part0023

He had beautiful hands, she thought incongruously. Very beautiful hands. Reassuringly strong, with long, perfectly formed fingers. The thumbs were a little flatter, slightly upturned at the end, and Elizabeth watched mesmerised as they gently brushed across the backs of her hands, in so light a touch that she could barely feel it. Yet there was very little else of which she was more acutely aware.

How odd that he should have warm hands. Strange, that. She did not know why, but she would have expected them to be cool. They were not. They were warm and firm, yet very gentle.

He had held her hands before, of course. In a dance. In a greeting. In handing her down from a carriage. But not without the double barrier of gloves, and most certainly never with such exquisite intimacy.

The words coursed through her, delightfully alive in her mind long after they were spoken, their chant silencing all else that followed. Tears threatened as she listened to his voice. Low and caressing, it held a warmth that had never been there before, and also a tinge of uncertainty, as unmistakable as it was endearing.

Elizabeth blinked. This distraction – it simply would not do. With some effort, she willed herself back from the clouds to listen.

“… and indeed, how could I not, with so much beauty and warmth before me? I was entranced before I knew it, before even knowing, truly knowing you. It was your loveliness that I saw, your sparkling wit that drew me, and your unequivocal rejection of every form of artifice that I admired. It was only… later… sometime later,” he faltered, in a manner she could not quite account for, “that I was granted the chance to see there was so much more. That your affections ran deep, your loyalty was steadfast and absolute, and there could be no greater prize than your love, for any man. I could never find your equal, Elizabeth.”

He did not correct himself, indeed he did not even seem to notice. His words and the exquisite sound of her name on his lips made her smile in wonder as she raised her eyes from their joined hands to his face. He had beautiful eyes as well. And long, dark lashes. She had not noticed this, not ever, but then she had never seen him in such close proximity before.

How utterly amazing that she had ever thought his eyes cold and disapproving. So long ago, so little perception. The warmth was unmistakable now. And overpowering. So much so that she blushed – profusely – and lowered her gaze.

“For many months, I have known there is no one I could possibly admire more – nobody else I could come to love. I could see beyond any doubt that life without you would be barren and empty, barely half-lived. Nor would there be companionship, fulfilment, or joy. It is with you, and you alone, that I can find them…”

He stopped, and she yielded to the irresistible compulsion to raise her eyes to him again.

“I should have spoken months ago,” he said, his countenance darkening, and he released one of her hands to rake his fingers though his hair. “I was…”

He looked away, distinctly uncomfortable, and a deep crease formed between his eyebrows. She thought she would very much like to smooth it with her fingertips, and also brush off that adorable set of unruly locks that fell in disarray over his brow. To see him so discomfited was yet another source of wonder. She had never thought he would succumb to such nervousness, much less betray it. Her heart – or whatever was left of her heart that he did not possess – went out to him, and it was with no small measure of self-restraint that Elizabeth held her peace and allowed him to continue.

He took a deep breath.

“There is a great deal I would change if I could. It serves no purpose to speak of it now, and making speeches is not something I do well. Come to think of it,” he added with sudden bitterness, “I rather doubt there was anything I did well throughout the course of our acquaintance, except perhaps impressing you with the fullest belief of my arrogance, my conceit, and my selfish disdain for the feelings of others. ”

Elizabeth decisively shook her head at that and, on impulse, she reached to hold the hand that had released hers a few moments ago. He looked up as she did so, and a little smile brightened his countenance.

“And there you have the proof that I cannot make speeches,” he resumed with a self-deprecating little chuckle. “Here I am, reminding you of all my faults and follies, when—” He carried her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently, reverently. “I love you,” he said simply. “And I beg you to consent to be my wife.”

The library door was suddenly opened behind him – nonchalantly and audibly – but, other than an involuntary start and a fleeting but fierce grimace of annoyance, Darcy made no move. He did not even turn towards the door, and thus missed what, under different circumstances, might have been a most diverting sight of a very flustered Mr Bingley, quite obviously torn between his amiable nature and what he perceived to be his duty.

It was impossible to misapprehend what he had unwittingly interrupted, and his consternation was great and his mortification barely less so, as every fibre of his being urged him to excuse himself and close the door. Yet Bingley remained rooted to the spot until Elizabeth turned her head to glance at him, equally embarrassed, but substantially less perturbed.

“I thank you, Charles. I am… All is well,” she concluded with a conscious smile, wondering whether there ever was a civil way of asking her brother by marriage to excuse himself from his own library.

