray do,” Elizabeth urged.
As soon as the door closed behind the obliging maid, Elizabeth rushed to pull the bag out from behind the chair. It was dry, presumably from being left near the fire, the mud carefully brushed off. She opened it in haste and drew a sharp sigh of relief. It still seemed untouched, the dress from Georgiana at the top, where she had placed it. She rummaged swiftly underneath, and the sigh of relief was followed by another, longer and heartfelt.
The sketchbook was there. Likewise, upon inspection, was all the incriminating evidence. She closed the bag and returned it to its place, then pattered back to her bedchamber to hide the sketchbook in the deepest recess of a chest of drawers and wrapped her arms around herself to heave another thankful sigh.
One dreadful hurdle out of the way, she squared her shoulders and walked back to the dressing room, to pour hot water into the washbowl and begin readying herself to face all the remaining hurdles.
* * * *
To her surprise and boundless gratitude, there were no awkward questions when Georgiana came up to her bedchamber, and Elizabeth’s attempt to ask her friend’s forgiveness for seeking to leave her without as much as a farewell was silenced with a warm embrace and an earnest, “No matter. You are here now. Dearest Lizzy! I wish you would stay forever.”
And then Georgiana clasped her hands and sat her at the dressing table.
“Let me do your hair. And you should have some breakfast. I sent Martha to bring a tray up. You must be famished. No? Well, at least have some tea and toast. What beautiful hair you have, Lizzy. Thick and glossy and what a lovely shade of auburn. How shall we do it? What say you of a nest at the top, a few long curls at th
e back and trailing ringlets round the temples? Even without more qualified assistance, I think I can just about manage that.”
* * * *
Half an hour later, once the hair was done, the tea drunk and some of the toast nibbled, Georgiana was still happily fussing around her friend as she settled her on the sofa in the sitting room and wrapped a paisley shawl around her, humming as she went. Touched by the young girl’s palpable joy at their being reunited, Elizabeth smiled up at her.
“You are very kind. But you ought not take quite so much trouble with fashioning this lovely cocoon for me. I cannot stay in your sitting room for very long.”
“Why is that?”
“I should go down at some point and speak to your brother.”
Georgiana nodded sagely.
“Aye. You should. Speak to him, that is, not go down. In fact, he wanted me to ask if he might come to see you here.”
“Oh. Of course. If he wishes.”
Georgiana kept her smile from widening further, and it was only with a vast deal of effort that she refrained from letting her friend know he had been wishing precisely that for seventeen hours together. All she said was, “He does. I will go fetch him now.”
And with commendable restraint she left the room at a brisk walk, not a run – but did not cease humming until she came to put her arms around her brother, then reached up to stroke his dear face and draw it closer for a light peck on the cheek.
“For luck,” she smiled, but her eyes misted to see her self-assured elder brother nervously run his fingers through his hair and straighten his coat like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster.
It was a blessing that Lizzy had the kindest heart, so a life with her could not be one of ill-usage, Georgiana mused, otherwise she might have begun to fear for him. For all his strength, he was utterly defenceless before the ones he loved.
CHAPTER 22
He looked very tired, Elizabeth noted as Mr Darcy came in and greeted her with a deep bow. Tired and dreadfully ill at ease. Which was to be expected – and it made for two of them. She straightened her shoulders. Be that as it may, it had to be done.
“Good morning, Sir,” she quietly replied to his greeting. “Would you not sit?”
He walked in, and did sit. Beside her on the sofa, to her mild surprise and vague discomfort to suddenly find him in such close proximity. Nevertheless, she looked up and valiantly begun.
“I am glad you came. There is… a vast deal to be said. Apologies and thanks, to begin with– ”
“Aye. Mine. All mine,” he rasped, not allowing her to finish. “Apologies for the worst possible misjudgement, and thanks for your unprecedented kindness to Georgiana – and to me. E–… Miss Bennet,” he rushed forth, before she had a chance to interrupt, “I am woefully inept at making speeches on matters of great import, and I fear that if I were to begin with the mandatory apologies, I would finish by sending you storming out of the room in rightful indignation before I had the chance to say what, first and foremost, must be said…”
“And that is?”
To her renewed surprise mingled with acute consciousness, he reached for her hand, and his dark eyes fixed on hers.
“Miss Bennet, would you allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you?”
Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted and was silent, too stunned even to seek to withdraw her hand from his clasp. This he considered sufficient encouragement and, haltingly, he continued:
“For a long time now I have held you in the deepest admiration and regard. But I have not been… quick to recognise my feelings for what they were. And even when I did, I still failed to see that Pemberley – Georgiana – everybody – would be safer in your hands than in anyone else’s. I can see that now. Have seen it for some time. And was proven right. So… I must ask you to have the kindness to consent to be my wife.”
This time she withdrew her hand. And remained silent. This was, to Darcy’s feelings, dreadful. When he could not bear the uncertainty any longer, he nervously prompted:
“You say nothing…”
She struggled to gather her wits at that.
