part0022

Darcy walked along the path towards the clump of slender birches at the side of the house, head down and hands behind his back. He would have resented any implication that he was lying in wait, although that was precisely what he was doing – with little hope of success, as he had no idea in which direction Elizabeth’s penchant for an early walk had taken her.

He cursed his misjudgement in not instructing Bingley’s man to rouse him, and relying on habit instead. A poor choice, that – for habit was overridden by the sleepless night and the utter exhaustion of body and mind that the last few days had brought. He only awoke when the sun was well into the sky, simply because, at some point in his restless pacing, he had opened the carefully drawn curtains, and forgotten them thus.

Darcy walked back to the house and up the flight of stairs that led to the terrace for a better view, only to be met by his cousin, who was just leaving. Fitzwilliam merely bade him good morning, and Darcy thanked the heavens for his cousin’s perception, which made him see that he was in no humour for either sallies or conversation. Come to think of it, Fitzwilliam had been uncharacteristically reserved with his opinions lately which, given their quite recent heated discussions, was a source of wonder and not insubstantial gratitude for Darcy, as he knew not how he would have borne another lecture.

“You have enough to contend with as it is,” he said, not unkindly, then resumed with genuine concern, “I take it that you have not had the chance to improve matters yet?”

“Nay, not as such.” There was no denying the surge of hope the previous evening had engendered, but the truth remained: he had not had the chance to improve matters yet.

Darcy wondered briefly what his cousin’s true opinion was about the evening’s events, for it would have been naïve of him to think that Fitzwilliam had missed the undercurrents between Elizabeth and himself; that is to say, the most recent and altogether different undercurrents. Fortunately, despite his propensity to freely air his views on matters that did not concern him, his cousin was too much of a gentleman to even try to force a confidence in a case such as this – and he merely turned away.

“Anything for you, Coz. I can but try. He has been somewhat of a monkey on your back lately, has he not? Still, you cannot fault him for his loyalty,” he added, and Darcy grimaced.

As soon as Fitzwilliam left him, Darcy returned to his post overlooking the approach to the house and, to his relief, after a while he was finally rewarded with the sight of a light-coloured spot progressing briskly across the distant fields. He set off to meet her and reached the end of the path in just enough time to espy her running down the slope at the back of the house, and deftly crossing the stile, her honey-coloured bonnet in hand.

Elizabeth looked up as she became aware of his presence, with none of the self-consciousness he dreaded. Instead, there was something in her turn of countenance that reminded him of that evening at Netherfield, when she had bid him despise her if he dared.

Nothing was furthest from his mind. The only thought he could grip hold of was how beautiful she looked, her eyes and complexion brightened by the exercise, her hair in slight disarray as if ruffled by the wind and, by Jove, her skirts still six inches deep in mud. Where did she find it? Bingley said it had not rained in Hertfordshire in weeks .

He ought to cease standing there grinning like a fool, Darcy’s remaining sense told him, to no avail. He had wanted to kiss her that morning, long ago, when he had come across her on her way to visit her ailing sister, and even more so now, when her bright eyes were radiating this endearing archness.

“Lovely morning for a walk,” he said at last, deciding to err on the side of caution, after wondering if she would take offence at his presumption, were he to tell her how beautiful she looked.

In Darcy’s case, all ease soon dissipated, at the thought that this was his chance to speak, and he had no notion how to start and, for that matter, how to continue. The feel of her fingers in the crook of his arm gave some measure of comfort. It would have been quite out of place, he knew, to reach and cover them with his other hand, much as he wished to, so he kept his hand to his side and his thoughts to himself – for the time being at least.

That he should be inclined to jest about that strained exchange was a source of delighted wonder to her, and she welcomed the intelligence that Mr Darcy appeared to have a sense of humour after all, over and above his other admirable qualities.

“Do you miss it?” he found himself asking, and instantly cursed his foolishness. He already knew the answer, of course, and besides this was not the direction he would have liked their discourse to take. That was not to say he did not welcome the openness, even the intimacy of the conversation, but the light-heartedness was gone, more was the pity.

“I miss it for what it used to be. I miss the Longbourn I used to call home, and… I miss my father.” At that, she stopped walking and looked up towards him. “I may not have given that impression, particularly yesterday, but I am grateful to you, Sir, not least because my father’s last days were content and free of anxiety,” she said with quiet honesty, and Darcy’s spirits sank.

Of course the conversation would slide down the path of all the unpleasantness still left unsaid between them once he had inquired into her thoughts on Longbourn.

“Pray, Miss Bennet,” he tiredly urged and looked away as they recommenced walking, “could we possibly not talk about this now? I was wrong in many respects. Dreadfully wrong. Whatever good might have come of it does not right it, nor does it justify it.”