“Is it?” Darcy whispered, almost at the same time, searching her face in an attempt to gauge her answer a moment sooner.

Elizabeth turned back to him and tightened the hold of her hands on his.

“Yes,” she replied, laughter in her tear-strained voice, and the brightest smile lit up her countenance. “And … yes!”

Their eyes held as Darcy stared, willing himself to believe that he understood her rightly. He felt like a fool, but he had to ask.

“That is the meaning generally assigned to the word, Sir,” Elizabeth replied, laughing through her tears, this time running freely, and then came to see that this was not the best time for archness. “I do,” she added, quietly and earnestly. “I—”

She stopped. Abruptly. She could not very well continue this conversation in Mr Bingley’s presence. Their situation was awkward enough, but his must be still worse. But every thought of her brother vanished as she witnessed the most becoming expression of heartfelt delight diffusing over the face of the man still kneeling at her side. Mr Darcy. Her betrothed.

She was brought back from her incredulous reverie by the sound of his voice whispering earnestly “Thank you,” before he brought her hands to his lips again. He then stood and turned to Bingley at last, an expression of unalloyed happiness in his countenance such as his friend had not seen him display in the entire course of their acquaintance. Bingley cleared his voice, embarrassed as never before.

“I… hm… believe I should… I understand… congratulations are in order,” he eventually finished, and advanced with his hand outstretched.

Darcy took it in a firm grip.

“They are indeed, my friend. I am very fortunate. More so than I deserve, but be that as it may. As you had cause to hear for yourself,” he added with an odd look, not entirely disposed to pardon the intrusion into the happiest moment of his life, “Miss Bennet has just agreed to marry me. We are to be brothers after all,” he added, too happy to consider that his last remark might have been somewhat of a faux pas , in light of Miss Bingley’s well-known ambitions. Fortunately, the thought occurred to neither, and no shadow came to dim their joy when, honestly and heartily, Bingley expressed his delight at the prospect of their closer connection.

With a soft smile, Elizabeth inwardly acknowledged this further proof of their longstanding bond of friendship, and counted amongst her blessings the fact that her dearest sister and herself would never suffer the pain of drifting apart because their chosen partners in life could not like or respect each other.

“Gentlemen, I must take my leave,” she suddenly said, “as I have just been shamefully reminded that I have a dear sister who must not be neglected any longer.” And, with a swish of skirts, a curtsy and an impish smile towards her betrothed, she vanished from the library .

Darcy followed promptly, with a perfunctory “You will excuse me, Bingley,” and this time his friend made no effort to detain him.

He went and poured himself a glass of port instead, and wandered towards the window to berate and then amuse himself with thoughts of his untimely intrusion, and eventually attempt to make sense of the unexpected denouement. It explained a great many things, he could see that now, and raised a different set of questions as well, but once he had overcome the initial shock, Bingley was delighted for them. They were a good match, come to think of it. In every way – or at least in every way that mattered. And they would be happy, although their marital bliss would undoubtedly be of a more tempestuous kind than his and darling Jane’s.

For his part, he was overjoyed that his best friend was to become his brother. And Jane would be equally so. He could not wait to talk to her about it. Elizabeth was presumably with her now, unless she was still detained in the hallway, Bingley mused with a diverted chuckle. Jane would undoubtedly prefer to hear it from her rather than himself, with all the details which he – mercifully – did not have, and to which only a conversation between sisters could possibly do justice.

Bingley took his time, briefly wondering just how long he should allow, seeing as he had interrupted one private conversation too many that morning. He had his answer not much later, when he caught a glimpse of the newly engaged couple walking away from the house at a sedate pace. With a light tap on the windowsill, Bingley abandoned his unfinished glass and went in search of his wife.

Having left his friend in the library, Darcy lost no time in following Elizabeth along the corridor. At the sound of his footsteps she turned around, the brightest glow lighting up her countenance. He caught up with her in a few strides and took her hands, for once in his life quite indifferent to the fact that they might be observed.

“Wait. Pray wait,” he said hurriedly. “I cannot bear to see you leaving so soon. Tell me again.”

The look of devotion in her eyes was beyond anything he had ever dared hope for, and Darcy sighed at the thought that he was not so utterly lost to all sense of shame as to succumb to the temptation to kiss her, then and there. As he could not do that, he pressed her hands to his lips instead.

“Walk with me, Elizabeth,” he earnestly urged. “Walk with me and persuade me that I have not dreamt all this.”

