by Eden Forster
Growing angrier every moment, she tried her best to speak with composure when she said, “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared the concern that I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”
He started at this, but he said nothing. She continued, “You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
Again his astonishment was obvious, and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on. “From the very beginning—from the first moment of my acquaintance with you—your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike that I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”
Elizabeth found herself standing in a small inn, far away in a small village named Lambton just five miles away from Mr. Darcy’s home in Derbyshire. She had traveled there with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. Next, she found herself at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high, woody hills, and in front a stream of some natural importance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by awkward taste.
She was struck with the notion of what it must be like to be mistress of such a place. She saw Mr. Darcy. Tall, handsome, and exceedingly agreeable, he was not the proud man she had last seen in Kent. He was changed. Elizabeth saw in him a gentleman she could admire and respect, even love.
She now stood alone in the middle of her room in the Lambton inn. In her hand was a letter from her sister Jane with news from Longbourn.
“Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, for we have received word that Lydia has run away. She has thrown herself into the power of Lieutenant Wickham.”
Elizabeth fell to her knees. Her sister had no money and no connections. Having learned of Wickham’s real character, his purpose in running away with Lydia was anything but good.
Elizabeth’s own tossing and turning awakened her. She scanned the dark room, trying to calm herself. She reflected upon the fact that the militia had been away from Meryton for months. In view of the amount of time Mr. Darcy had spent in Longbourn’s library with Mr. Bennet—when he was not spending time with Elizabeth—she suspected he had played a part in persuading her father not to allow her youngest sister to travel to Brighton to visit her friend Mrs. Forster, the wife of the militia’s colonel.
“Lydia is here at Longbourn where she belongs. She is in no harm from Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth whispered. Remembrance of that aspect of her disturbing dream gradually faded away as she endeavored to think of anything else. Painful recollections, however, would not be easily repressed. How could she and Mr. Darcy have spoken to each other with such rancor? All the worst things that could be said had been said. Elizabeth was thankful it was but a dream—a dream that was not entirely bad. At length, the pleasing part of her dream—the warm and inviting prospect of Pemberley—along with the steady sound of the ticking clock gently lured Elizabeth back to sleep.
Jane raced into the room. Uncontrollable tears poured from her eyes.
“Jane, what has happened?”
“Oh, Lizzy! I am afraid the news is grave. It’s Papa!”
Jane did not say more. She didn’t have to for Elizabeth heard her mother’s screaming protests. Elizabeth donned her robe and she and Jane raced from the room and down the stairs. There stood Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Elizabeth’s ridiculous cousin, Mr. Collins. That evil, sanctimonious woman insisted that Mr. Collins claim his rightful place as the heir of Longbourn at once. The proud woman just stood there at the foot of the stairs laughing at Elizabeth, her mother, and her sisters.
“My nephew Darcy will never marry you now. As soon as he sees how low you are, he will be glad to have escaped such a fate. He and my daughter, Anne, will be married.”
“No! Mr. Darcy will never marry his cousin. He does not love her. He loves me.”
“You foolish girl, you may have drawn my nephew in by your arts and allurements. He may have been infatuated by your country charms, but my nephew is not foolish enough to fancy himself in love with you. You are beneath him in consequence. A union between the two of you would be laughable.”
“No! You are wrong. He loves me.”
People she had never seen before shepherded them out the door, with Lady Catherine on their heels, ranting about how her nephew and her daughter were soon to be married. At last, the favorite wish of her family was to be realized.
Elizabeth looked around and found she was no longer at Longbourn Village standing outside the manor house with her mother and her sisters and every material possession that they rightfully considered their own strewn across the ground. She was in London. She was at Matlock House and there was Mr. Darcy sitting at the pianoforte with Miss Granger. She drifted to where the two of them sat. He didn’t even see her. She was invisible to him. He looked happy, more contented than she had ever seen him. Between the two of them—the amiable, handsome gentleman and the simpering society miss—there were all the symptoms of love.
“Lizzy,” she heard someone say. “Lizzy, wake up! You’re having a dream.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes and saw her sister was sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Jane?”
“Oh, Lizzy, it’s Papa—”
Elizabeth bolted upright. “Papa? Is he—”
Chapter Nine
“Indeed,” Jane interrupted. “Papa has returned from his trip. Oh, Lizzy, you will never guess what he found in his library.” She handed Elizabeth a letter. “Papa gave me permission to show this to you.”
“What is it?”
“It is a letter from Mr. Darcy. Papa suspects it became buried beneath a stack of papers by mistake.”
Tentatively, Elizabeth unfolded and silently read the previously opened missive that had been addressed to her papa. Covering her mouth with her free hand, she looked at her sister.