“Mr Darcy,” she said, stopping to look at him until she caught his glance, “although I very much wish to understand your reasons, I do believe that now would not be a good time, for either of us. So perhaps we could agree to put Farringdon aside for a while, and speak no more of it for now.”

Her words surprised him no less than her gentleness of manner, but it was the warmth of her compassion that filled his heart with disbelieving wonder at finding himself its recipient. His eyes lit up with all the tenderness he had long wished to express – and when he spoke, he unknowingly did so.

“I should not wish to keep anything from you… But how can I hope to gain your good opinion if I start by recounting all my misguided notions, which I have long discarded? ”

“You already have my good opinion, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, almost in a whisper, with a fleeting glance in his direction, before the intensity in his eyes compelled her to look away.

Darcy stood rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on her blushing countenance, in an earnest attempt to ascertain her meaning. She would not turn towards him, but her hand was still ensconced in the crook of his arm, and the hope her words had kindled was exhilarating. They fell into step once more as they resumed their walk, his gloved hand clasped protectively over her smaller one this time, this simple joy more soothing than many words had been.

Yet she did not, and neither did he. As the path they had slowly followed joined another, their eyes fell on Mrs Bingley, seated on one of the benches, with what appeared to be a letter in her hand. Jane’s presence, never unwelcome to either, was on this occasion an intrusion they both could have done without. Elizabeth released his arm, and he clasped his hands behind his back, his frustration overwhelming. Was there any privacy to be had, ever , at Netherfield?

By mutual agreement, they returned to the house to continue their sisterly conversation in the privacy of Mrs Bingley’s sitting room. The letter was produced and read again, even though not much could be garnered from it. All they could learn was that it was a coup-de-foudre , which Mr Robert Ferrars could well afford, as he had recently acquired all the rights and privileges of a firstborn, although he was in fact a younger son.

‘Mr Ferrars has an elder brother, who has displeased their mother exceedingly, I know not in what fashion’, Mrs Bennet wrote, ‘so much so that she was compelled to settle upon her second son a fortune which should by rights have gone to her firstborn. And this worked to our dear girl’s advantage, for she caught Mr Ferrars’ eye, and before I knew it I was asked to give my consent for them to marry. I granted it, of course! Just think of the pin-money, the jewellery and the carriages my dear Lydia will have! So, they were married by special licence yesterday, in the parish of St-Martin-in-the-Fields, where Mr Ferrars’ townhouse is, and are now on their way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place dear Mr Ferrars has a great curiosity to see…’

The rest of the letter was of no further relevance. The last page was awash with details of the wedding dress and how beautiful Lydia looked, despite the suddenness of the arrangements. Elizabeth folded the missive, amazed by the developments and not insubstantially concerned for her friend Elinor. Given the Miss Dashwoods’ disclosures on the evening of Elinor’s engagement, she could easily fathom the reason behind Mrs Ferrars’ severe discontent.

She was cautiously pleased for her youngest sister. Lydia must be thrilled to have made such an advantageous match. For her part, Elizabeth reserved the right to judge its merits better, once she had become acquainted with her new brother. However, she could not discard a sense of deep disquiet at the thought that Lydia’s fortunes were gained at Elinor’s expense.

Little did she know at the time that neither Elinor nor Mr Ferrars had any taste for such elevation in fortune, and would have considered it dearly bought, if the price was their submission to his mother’s constant interference. Mr Ferrars was blissfully happy in his choice of bride. As to their income, it was exactly suited to their modest needs, and settling at the rectory of Delaford, near a loving family, would make their joy complete.

Such thoughts and plans were still unknown to her – she would learn of Elinor’s many blessings and rejoice in them several weeks later – so all Elizabeth could do was press her eldest sister’s hand and hesitantly offer:

Alone in the library, Darcy paced. Circumstances had conspired against him too many times to count, and that had begun to rile him in no small measure. It was hardly Mrs Bingley’s fault that they had happened upon her, instead of choosing any other path, yet this gave him no comfort as he seethed and wondered just how many misguided interventions or unfortunate circumstances were still left to divide him from Elizabeth.

Having offered a belated bow, Darcy sat and took up a book, mindlessly turning the pages with an acute sense of déjà vu , as he vividly remembered that other time when they sat in the Netherfield library together. That very distant day, when he had indefensibly attempted to deny any interest in her.

Darcy closed his book and placed it on the table beside him, then leaned his head against the backrest, filling his senses with the sight of her. Loose tendrils swayed as she wrote, her brow was slightly creased in delightful concentration, and she was still occasionally biting the corner of her lip in the same endearing fashion.

As soon as her letter was written and folded, Darcy came to bend down on one knee at her side and took her hand, in a manner decidedly indicative of a proposal.