CHAPTER 45 #3
She turned from him and pressed her fingers briefly against the mantel.
“I do not want her at the wedding.”
Darcy became very still.
Elizabeth gave a short, unhappy laugh. “There. You see? I am not as generous as everyone supposes.”
“I did not suppose you generous because you were incapable of resentment.”
She looked down at her hands. “I know what is owed. I know what will be said. I know she is my mother. But I can already see it. Her nerves, her triumph, her injury, her gown, her daughters, her fears. She would make me attend to her, even then. I would be watching her face before I had taken your name.”
“Elizabeth.”
“I do not want my marriage to be about Mrs. Bennet,” she said. “I want it to be about Mrs. Darcy.”
The name struck him with such force that whatever answer he had meant to give was delayed.
Mrs. Darcy.
He had imagined it, shamefully and otherwise. He had written it nowhere. He had spoken of marriage, of settlements, of dates, of propriety, of notices. He had not yet heard her say the name as a claim upon happiness.
His throat tightened.
“Then it shall be,” he said.
“You cannot promise that.”
“No.”
Her mouth curved faintly. “A very honest beginning.”
“I cannot govern your mother. I cannot make her wise, or quiet, or just. But she may attend the wedding without owning it.”
“You think so?”
“I think, if she comes, she must come as your mother, not as the subject of the day. And if she cannot know the difference, others must know it for her.”
Elizabeth looked at him with closer attention.
“And how is that miracle to be achieved?”
Darcy considered before answering. “I have not met your mother, and so I may be unjust. But I do not think addressing the matter directly to her, by you, would help.”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “It would not.”
“You have already spoken as the daughter injured. She answered by becoming the mother offended. I do not see that repeating the attempt would improve either part.”
This time the breath that left her was almost laughter.
“You have understood her very quickly for a man who has never had the honour of her acquaintance.”
“I am a solicitor. I am trained to recognize proceedings unlikely to succeed.”
That did make her smile, though tiredly.
“Then what proceeding would you recommend, Mr. Darcy?”
“Your father must be addressed. Or Mr. Gardiner. If Mrs. Bennet gave offence in his house, he may set the terms on which she remains in it. Your father may set the terms on which she attends your wedding.”
“Papa avoids terms wherever he can.”
“Then he must be invited to find them less troublesome than the alternative.”
She looked at him properly then, the first real steadiness returning to her face.
“That is very solicitor-like.”
“I hope it is also husband-like.”
The word altered the room.
Darcy had not intended to press it upon her. Yet for the first time that day, perhaps for the first time since he had understood what marriage to him might cost her, the word did not arrive carrying accusation. It offered him a place.
He could not make Mrs. Bennet wise. He could not give Elizabeth the mother she ought to have had. He could not take away the old injury of being seen as provision before daughter.
But he could help make her less alone before it.
Not as a solicitor examined for trust. Not as a man suspected of wanting her fortune. Not as a cause she must defend from her family’s fear.
As the person who would stand nearest.
Elizabeth’s gaze fell from his face to his hand.
“It is,” she said.
“What is?”
“Husband-like.”
The happiness that moved through him was so quiet he might have mistaken it for pain if she had not been looking at him.
Her bare hand lay near his, still and unclaimed. He looked down at the slight tension in her fingers, the warmth of her palm, the trust of its remaining there.
“Elizabeth,” he said.
She lifted her eyes.
He turned her hand gently in his, giving her every moment to withdraw. When she did not, he raised it to his cheek.
Her breath caught.
For one moment he held her there, her palm warm against his face. Then he turned his mouth into her hand and kissed the centre of it.
Elizabeth’s fingers moved against his cheek.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, but it was not a rebuke.
“No,” he said softly. “Not there, I think.”
The colour rose in her face then.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said.
He closed his eyes for the space of one breath.
“Yes.”
Neither of them spoke for a little while.
Pom-Pom, who had been tolerant of the scene only because no one had disturbed his blanket, gave a small sigh from his basket and turned in a circle before resettling with pointed exhaustion.