Jane said, “There, you see. Mr. Darcy did not abandon you without a word of explanation.”
“No,” Elizabeth replied, half smiling, half relieved. “He merely returned to town on business.”
“Does he say when he is to return?” Jane asked. She did not mention Mr. Bingley but the implication was there all the same.
“Oh, Jane, it seems he is to return today.”
Hours later, Elizabeth was standing outside the parlor with her mother, attempting to persuade her to return to the room. She was certain Mr. Darcy could hear everything that was being said for Mrs. Bennet made no attempt to hide her disappointment that he had called on Longbourn alone.
“Why should I remain here and give consequence to the proud gentleman who can mean nothing to any of us?”
Mortified, Elizabeth exclaimed, “Mama, please lower your voice.”
“Why he would call on Longbourn without the agreeable Mr. Bingley is a mystery to me. You, Lizzy, are the only one of us who seems able to bear the disagreeable man’s company, although heaven only knows why. You had better attend him. I have other matters needing my attention.” With that said, she walked away.
Elizabeth entered the room in time to hear Jane say, “Please pardon my mother, Mr. Darcy.”
Preparing to take his leave, Darcy stood. “No, pardon me.” He bowed slightly. “Have a good day, Miss Bennet.” He then looked at Elizabeth, his expression unreadable. He nodded, but ju
st barely. He quickly quit the room.
Elizabeth was embarrassed by her mother’s ill-treatment of Mr. Darcy. She could not understand why her mother refused to concede that he was not the haughty man they had met last year. He was an honorable and decent man who valued family and friends above all else. He did not deserve such foul treatment from anyone. She went outside in hopes of seeing him, but she was too late. He was gone.
Elizabeth walked to the garden. Her silent prayers answered, she saw him standing there, pacing restlessly. She went to him; he seemed greatly disheartened. She said, “Do you wish to be released from our agreement because if that is indeed the case, I perfectly understand.”
“Is this in response to my abrupt departure just now?”
“Sir, will you allow me to apologize for my mother’s behavior? No one deserves such rudeness, least of all you. I know you once harbored strong objections to being connected to my family in part because of my mother. I do not suppose things will ever change in that regard, which is why I am compelled to ask if you wish to be released from our agreement.”
“Is that your wish?”
“Oh, Mr. Darcy, I only want you to be happy and if there’s a chance in the world that your happiness lies with another woman, someone the likes of Miss Granger, then that is what I would wish for you.”
“Miss Elizabeth, would you sentence me to a life devoid of passion and joy with a woman who means nothing to me, when here stands before me the only woman in the world whom I shall ever love?”
His ardent profession of his feelings rendered her speechless. He took her in his arms. Gazing into her eyes, he brushed his thumb over her lips. “Would you, Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth moistened her lips, hoping she would soon know the feeling of his lips against hers. Closing her eyes, her fondest wish came true.
The abrupt sound of a loud gasp drew their lips apart and they looked up to see Mrs. Bennet standing close by. Dropping her basket of freshly cut flowers, she turned and raced to the house, shouting, “We’re saved! We’re saved! Oh, Mr. Bennet! We’re saved.”
Still embracing each other, Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged startled looks. Slowly their hands fell to their sides.
“Shall we go after her and perhaps explain?”
“I believe that can wait, sir. First, I need you to do something for me.”
“You must know I would do anything for you.”
“I am aware it has not been six weeks, but I need you to ask me again ... now.”
“Are you quite certain of this?”
“Sir, would you rather we tell our two sons and two daughters that we were forced to marry or would you rather tell them that ours was a love match?”
“Miss Elizabeth, are you saying that you love me?”
Smiling, she nodded and spoke softly. “Yes—I do, most ardently.”
Hearing that, Darcy took both Elizabeth’s hands in his. “Pray, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, will you do me the honor of accepting my hand?”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy. Ever mindful of the honor you have bestowed, it shall be my pleasure to be your wife.”
The next several days found Mrs. Bennet happily engaged in making wedding plans for it was decided that Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were to be married by special license. Mrs. Bennet’s joy was increased when soon after the announcement of Elizabeth’s wedding, Mr. Bingley offered his hand to Jane. Mrs. Bennet was determined to regard Elizabeth’s nuptials as a forced arrangement, hence its urgency made it necessary that Jane and Bingley wait a respectable period before exchanging their vows.
