by Nora Kipling
Mr. Darcy waved to them as he approached.
"Please do not get up, you look ever so comfortable there," he said with a smile as Mr. Bingley trailed behind him. Immediately Bingley got down onto the blanket and was sat beside his wife, shoulder to shoulder.
"I missed you, Pet," Elizabeth heard him whisper to Jane, and she deliberately turned away so she could ignore any sweetnesses they might want to exchange. Mrs. Gardiner smiled pleasantly at Mr. Darcy.
"Won't you join us Mr. Darcy? Mr. Bingley has, and I should only be so pleased if two handsome young gentlemen were to be sat on my picnic blanket," Mrs. Gardiner said, prompting a chuckle from Mr. Darcy. He shook his head.
"I have only one wish right now, and that is to speak to Miss Elizabeth," he replied, looking right at her. Her heart leapt into her throat and she panicked for a moment before giving her assent with a short nod.
"I would be pleased to do so," she murmured. He held out one hand for her and helped her up.
"We won't go very far," he said, leading her a few yards away, to where the hill overlooked the castle perfectly. "I wished for you to have the perfect moment to remember this," he added, a soft smile on his lips. She felt her heart beating frantically, her head pounding with excitement as she followed him.
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he said as he turned, the castle behind him, the view framed by large hills, and rolling grasses. The scent of the wild wood was thick in the air, and Mr. Darcy was in front of her, proposing. She was nearly faint with nerves, and as he got down on both knees, looking up at her, she had to press her hand to her mouth.
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he began again, "it is my duty to inform you that I am most eternally, ruinously, ardently in love with you." Her breath caught in her throat. "I have tried to assure myself that I could not be, if only because a woman of your quality, of your kindness, of your wit, of your beauty, could never be mine, for in your presence I am a wastrel, I am a nothing, I am nobody of consequence in comparison to you. But despite this, my internal protests that I might never be an adequate husband for you, that I may not be the man who would bring you the most happiness, I find myself unable to forget about you."
He lifted a hand and she offered hers in return. He kissed the back of it gently, his lips grazing her knuckles.
"Would you find it in your heart, somehow, to consent to being my wife, and to love me half as much as I love you, or even a quarter, I would take any of it, all of it, if I had you to warm my heart for the rest of my days," he said, his voice going throaty with emotion. "Elizabeth Bennet, will you be my wife?"
Even though she had seen it coming like a far off storm on the horizon, it still was a shock to hear him ask her, and she felt the answer in every inch of her body.
"Yes," she replied tearfully, and then again, stronger, "yes, yes!" Mr. Darcy's face lit up and he was on his feet in a moment, his arms wrapping around her in a most intimate gesture.
"Mr Darcy!" she cried out, shocked to have him hold her so, and he immediately let her go, chagrin on his face.
"I would apologize, but it would be an utter falsehood, for I cannot bring myself to not be near you at this time. Oh Elizabeth, my Elizabeth," he whispered, gazing down at her with such affection as to stop her heart right in its tracks. She felt light-headed and giddy, as she stared back up at him, disbelieving that he, all of him, could be hers. She reached with her hands and he took them into his, twining their fingers together. That small connection would be all she would have until the wedding day, but she needed it desperately to stay grounded, otherwise she might have floated off into the clouds.
"You have made me the happiest man in England," Mr. Darcy said. That's when the cheering began, behind her, and she twisted to see her relatives, still sat on the picnic blanket, clapping.
"I think we had best thank these scoundrels, for witnessing this happy event," Elizabeth said.
"Well, yes, we ought to, since they assisted me in the planning. But first, my dear," Mr. Darcy tugged gently on her hand and she looked at him. With his other hand he produced a small ring from his pocket, a tiny opal, set about with a scatter of diamonds. "So that everyone might know of how much I love you, and when you look down upon your hand, you will think of me even when I am not right next to you," he said. She slipped it onto her finger and her heart warmed at the sight.
"But I have nothing to give you," she fretted. He chuckled, squeezed her hand and let go.