Elizabeth’s fingers trembled once against Darcy’s cheek before he lowered her hand, though he did not release it.
“I had good news,” he said.
She blinked, as if returning from a place much nearer than conversation.
“Had you?”
“Yes. I came meaning to tell you at once. Then I found that the day had gone differently for you.”
“Tell me now.”
He drew her back toward the chairs, not quite leading, not quite being led. When she sat, he took the chair nearest hers and kept her hand, because she allowed it.
“My uncle Edward has written. He congratulates us and will attend the wedding.”
Elizabeth’s face softened. “Judge Darcy?”
“Yes.”
“That is very good.”
“It is more than good,” he admitted. “Though I do not know that I should have said so before this morning.”
“Then I am glad you say it now.”
He took the note from his pocket and gave it to her.
She read it carefully. He watched her mouth move at the line about habits of character and saw the faint smile return.
“I like him,” she said.
“You have not met him.”
“I have read enough to form a preliminary opinion.”
“Then he is fortunate. Your preliminary opinions are not always gentle.”
“No. But they are frequently just.”
She returned the note with more tenderness than paper required.
“And Mr. Brentwood has written also,” he said.
“Kindly?”
“More kindly than I knew what to do with.”
“Show me.”
He did.
She read that note too, and this time her smile grew quieter.
“I am glad,” she said, returning it carefully.
“Are you?”
“Not only because they approve me, though I am vain enough to like it. I am glad there will be people there for you. People who come because they wish you happy.”
Darcy could not answer at once.
Elizabeth’s thumb moved lightly over his hand, not quite a caress and not not one.
“You should have that,” she said.
He looked down at their joined hands.
“I am beginning to think I may.”
“Good.”
There was a steadiness in the word that seemed to settle something in the room. Darcy had meant to bring proof that not every answer had been opposition. Elizabeth had understood at once that the proof was not only for the wedding but for him.
“There is one more piece of intelligence,” he said after a little while.
“Must I be brave for it?”
“No. You may be amused, if you are feeling vindictive.”
Her eyes sharpened faintly. “How thoughtful of you to provide for all my moods.”
“Wickham is keeping from public view.”
The change in Elizabeth was small but immediate. “Is he?”
“He has acquired a black eye.”
For the first time since Darcy entered, Elizabeth laughed.
It was not a large laugh. It was too startled for elegance and too pleased for charity.
“Oh dear,” she said.
Darcy looked at her more closely. “You do not sound entirely surprised.”
“Not surprised, no. Delighted, perhaps, though I know I ought not to confess it.”
“Elizabeth.”
She tried to compose her mouth and failed. “I may have asked Mr. Hartwood to make Mr. Wickham’s life less comfortable.”
Darcy stared at her.
“I was very cross with him,” she said.
“You asked your solicitor to make Wickham’s life less comfortable.”
“Quietly. Properly. In ways that did not expose you or me. I had thought of creditors, reputation, unanswered boasts, that sort of thing. I did not ask anyone to strike him.”
“No,” Darcy said slowly. “I begin to see what you mean by resentment.”
Her eyes brightened.
“Do you?”
“I do. I shall take great care never to come upon your bad side.”
“You are in no danger.”
“That is precisely what a dangerous woman would say.”
Elizabeth laughed again, and this time the sound did what all his earlier comfort had only begun: it returned her to herself.
“Poor Mr. Wickham,” she said.
“That is too much.”
“Yes,” she said. “I did not mean it.”
He could not help smiling at her. “You have had a very active day.”
“I have sat in a chair and been unhappy.”
“You have confessed resentment, arranged family government, and possibly blackened Mr. Wickham’s eye by correspondence.”
“When you put it so, I sound almost industrious.”
“You sound formidable.”
“And yet you are still here.”
He lifted her hand once more, not to kiss it this time, only to hold it.
“Yes,” he said. “I am still here.”
Elizabeth’s smile was tired, but real.
“Then sit with me a little longer, Fitzwilliam.”
“Gladly,” he said.
And because she was smiling again, Mr. Darcy obeyed with uncommon pleasure.