“Forgive me, I am…” – ‘Stunned? Mystified? Incredulous?’ – “…puzzled,” she alighted at last upon the word, then found it a poor choice indeed to describe her feelings.
“At?”
“Your change of stance since yesterday,” she ventured with renewed energy, only to see him cringe.
“Yesterday was… an aberration. I beg you would not judge me on it.”
“What makes you so certain this is not the aberration?” Elizabeth forced herself to ask calmly, dispassionately, as though they were speaking of the weather. “It is not to be expected that your relations and acquaintances would look kindly upon your marrying your sister’s companion. Who, as you have rightly pointed out, should have more discernment than pinning her hopes on such an unequal marriage,” she finished with some bitterness, hurt feelings rendering her unable to hold back the barb.
Its effect was a far cry from what she had expected.
Instead of looking moderately abashed, he stared in horror.
“Good God!” Darcy found his voice at last. “You thought I was speaking of myself?”
“Who, then?”
He gave no indication that he heard her, but sprang from his seat to cross the wide space to the window in four long strides, then spun around, anguished and ghastly pale. Little did she know he was reliving the agony of Georgiana’s revelations the day before – only worse. A thousand times worse.
If he had found that new insight horrifying, this was… With a full knowledge of her longstanding affection, as revealed by sixteen painstakingly drawn sketches, this was nothing short of hell on earth!
In another four long strides he was at her side again, to drop on one knee before her and clasp her hands in his.
“Elizabeth, I was not! You must believe me,” he burst out, too highly strung to even notice the lapse, let alone correct it.
There was stark, grief-stricken truth in his every feature, and Elizabeth recognised it beyond the shadow of a doubt. But she still had to know; so she repeated:
“Who were you speaking of?”
“Wickham,” Darcy owned in a tortured whisper.
“Oh…? Oh!” was all that she could say, her stiff back going limp against the cushions. But she left her hands in his, and Darcy bent his head to press them to his lips and confess the remainder of his sins into their warm softness.
“I saw you leaving the parlour at the Crossroads and… jumped to inexcusable conclusions. I know this speaks no better of me than– ”
“No,” she quietly interjected. “If anything, this is worse. A reluctance to marry beneath you I can understand. ‘Tis natural and just. But thinking me so thoroughly unprincipled…”
His head came up at that, and Elizabeth could see the depth of agony in his eyes.
“I did not think. This is all I can say. My sole excuse, miserable as it might be. I… seem unable to, when it comes to you.”
Her brows shot up.
“Then, were I to become your wife, should I frequently expect such displays of unthinking passion, Sir? Or am I to be honoured with your trust?”
The agony dimmed a very little at her not wholly dismissing the matter. He clasped her hands tighter and vowed simply:
“Honoured. And cherished.”
“What of your becoming acquainted with my relations, most notably my mother and uncles in trade, and discovering that my connections are so decidedly beneath your own?”
“Your mother will have nothing but my deepest gratitude for bringing you into this world,” he promptly counteracted, and in response she choked out a little laugh.
“I hope you can hold on to that noble sentiment, Mr Darcy.”
“Fitzwilliam,” he amended softly, his spirits buoyed by her jesting hint to a joint future.
“Fitzwilliam,” she repeated with a smile, kin
dling his hopes further.
He ran his thumbs over her wrists and daringly pressed on.
“I cannot ask you to forgive the unforgivable,” he said, his voice low and earnest, “but I would beg you to let me make amends for the rest of my life.”
The twinkle in her eye matched the brightness of her smile.
“You deserve better than a life of penance, Sir. You are forgiven. In truth, ‘tis rather comforting to know that you are not quite as flawless as I thought you.”
“Flawless? God, no!” He pressed his lips into her palms again, then looked up, his countenance an endearing admixture of burning hope and lingering uncertainty. “Elizabeth, have mercy and say the words. Will you have me, along with all my flaws?”
She withdrew her hand to place it on his cheek and revel in the touch, glistening tears sending her eyes sparkling with a fresh light that took his breath away. As did her answer, when at last she spoke.
“To have and to hold, till death do us part – I shall,” she softly whispered the words he longed to hear.
‘God bless you’, he might have fervently whispered back, had his lips not discovered a better way to convey his overwhelming joy. They found hers for the first time, in a rush of feeling that rocked their souls anew. A brief touch at first, tentative and sweet, deepening with every heartbeat into ever-mounting need. His hand left hers to clasp her waist, this time without the vexing barrier of some cumbersome wet cloak. The other came to stroke her back, then shot up to tangle in her hair and endanger Georgiana’s ever so diligent handiwork, while hers followed suit to twist themselves into his and bring him closer to answer all those months of hopeless longing. Hungry kisses, hungry exploration, the passion building with every touch, with every breath. Matching passion, gloriously real in its intensity, surpassing everything they had dreamt of – and they had both dreamt of it for long enough. Searching lips meeting, seeking, parting for fractions of a second to whisper disjointed endearments, and meeting again to silence the words and send blood singing in their veins.
Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 25