"You have already given me a future lifetime of happiness, Elizabeth. I rather think I should spend the next thirty years of my life attempting to return the favor for that."
* * *
Their return walk to the village, and the inn, was a joyful one, and Elizabeth's booted feet scarcely touched the ground the whole way. The only thing to mar their happiness was the clouds rolling overhead and breaking open, drenching them. After a few minutes of the deluge, it was clear that her pelisse would not be enough, and Mr. Darcy removed his jacket to wrap around her. He’d tried to offer it first to Mrs. Gardiner, but she’d waved him off, and Mr. Bingley too when he’d also attempted to help. Both younger women felt vaguely ridiculous, wrapped up in black wool, but the scent of Mr. Darcy clung to his jacket, and Elizabeth could not help but feel giddy to be wearing it.
Each time she looked over at Mr. Darcy, she found her cheeks turning to pink, and happiness suffused her entire being. It was only amplified when he caught her looking and smiled back at her from where he escorted Mrs. Gardiner.
Jane had forsaken her husband in favor of walking beside her sister, and they were paired up just like that as they entered into the inn, laughing and joking. Perhaps that was the reason they did not realize that something was wrong immediately. Elizabeth's clothes were nearly dripping, and she pulled Mr. Darcy's jacket tighter around her, for despite entering inside, the chill in the room had cooled her right to the bone.
The normally bustling inn was dead quiet, all the patrons silent. A man stood in the center of the room, helped there by a cane. He turned, his face red with anger.
It was elder Mr. Darcy, and he did not look pleased in the slightest.
Chapter 8
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Gretna Green, Scotland
* * *
Mr. Darcy halted in his tracks, surprised, and then angered to see his father there. What right did the man have, to come and ruin his son's happiness? For that was surely what he was there to do, given that he had followed them to Gretna Green, probably upon the instruction of Mr. Bennet. He cursed himself for having sent the letter asking for Mr. Bennet's blessing in their wedding, for that would have caused the elder Mr. Darcy to take the fastest route to Gretna Green. As it was, the older man did not look altogether very well for his travels. His clothes were dusty, his face drawn and gray.
"I suppose you are all very pleased with yourselves," he said, staring at his son, then looking at Mr. Bingley. "And you. You. I should demand satisfaction from you, you blackguard! Running off with another man's wife-"
"She was not my wife, Father," Mr. Darcy said, although it pained him to call his father such an affectionate name when the man had hardly been a father for years. He would not tolerate the elder Mr. Darcy to speak to Mr. Bingley so. "But soon she will be my sister," he said, raising his chin to indicate he was not afraid of the older man, nor any misfortune he might bring down upon their heads.
Elder Mr. Darcy scoffed.
"Soon to be your sister? Are you to pollute the shades of Pemberley by marrying that so infamous of a creature," he said, pointing at Elizabeth. She inhaled sharply at the comment, and Darcy saw red, he was so enraged at his father's words.
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet is the daughter of your friend," Mr. Darcy spat out each word, taking a step towards his father, allowing Elizabeth to duck behind his broad shoulders so she might be shielded from view. "If you had such objections to the family, then why would you force Miss Jane Bennet upon me? It makes no sense-"
"I shall not be spoken to in such
a manner by my son," his father roared, drawing himself up to his full height. Only his hand betrayed weakness, shaking where it was wrapped around the handle of the cane. Darcy felt a pang of sadness, for it was clear that here the drink had ruined his father, and made a mockery of his body, stealing his strength and robbing his good sense.
"And I shall not have my future wife and family so maligned," Mr. Darcy replied, not shaken by his father's harsh words or booming voice. He turned to glance behind him and found that Elizabeth had not hid herself, but instead moved so she was almost beside him, her shoulders back and her head tall as she stood proudly. She was not cowed either, and his heart lifted at the sight. She was a strong woman, and one day soon, she would be his strong wife. Until then they needed only to face the battle in front of them in the form of elderly Mr. Darcy. As long as she was by his side, they would be fine. Together, they could face anything.