She laughed lightly.

“I understand the sentiment. Yes, I will walk with you. But I should see Jane first. I would not trifle with her affectionate solicitude, nor allow her to hear of our happy tidings from anyone but myself.”

“No, indeed,” he smiled and reluctantly released her hands. “I should say the same about my own sister. She will be delighted. She thinks very highly of you.”

It took them no time at all to ascertain the whereabouts of Mrs Bingley and Miss Darcy and, upon the butler’s recommendation, they repaired to the drawing room to find the ladies sitting together in what appeared to be an earnest and animated conversation. Had he not known better, Darcy might have suspected it involved either himself or Elizabeth or both, for their sisters became conspicuously quiet upon their entrance.

The ladies glanced up and seemed to promptly guess what was about to be imparted, for Jane smiled brightly at them, while Georgiana blushed in joyful anticipation. A brief look was exchanged between Elizabeth and himself and, with a smile and a nod, Darcy ceded the floor. Elizabeth went to sit with her sister and his, while he remained standing at her side.

“I hope you will both be pleased to learn that Mr Darcy and I have just become engaged,” Elizabeth announced, to everyone’s delight and utter lack of surprise.

In other circumstances, a flurry of questions would have followed, had they been alone with their respective sibling, but as it was, both Mrs Bingley and Miss Darcy merely expressed their delight, allowing that the details would simply have to wait.

“I am so very happy for you both,” Jane repeated with great fondness, “and no less for the rest of us. What joy it must be for my husband to have his best friend for a brother. Does he know? ”

“Oh, aye. Every particular,” Darcy replied and pursed his lips as he walked over to the mantelpiece, hands behind his back.

Somewhat puzzled, Mrs Bingley cast a glance towards her sister, just in time to notice a sparkle of mischievous amusement in her eyes, before Elizabeth looked away to conceal a smile. It was plain to see there was more to it than Mr Darcy was prepared to let on, but Jane held her peace, knowing that, if there was a story to be told, she would hear it soon enough.

“Are we to return to town for preparations then, Brother?” Georgiana asked.

“That, I cannot say. We have not discussed the details, but…” He turned to Elizabeth with a warm glance, quick to recognise the opportunity. “I daresay now would be as good a time as any. Would you care to take a turn with me, so that we might resolve upon such matters?”

Elizabeth readily agreed, and before long they were blissfully walking away from the house and their companions. Yet no time was spent in making plans for the future. The novelty of their declared attachment and the happiness they shared was much more likely to occupy their thoughts.

Perhaps for the first time in her life, Elizabeth found herself unable and unwilling to say much. Yet she was thrilled to listen as he told her of feelings which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made her treasure his regard all the more.

There was a great deal he could not speak of, and what was better left unsaid weighed on him, but there was nothing to be done about it. He could not mention the many months when he had longed for her, nor should he speak of the prideful obstinacy that had kept him away. But he could tell her everything else.

It was entirely out of character, he knew, for him to bare his soul in like fashion. Never one to talk much, he had always mistrusted or despised any abundance of words, as a sign of disingenuousness or, at best, of a weak understanding – with the notable exception of his cousin and Bingley. As for the willingness to speak of one’s feelings, he had often found it to be in reverse proportion to their depth. And yet, the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt, for Elizabeth was effortlessly forthcoming. It was natural and just. He could speak of his thoughts. His hopes. His passionate admiration and regard. He could tell her that, for a long time now, she had been with him wherever he went. In town and elsewhere, and above all, at Pemberley. That he had long felt she belonged there, to give a new breath of life to the only place he could truly call home. That it would be one of his greatest joys to be able to take her to Pemberley at last.

Elizabeth looked up sharply at this, before observing quietly, almost hesitantly.

“You forget that I have already been to Pemberley…”

“Aye. So you have…” Darcy uncomfortably replied, unwelcome recollections suddenly intruding to cast dark shadows over the moment’s brightness.

“I have yet to see a place more happily situated,” Elizabeth added, in an attempt to draw him from unpleasant musings, as she could not but think it was much too soon to speak of Georgiana’s revelations.

“I wish I had been there to welcome you,” he wistfully said, but abruptly ceased speaking as, to his surprise and pleasure, a small hand came to rest on his sleeve in an affectionate offer of comfort.

He raised his eyes to hers, only to see her cheeks glowing with the most charming blush.

“You will be,” she whispered, and breath caught in his chest at the overwhelming thought.

