Chapter 7
The sixteenth of December arrived with a light dusting of snow that frosted the cobblestones of Grosvenor Square. Darcy felt an anxiety that had nothing to do with his impending wedding and everything to do with the road between London and Meryton.
The snow could become heavy, making roads treacherous. He had sent an express to Bingley the previous evening, reminding him that there was no need to depart Meryton before mid-morning. He could only hope Bingley had received it before setting out.
The flurries were already thinning, the pale winter sun climbing higher with each passing hour, the cobblestones beginning to show through the white. By noon, he judged, the roads would be passable without difficulty. By mid-afternoon, when Bingley’s carriage was expected, they should be clear.
He turned from the window and let his gaze travel slowly around his study.
Change was taking place at Darcy House. Already, Elizabeth’s newly acquired gowns were hanging in the mistress’s chambers.
Her intimate articles were folded carefully, her shoes placed uniformly in her dressing room.
Tomorrow, Elizabeth would cross the square on his arm and step through that door as his bride, his wife, the mistress of this house and of Pemberley.
He tried to imagine what it would mean to have her here permanently.
He dreamed of her in the library. His wife, running her fingers along the shelves, pulling down volumes with an expression of pleasure, discovering a book she had not read. Elizabeth, curled in the chair by the fire, arguing with him about the merits of some author he had dismissed too quickly.
The dining room where Elizabeth would sit at the opposite end of the table, her eyes sparkling with whatever observation she was restraining until the servants had withdrawn.
His bride, hosting dinners for their friends, putting everyone at ease with the kindness and wit that had first captured his attention.
Elizabeth at breakfast, fresh from her walk—for she would walk, he did not doubt it, regardless of what Lady Matlock thought appropriate for the mistress of Darcy House. His beloved, returning with color in her cheeks and mud on her hem and no remorse about either.
In the evenings, Elizabeth would be beside him, exactly where she belonged. And the nights…Darcy could not wait.
For the first time in years, Darcy House felt less like a monument to the Darcy legacy and more like a home.
By eleven o’clock, the snow had melted. By noon, the square was busy with the ordinary traffic of a London afternoon. Darcy exhaled slowly, the tension easing.
He spent the remainder of the morning attending to correspondence and meeting with his solicitor regarding the marriage settlements.
He had been generous—more generous than strictly necessary—but he wanted Elizabeth to have complete financial independence should anything ever happen to him.
She would never be at anyone’s mercy again. He would see to that.
At half three, he crossed the square to Matlock House.
Elizabeth was in the blue sitting room, ostensibly reading but clearly doing nothing of the sort. The book lay open in her lap at the same page it had been when he had checked in on her earlier. She glanced up, her eyes reflecting a mixture of anticipation and suppressed agitation.
“The roads are clear. They will be here soon,” he said, coming to sit beside her.
Elizabeth set down her book and stood, moving to the window. She could not see the street from this side of the house, which Darcy had judged both a mercy and a torture for her. He rose and joined her.
“They will be so close,” Elizabeth whispered, the words touching Darcy. “It will be a challenge to have them here and not be able to see them. To hug them. To reassure them.”
“Elizabeth.”
She turned to face him. “No, do not allow me my melancholy, for I have every reason to be happy, my dear man. You have wrought a miracle for my benefit by bringing my sisters here and by agreeing to join your life to mine. I will wait.”
“I love you, my dear.” He kissed her.
“I love you more.”
The words stopped him completely. His heart, which had been racing with anxiety about her sisters’ arrival, simply ceased its usual rhythm and began again differently—as though his entire body had reorganized itself around those four words.
She had said she would love him. She had promised to try. But this—this was not a promise for the future. This was a declaration in the present.
“Say it again,” he managed, his voice rough.
Elizabeth’s eyes softened. She reached up and rested her hands on his lapels, the gesture tender and sure.
“I love you, William. Not because you saved me, though you did. Not because you brought my sisters here, though that was a precious gift. I love you because you are good and kind and patient. Because you see me clearly and do not wish me to be someone else. Because when I think about our future, I see not duty or obligation, but possibility and joy.” She smiled, and it was radiant. “I love you. Truly. Freely.”