One day, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy successfully escaped Mrs. Bennet’s wedding planning schemes for a walk in the garden. It was all happening rather quickly, Elizabeth often supposed. In under a week, she would no longer be of Longbourn. Pemberley would be her home. Mr. Darcy’s sister, Georgiana, was to come and live at Pemberley as well. Already, Mr. Darcy was looking forward to the two ladies forming a close attachment. When talk of Georgiana’s coming out season arose, Elizabeth said, “I never had the pleasure of a London Season. I should like very much to suppose that my younger sisters will enjoy such a privilege.”
Darcy nodded. “We must see that they do.”
“Of course, their prospects will not be nearly so bright as Georgiana’s and neither would I expect them to be.”
Here, Darcy mentioned his intention of enhancing each of Elizabeth’s younger sisters’ dowries. Elizabeth’s surprise was evident.
“Sir, it is too much to ask,” she exclaimed.
“On the contrary, my dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, for your sisters are to be my sisters. I want everything for them that I desire for Georgiana.”
She tucked her hands inside his folded arm. “You, sir, are entirely too good to me. I do not believe I can ever truly express what it means to me that you love me as you do.”
“I do love you, Elizabeth. I plan to spend the rest of my days showing you how much you mean to me.”
Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. “How could you begin?” she inquired. “I can comprehend you going on charmingly once you had made a beginning, but what could set you off in the first place?”
“I cannot fix on the hour, the spot, the look, or the words that laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”
“My beauty you had early withstood. As for my manners—my behavior to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere, sir. Did you admire me for my impertinence?”
“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”
“You may as well call it impertinence, sir, for it was very little less,” she said teasingly. She went on in that way attributing his admiration to his being sick of civility, of deference, of officious attention. She said he was disgusted with the women who were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for his approbation alone. She spoke of having aroused and interested him because she was so unlike them.
Concluding her discourse, she said, “Had you not been really amiable, you would have hated me for it. But in spite of the pains you took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just and in your heart, you thoroughly despised those who so assiduously courted you. There—I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it, and, all things considered, I begin to think my view of things entirely reasonable.”
“I will accede to your account of events if you will tell me when you first knew you wanted to be my wife.”
“Well, sir, I too must confess that my opinion of you has been improving ever so gradually, that I hardly knew when I wanted to be your wife.” She lay a finger on her chin, feigning solemn reflection. “As I think about it, I believe I must attribute it to my seeing the beautiful grounds at Pemberley.”
His smile persuaded her that she had not injured him with her teasing, which was a very good thing for she intended to exercise such liberties regularly. Her motives were purely selfish for his smiles always warmed her heart.
Darcy said, “I might find your account a bit more believable if not for the fact that you have never seen your future home.”
“Were I you, sir, I would not be too certain of that. While it is true that I have never traveled to Pemberley, I have seen it in my dreams. I must say it is magnificent.”
Arching his brow, Darcy said, “Normally, I would not place a great deal of credence in dreams. However, in your case I shall allow an exception for it is my sincere wish to make all your fondest dreams come true.”
Elizabeth recounted her many dreams that were already unfolding: Jane’s reunion with Mr. Bingley and their subsequent engagement, the prospects of advantageous matches for her younger sisters. Not to be diminished was her mama’s newly found peace of mind. Smiling, she thought of her own happiness and the life that awaited her as Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy. She rested her head on Mr. Darcy’s arm
as they continued along the garden path content in the knowledge that, all in all, she would never have any cause to repine.
The End
Want More from this Author?
Love heartwarming Darcy and Elizabeth happily ever after stories? If yes, you will love this delightful novella. It’s short. It’s sweet. It’s perfect for those times when you need a quick romantic diversion.
Lady Catherine learns that Mr. Bingley is engaged to marry Miss Jane Bennet. She insists that her favorite nephew, Mr. Darcy, must follow his friend’s example and marry as well. Her ladyship means to carry her point, and she will go to any length—especially when she starts to suspect there’s a mystery woman in Darcy’s life. Will Darcy accept his aunt’s dictate, or will the gentleman follow his heart?
Chapter 1 Excerpt
“You must come to the wedding,” said Charles Bingley. “I would not be standing here with my happy news if not for you informing me my dearest Jane was in town all those weeks ago and encouraging me to pursue her, my friend. What is more, I want you to stand beside me.”
There is someone who would say you and Miss Bennet might well have been husband and wife months ago if not for my interference, Fitzwilliam Darcy thought. The remembrance of that certain someone haunted him still. A part of him knew he would never forget her—the part of him in want of a wife of his own.
At nearly eight and twenty, Darcy reasoned it was time. He had put off finding the woman to whom he wished to devote the rest of his life long enough. His needs as a man aside, he was the master of Pemberley, which was renowned as one of the finest estates in all of Derbyshire, and Pemberley needed an heir.