She had agreed to be his wife. She would be with him, always. Mistress of his house. Mother of his children. His joy and his purpose, for the rest of their days.

His hand came up to caress her cheek, almost of its own volition.

"You have made me so happy, Elizabeth, so very, very happy. Words fail me…”

He stopped. There was nothing left for him to say about the light she had brought into his life; nothing she did not know already. Slowly, tentatively, his lips found hers in a fleeting kiss – light and ever so gentle. A warm puff of air brushed over his face as she gave a little sigh of surprise. He swallowed hard and reluctantly withdrew, just far enough to search her eyes for her consent. The rosy hue overspreading her cheeks turned a shade deeper, and her lips slowly curled into a smile, before she stood on tiptoe to close the distance he had put between them. For now, there was no further need for words.

Elizabeth ran up the stairs towards her chamber to dress. They had walked for hours, oblivious to their surroundings, their direction and the time, and it was nothing short of wonderful that they had happened to be within reasonable distance of the house when they had discovered they ought to return, and thus could join their relations for the evening repast without the awkwardness and the imposition of a search party.

She laughed at the absurdity of her reflections – a bright, sparkling little peal of laughter that seemed to uncontrollably burst forth from the unexpected, boundless joy that had become her life. She reached the upper floor and covered her lips in passing embarrassment when she unexpectedly came across Georgiana, already dressed for dinner and ready to make her way downstairs.

“Forgive me, I was—”

She stopped. What was she to say? That she was in the clouds? Utterly and completely in love with Georgiana’s brother? Happier than ever?

To her surprise, the younger girl put her arms around her in a brief but very warm embrace.

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” she earnestly whispered. “I have never seen Fitzwilliam as happy in my entire life.”

“Fitzwilliam?” Elizabeth asked, more than a little puzzled.

The Colonel? What had he to do with it?

“My brother,” Georgiana replied with a rather strange look, and Elizabeth smiled at the sudden notion that it was probably the first time she had heard Mr Darcy referred to by his Christian name. There had been no previous opportunity, of course, and it made her smile again to think that she had known him for eleven months now, had promised herself in marriage to him that very morning, and yet it was only then that she had learned his full name. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

‘It suits him’ , she thought. Just like himself, it was one of a kind. It had… resonance. And distinction. And charm. Upon reflection, it seemed to hold everything she knew of him – all in one name.

The beautiful lines sprang to mind, bringing recollections from when she was fifteen years of age, and in the habit of curling up in a large chair by the window, in her father’s library, with the revered tome that bound together all of Master Shakespeare’s plays.

“Fitzwilliam was my mother’s maiden name, as you have probably guessed,” Georgiana explained further, drawing Elizabeth from her reverie. “Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, as was,” she added with a faint sigh that found its way straight into Elizabeth’s heart, as she remembered that Miss Darcy had lost her mother in her infancy, and then her father, some six years ago.

Suddenly, her mind conjured the picture of the fair-haired young girl and her solemn elder brother, living in that beautiful but much too quiet house, and depending solely on each other for every shred of warmth and happiness and comfort. The poignancy of the picture tore at her heart. And, not for the first time, she wished him all the happiness that was his just desert, and hoped it was in her power to ensure he would have it.

There could not have been a greater contrast between the dismal atmosphere at dinner on the previous evening, and the festive air that now surrounded their small party in an almost palpable halo of joy. There was no trace of the heavy cloak of discomfort that had hung above and stifled them, and none of the hesitant, faltering discourse. The seating arrangements were once more a credit to Mrs Bingley’s good sense, for this time Darcy and Elizabeth were placed side by side, and close enough to be acutely and unsettlingly aware of each other.

Neither said much. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth, and as for Elizabeth, she was so distracted by her joy – measured against what the reverse had been – that she did not always know when she was silent.

There was no separation after dinner either. They sat together and listened to Georgiana’s flawless performance, and when it was Elizabeth’s turn to play, it came as no surprise to anybody that Darcy offered to sit with her and turn the pages, which proved to be just as delectably distracting as sitting next to one another over dinner – and made it so much harder for her to concentrate on notes.

After a while she gave up trying, and they left the instrument to join the others, and speak of books and music and Pemberley and town, of plays and concerts and little childhood memories, favourite walks and favourite places until, with no small amount of surprise, Elizabeth noticed the time. With substantial guilt, she also noticed Jane’s drawn countenance. Hastily, she rose and declared herself ready to retire, and Georgiana promptly followed suit.