Darcy could not speak. Could not move. Could only stand there and feel the honesty of what she had just given him soak into every corner of his being.
Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her—not the careful, restrained kisses they had shared in corridors and alcoves, but a kiss that held nothing back. A kiss that said everything he had been holding in his heart for weeks.
When they finally broke apart, Elizabeth was laughing softly against his chest.
“I take it that you are pleased?”
“Pleased,” Darcy repeated, pressing his forehead to hers. “Elizabeth, I am undone. Completely and irrevocably undone by you.”
“Good,” she said, and kissed him again.
Bingley’s carriage arrived at a quarter of an hour past four. Darcy did not doubt that Elizabeth had pressed herself flat against the wall beside the window, craning her neck to glimpse the street below. Bingley handed down his betrothed from the carriage.
Miss Bennet emerged, pale and tired, her eyes shadowed with worry that even the pleasure of arriving in London could not conceal. Behind her came Miss Mary, plainly dressed but self-possessed, alert with intelligence.
Henderson admitted the party into the house. Darcy escorted Miss Mary down the corridor with Bingley and his betrothed following behind.
After their welcome by the Matlocks, the ladies refreshed themselves after their journey, as did Bingley.
Once the sisters returned to the drawing room, Darcy set aside his cup.
“Miss Bennet. Miss Mary,” he said, and the tone of his voice made the entire table fall silent. “I wonder if you might accompany me. There is someone who very much wishes to see you.”
Miss Bennet was politely confused. “Of course, Mr. Darcy. We will be pleased to receive an introduction to your sister.”
Beside her, Miss Mary stilled. She understood. Of course, she understood.
“Please,” Darcy said. “Come with me.”
He led them from the room and up the stairs. Bingley followed closely behind to the small sitting room.
Miss Bennet’s brow furrowed with gentle bewilderment. Miss Mary pressed her lips together very firmly, her eyes unnaturally bright.
Darcy opened the door.
Elizabeth stood in the center of the room. She had been pacing, clearly. She stopped mid-step, simultaneously stunned and incandescent with joy.
The silence lasted less than a heartbeat.
“Lizzy.”
It was Mary who said it first, as though she could not quite believe what she was seeing despite having known all along. And then Miss Bennet made a sound that was not a word at all, raw and relieved, and all three sisters converged in a tangle of arms and tears and voices all talking at once.
Darcy stepped back into the corridor and pulled the door closed, leaving them their privacy. Elizabeth’s laugh—that infectious laugh he had fallen in love with—rising above the rest.
“You knew,” Bingley said beside him.
“I did,” Darcy replied.
“She has been here all this time?”
“Yes.”
Bingley crossed his arms. “When?”
“Since the morning after the Netherfield ball.”
Bingley absorbed this intelligence and then, “You sat across from me while I told you how heartbroken Jane was. And I told you that Elizabeth was missing. And you said nothing. Why?”
Darcy considered why. “Because Elizabeth had not yet reached her majority. Until she did, her father had legal authority to compel her to return. Telling you would have placed you in an impossible position—between loyalty to me and honesty with Jane. I did not think that fair to either of you.”
“And now? Why tell me now?”
“Because by tomorrow morning, she will be of age. And because—” Darcy said the rest plainly. “Because we will marry tomorrow, and I would like you to be there.”
The silence that followed was considerable. Bingley moved to the window at the end of the corridor and looked out at the darkened square below.
“You planned this from the beginning,” he said finally. “At Netherfield. When did you decide?”
“In the library, the night of the ball. Her father told me she was to be betrothed to Collins the next morning. I followed her when I saw her distress.” Darcy swallowed. “I offered her a choice. Gratefully, she took it.”
Bingley turned back. “And your feelings for her—this was not merely chivalry?”
“I have been in love with her since Netherfield,” Darcy said.
“Since her sister was ill and Elizabeth came to nurse her. I fought it. I told myself every reason why a match was unsuitable. Her father told me, at the ball, that she was to marry Collins, and I understood then that I almost hesitated too long.” He met Bingley’s gaze directly. “I did not hesitate again.”
Then, slowly, Bingley’s shoulders eased. His attention returned to the door, behind which Jane’s voice could be heard, bubbling with pleasure. Bingley extended his hand. “She is happy?”
“Completely.”