"What do you have to say for yourself, girl," the elder Mr. Darcy demanded, and then sneered. "And take off that coat. It is Darcy property, and does not belong to you." He strode forward, and Mr. Darcy's whole body froze before he moved, a moment too late.
Elizabeth's hands had been jammed into the pockets to keep them from the wet and the cold, and she cried out as the elder Mr. Darcy ripped the coat from her person.
"Say now!" Mr. Bingley yelled from across the room, breaking the ice that had poured over Mr. Darcy's body, and enabling him to move to wrestle the jacket from his father's grip.
"I'll box your ears!" Mr. Darcy snarled, but his voice sounded weaker, and his fingers slipped, the cane falling to the floor. "I'll... I'll..." he sounded like his tongue was thick and dry in his mouth, and Mr. Darcy watched in shock as his father's face went purple, and he dropped like a stone, falling to the floor in a dead faint. Later he would hate himself for his immediate reaction, but then he could think of nothing but reaching for his father.
He knelt down, as somewhere behind him there was a chorus of feminine cries, but it was muffled.
"Papa," he whispered, his hand going to his father's face. The man's chest was still, and so was his body, his eyes blank as he stared up at his son.
"Oh, he is dead!" cried a patron of the inn, a woman. Mr. Darcy looked numbly at his father's body, in disbelief. He had just, moments ago, been there, alive, angry and horrible, but alive.
Dead... dead... the world swirled around and around in his mind, as he rose to his feet, trembling. He turned to look for the one person who could bring him comfort in that moment.
But Elizabeth was missing. He looked again, once around the room, for the world did not seem right, hollowed and stretched out, but she was not there.
Mr. Bingley was at his side, gripping his arm.
"He is dead, your father is dead," he said.
"I know," Mr. Darcy replied, as time stretched in front of him, and each word sounded deep and murky. "Where is Elizabeth?" He needed her. His chest ached. His father was dead. He needed Elizabeth, the other half of his heart, for he knew that she would warm the cold that had overtaken him, and bring him out of the fog that seemed to shroud his mind. She would fix the way everyone seemed to be moving and speaking in such a slow manner. She would fix it all. "Where is Elizabeth?" he asked again, turning to Mr. Bingley.
"Elizabeth..." Mr. Bingley's mouth moved, but the sound was delayed, echoing around him. Mr. Bingley pointed to the door of the inn. "There. She is out there."
Chapter 9
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Gretna Green, Scotland
* * *
It was still raining out. The drops hit his skin, splat, splat, and the cold of it seemed to bring him about somewhat, the world less hollow, time less stretched. That's when he saw her, standing in the downpour, staring at a bit of parchment, much folded, with the edges blackened. He frowned at, his head swimming and unfocused.
"Elizabeth?" he asked; his voice sounded from far away, a hill perhaps, nearby, certainly not from his own mouth.
She looked up at him, and he realized she was crying. She did not have to cry, she should not shed any tears for the elder Mr. Darcy when he had so cut her, and so attempted to hurt her.
He stepped towards her, and that's when he realized that the look on her face was not tears for the man behind her, but an expression of betrayal.
"How could you," she whispered, then looked past him, shaking her head. She took another step back, then another. He stared at her, confused by her behavior. Something was clearly quite wrong, and he shifted from feeling stunned at his father's death, to feeling panicked over Elizabeth's manner.
"My father..." he began, pointing behind him. The world was becoming clearer, and the fog around him was lifting as the rain dripped on his bare head, and soaked the shoulders of his shirt.
"Yes, your father," she said, perhaps meaning to spit the words angrily, but it only came out choked up, and miserable. "I am well aware of your father and his plans for you, and his demands of you, and how you sought to use me to satisfy what he was asking of you. Mr. Darcy," her voice broke and she stopped speaking, holding up the parchment in her hand. He realized at that moment what it was.
His letter that he had written, discussing Jane, not by name, just in case it should fall into the wrong hands.