Darcy escorted them both to the bottom of the stairs, and his gaze remained on them as the young ladies dearest to his heart gained the upper floor, arms linked and laughing softly at something or other. When they reached the landing, Elizabeth turned to smile at him and Darcy bowed in return, very deeply. Then, as soon as she disappeared from sight, he exhaled and made his way towards the billiards room, in dire need of an occupation – and some of Bingley’s brandy, come to think of that. He easily found the latter, and was pondering the wisdom of honing his skills with the billiards cue, when Fitzwilliam walked in from the darkened hallway.

The Colonel advanced towards him, hand outstretched.

“I am very happy for you. I wish you joy” he said simply.

There was nothing more to be said; everything else had been thoroughly discussed already. Darcy set his glass down and shook the proffered hand as he nodded his thanks. To the utter amazement of both, Fitzwilliam’s arm went about his cousin’s shoulders in a tight and very brief clasp, before the Colonel awkwardly turned away.

“Yes, well,” he huffed, as he cleared his voice. “Care for a game, then?”

“Shortly, yes, I thank you,” Darcy replied, barely recovering from his shock.

They must have been mere boys the last time either of them had considered such an open manifestation of their brotherly affection. It was simply not done, nor was it in their nature. And yet, on this occasion at least, it had not been out of place. Quite the contrary. It had been heart-warming and oddly reassuring.

Darcy cleared his voice as well before retrieving his glass.

“In fact, I was hoping for a word with Bingley. Or has he retired?”

“No, I should imagine not. He said he would join us shortly.”

“No, I would rather not, I thank you. I think I shall settle for port instead. ”

Fitzwilliam accepted a glass from his cousin and lowered himself into one of the armchairs. He was about to ask Darcy about his plans for returning to town to inform their relations of his engagement, but thought better of it. It was not a pleasant prospect, and there had been quite enough unpleasant conversations between them lately. For once, their silence was companionable as they both toyed with their drinks, more or less lost in their own reflections.

“Oh. I thought you had both retired for the night,” Bingley’s cheerful voice brought them back.

“Not as such. I was in some danger of drifting off to sleep in your billiards room, though,” he jestingly remarked as he turned to place his empty glass on a nearby table.

“Not to be encouraged. Will you not join me in a game instead? How about you, Darcy?” he asked, as he divested himself of his coat.

Fitzwilliam agreed and went to select a cue, but Darcy declined once more. He came to stand at the other end of the billiards table, swirling his brandy in his glass and wondering how he could possibly work the question foremost in his mind into casual conversation. It did not take him long to resolve that it could not be done, so he took another sip of his drink, then came straight to the point.

“Would you happen to know whose consent I should be seeking, Bingley? I did not wish to ask Miss Bennet – or Mrs Bingley, for that matter. Hardly sensitive, by all accounts.”

“Consent?” his friend asked, intent upon lining up his shot.

“Aye. Consent. To marry Miss Bennet. Not yours, I imagine, much as your recent displays of brotherly concern tend to indicate the contrary,” he added, slightly put out by Bingley’s obtuseness, as well as by his untimely interference over the last couple of days.

Bingley glanced up with a laugh at the novel thought of acting the part of the figure of authority to his not much older, but substantially more imposing friend. He arched a brow. Not an irony his sister Caroline would have appreciated. He took his shot, then offered in like-for-like retribution for Darcy’s short temper.

“Have you considered their cousin? Mr Collins?”

Darcy all but choked on his brandy.

“You are not in earnest, I hope! ”

“I was rather hoping it was Mrs Bennet, or their uncle Gardiner,” he added, but to his disappointment, Bingley shook his head.

“I should not wish for Mr Gardiner if I were you. He was not particularly disposed in your favour the other day, when they left Netherfield to return to town.”

Of course. Farringdon. Would the deuced notion forever come to haunt him?

Bingley abandoned his cue and approached his friend.

“Elizabeth is of age,” he finally, mercifully, disclosed. “You do not need their consent. Still,” he added with no trace of the earlier banter, “I would advise you to make your peace with the Gardiners as soon as may be. I can assure you that, of all their relations, ‘tis them that both Jane and Elizabeth feel the closest kinship to.”

Darcy nodded uncomfortably. He did not need Bingley to tell him that. He finished his drink and squared his shoulders. It had to be done and, one way or another, it would be, and there was no reason to lose sleep over it. He had Elizabeth’s consent, she was of age, and they would marry. That thought – and the notion of her abed in her chamber above-stairs – by anybody’s reckoning, was reason enough.