Chapter 23 #2
He could not undo the past week. He could not take back the silence that had hurt her, nor the coldness she had interpreted too justly as rejection.
He could not erase Mr. Collins’s insinuations, nor Lady Catherine’s officious claims, nor the fact that Elizabeth might now believe him promised, or nearly promised, to Anne.
He had made a ruin of his own hopes through fear and hesitation.
But he could act now.
He must.
Not with a declaration. No, he had no right to burst upon her with all the violence of his feelings and expect acceptance where he had given pain.
He must begin with honesty. With apology.
With a request for permission to court her properly, if she could still bear the thought of him.
He would tell her that there was no engagement to Anne, no understanding, no claim upon his future from Rosings.
He would tell her that his conduct had been cowardly, that the fault was his, not hers, not her family’s, not her circumstances.
He would ask.
That was all he had any right to do.
But he would ask.
The decision steadied him at once, though it did not calm him.
By the time he went down to dinner, Darcy knew what must be done.
The following morning, he would go early.
Elizabeth had spoken at Netherfield of walking when duties allowed it, of preferring the lanes before the neighborhood was fully awake.
He would ride toward Longbourn, then dismount if necessary and search the paths with as much propriety as desperation allowed.
He would find her.
He would ask for a courtship.
And if she refused him, he would deserve it.
But he would not stand aside and let Mr. Collins claim her because he had been too afraid to offer himself.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth woke before dawn.
For several minutes she lay still, listening to Longbourn’s familiar morning sounds gather slowly around her: a door closing below stairs, the faint scrape of a coal scuttle, the muffled call of one maid to another, and beyond the window the stirring of wind through bare branches.
The house was not yet fully awake, and for that she was grateful.
Once her mother rose, there would be no quiet.
Once Mr. Collins began speaking, there would be no thought.
And she needed to think.
Her uncle’s counsel had followed her home from Meryton and into sleep, though sleep had done very little to settle it.
“You ought not to tell her all,” Mr. Philips had said, folding his hands upon the desk as he considered the matter with more gravity than Elizabeth had expected even from him.
“Not yet. Not the amount. Not the whole of the settlement. Not every legal protection. Your mother would not mean harm, Lizzy, but surprise and relief may carry words farther than prudence.”
Elizabeth had sat across from him, gloves twisted in her lap, while the noises of Meryton came faintly through the office window. “Then what should I tell her?”
“That you are provided for beyond the reach of the entail. That Netherfield is yours, though Mr. Bingley must not know it, and that its rents are not money to be spent upon gowns, balls, or officers, but tied to the house, servants, repairs, tenants, and the management required to keep it profitable. Say it is safe, but not free. That may calm her without tempting her. That in caring for the Gardiner’s children, you have been taken care of as well. ”
“And the ten thousand pounds?”
“Not a word.”
Elizabeth had expected that answer, and still it had made her sigh. “She will ask how I came to be in possession of Netherfield.”
“Then you may simply say that you are not at liberty to share the details, but it was a gift for a service you performed for the Crown whilst in London arranging Mr. Gardiner’s affairs.”
So Elizabeth had returned to the milliner’s shop with her mind full of secrets. Jane and Mr. Bingley had been speaking near the window with an expression of such mutual happiness that Elizabeth had not the heart to draw her sister aside for more than a moment to tell her she was ready to go.
The walk home had offered no privacy either.
Mr. Collins, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia had already returned to Longbourn, accompanied by the officers, under the guise of introductions and the hope of further amusement.
Jane had walked with Mr. Bingley at a pace so slow and absorbed that Elizabeth could hardly begrudge them one another’s company.
“I have much to consider,” she had told Jane softly when her sister looked back at her with concern.
Jane had understood enough to leave her be.
But there had been no time to speak to Mrs. Bennet.
No proper time, at least. Mr. Collins had filled the evening with compliments, Mrs. Bennet had filled every pause with nerves and schemes, and Mr. Bennet had remained in his bookroom with a determination that made Elizabeth feel more alone than if he had left the county.
By the time the household quieted, she had been too weary to attempt a conversation upon which so much might depend.
Now morning had come, and she could not put it off much longer.