His heart dropped. She had the wrong idea of it.
"Elizabeth," he stepped towards her, and despite how she shook her head, he took another step, then another. She stood rooted the spot, apparently not willing to back down, no matter how upset with him she was. His brave, beautiful Elizabeth. He would tell her the truth of it, and she would understand. She had to. She was the other half of him, and he believed he knew her as well as he knew his own self. He could see the hurt in her eyes, how much she ached to be away from him, but she was his Elizabeth, and she was standing still, giving him the chance to explain himself.
Because she loved him.
His heart hurt for thinking he may have caused her any sort of pain, even unintentionally.
He thought of all the pretty ways he could say it, but then decided that his beautiful girl deserved only honesty, and unvarnished honesty at that. He never wished for her to step carefully around him for fear of hurting him, and he would respect her the same.
“That letter you hold is about your sister, Jane,” he said. He could see her breathing, her lips parted as she struggled not to shout at him. The rain rained a fresh deluge down upon them, and he saw her shoulders shake. Her hair was slicked down to her face, and he wished he could wrap her in his arms, shelter her, but he knew until she was satisfied with his explanations his touch would not be welcomed.
“Jane?” she asked and then realization dawned upon her. She glanced down at the letter, the parchment curling as the rain struck it. She flicked it open. “The unsuitable girl?”
“Your sister. And not in the manner of unsuitability that you may think, but only because she loved another and I could not… I would not stand in the way of that, even for my own sake…” He swallowed, willing her to believe him. Her lips shut and then parted again. She sighed.
“When you speak of denying yourself freedom to live…” she trailed off, dawning realization on her face.
“It was the freedom to propose to you, if you would have me, that I would be denying myself,” he answered.
“Ah,” she whispered. “More the fool was I.” She looked so crestfallen that he reached for her. With a cry, she buried herself in his chest, hiding her face in his damp shirt, and let loose a torrent of sobs.
He knew that some men thought ill of those others who cried, but he was not one of them, and at that moment he could do nothing but hold her and let his tears spill down his cheeks as well. He’d been so close to losing her. That fear, and the grief welling up from the loss of his father, did him in.
He shuddered as the rain pelted them, and he clutched his jacket around her shoulders as he kept her close.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered into her hair, “please forgive me.”
&nb
sp; She lifted her face from his chest, her eyes red with tears, her cheeks flushed, but she was still the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes upon.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to his lips. “Please do not ask me again, for I will not. You have done nothing wrong.”
He let out a shaking breath and tugged her back against him, loathe to let her go.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said quietly after a few minutes. “I… I suppose we had best go inside, face your father.” She glanced up at him, her mien apprehensive. “You will still go against his wishes, and marry me?”
The breath went out of him.
“Elizabeth.. I… I do not know how to tell you this-“ he trailed off and then looked back at the inn behind them.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said gently, “what is it? Whatever it is, we can face it, together. I promise.” He pulled her hand up to his lips and placed a soft kiss there.
“I dearly hope you are right, my beloved.”
Chapter 10
Elizabeth Bennet
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
* * *
Jane set the final pin into Elizabeth’s hair, and then pulled back to examine her work.
“I think you are perfectly adequate,” she teased, and then moved away so her sister could not swipe at her. Elizabeth rolled her eyes and stared at herself in the glass. She looked no different than she had the day before, but she felt herself entirely to be a new woman, or at least, she was about to become one.
“And you are perfectly insufferable,” Elizabeth retorted, but turned, biting her lip with nerves. “Truly. Am I alright?”
“If Mr. Darcy is not already deliriously happy, which I have under good authority-“
“Good authority as in Mr. Bingley.”
“Mmm, yes, Mr. Bingley, a good authority in all things Darcy related. As I was saying, if Mr. Darcy is not already deliriously happy, he shall be overwhelmed at the sight of you. I do believe he might faint,” Jane said, picking up her pelisse where lay over the bed. Elizabeth eyed her sister, whose belly was just beginning to swell under the gentle pleats of her dress.