CHAPTER TWENTY
DARCY HAD SLEPT little, but he rose with purpose.
The house was quiet when he dressed, the snow-muted morning lending everything a sense of gravity. Jenkins’s prediction, relayed by Darcy’s valet, had proved correct. The weather had softened overnight, and the roads were already beginning to thaw.
Breakfast passed in a measured haze. Darcy spoke when addressed and listened when required, yet he was keenly aware of Elizabeth’s attention upon him, her looks enquiring and expectant, as though she waited only for the moment he would fulfil what he himself had promised.
He met her eyes once, briefly, then forced himself to look away.
The resolve he had formed the night before pressed upon him with steady insistence.
He had given his word. He would not delay, whatever her response might be.
When the meal concluded, Darcy made his way at once to the library, where he had seen Mr Bennet withdraw.
Mr Bennet sat within, a book resting loosely in his hand, the fire burning low beside him. He looked up as Darcy entered, his expression sharpening with immediate interest.
“Mr Darcy,” he said, setting the book aside, “you look as though you have come with something on your mind.”
“I do, sir.”
Darcy remained standing.
“I have come to request your permission to address your daughter Elizabeth on the subject of marriage.”
Mr Bennet closed his book slowly. He neither smiled nor appeared surprised.
“That is no small request.”
“I am aware of it,” Darcy replied. “I make it with the utmost seriousness. My affection for your daughter is sincere and constant. I seek her happiness above all else.”
Mr Bennet regarded him for a long moment.
“You will forgive me,” he said at last, “if I observe that matters appear to have moved with some speed—at least from my vantage. It was only a few days ago that you came to speak to me of paying your addresses formally. Elizabeth herself has said nothing to me.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Nor should she have been expected to, sir.”
Mr Bennet’s brows lifted slightly.
“When I spoke to you before,” Darcy continued, steady but earnest, “of my wish to pay my addresses to your daughter, I was uncertain how she might receive me. I had resolved to proceed with caution, and without presuming upon her feelings.” He paused, then added, “My understanding of her is better now, sir. And my hope that I may speak to her openly—without presumption—has been strengthened.”
Mr Bennet studied him with renewed interest.
“You speak of understanding,” he said. “Yet you come prepared for refusal?”
“I do,” Darcy answered simply. “Because I would rather be denied honestly than succeed by presumption. Elizabeth’s regard, if I am fortunate enough to possess it, must be freely given.”
Mr Bennet leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “You have considered this carefully.”
“I have,” Darcy replied. “And not only of late.”
There was a pause, measured and thoughtful.
“At least,” Mr Bennet said at last, “you do not present yourself as a man accustomed to being accepted as a matter of course.”
Darcy did not smile. “I have learned better, sir.”
That earned him a faint, approving look.
“Very well,” Mr Bennet said, rising from his chair. “You have my permission to speak to my daughter.”
Darcy straightened, relief evident but contained. “I thank you, sir.”
“Only remember,” Mr Bennet added, with his customary dryness, “Elizabeth is not a young lady to be hurried, flattered, or overwhelmed into agreement. If she accepts you, it will be because she sees you clearly—and chooses you still.”
Darcy met his gaze with quiet resolve. “That is all I would wish for.”
"And if she should refuse you," Mr Bennet added, mischief glinting in his eyes, "I hope we shall not find ourselves sleeping in the snow, given that you are presently our landlord."
Darcy's smile was both amused and confident. "That, sir, could never happen."
"Then I wish you well, Mr Darcy." Mr Bennet inclined his head with approval.
Darcy bowed deeply. “You have my gratitude.”
With that, he withdrew, his purpose now fixed beyond doubt.
***
Elizabeth Was Not surprised by the morning.
She had risen with a composed mind and a restless heart, both attuned to the same quiet certainty.
Something of importance was to be said today.
She did not know when, nor precisely how, but she felt it in the careful order of the house, in the softened stillness that followed breakfast, and most of all in Mr Darcy’s manner.
At table, he was attentive without ease.
He spoke when addressed, listened with care, and yet there was an unmistakable watchfulness in him that set her own spirits alert.
More than once, she caught his eye upon her, enquiring rather than searching, as though he waited only for the moment propriety would permit what resolve already demanded.
When their gazes met, he did not look away at once. Nor did he linger. It was enough.
Elizabeth did not mistake it.
Nor did she mistake her own composure. There was no confusion in her feelings now, no need to examine them anew. She waited, not in uncertainty, but in readiness.
The opportunity did not present itself immediately, yet she was not impatient. Mr Darcy, she knew, was not a man to seize a moment before it was properly his to claim.
It was therefore with little surprise that, later in the afternoon, he contrived one.
She had begun to wonder if it would come at all when Mr Darcy appeared at the door of the small drawing room where she had withdrawn with Jane, Mary, and Georgiana.
They had sought refuge there from Miss Bingley's pointed stares and Lady Catherine's continued complaints regarding the improprieties of the previous evening's ball.
Mr Darcy entered with Mr Bingley at his side and soon suggested, with studied casualness, that those inclined might take a short turn through the lower galleries and the winter garden.
The path outside, he observed, was sufficiently cleared for a walk, and the air had softened enough to permit a little movement without discomfort.
"Besides," he added, as though the thought had only just occurred to him, "the snow upon the garden flowers is quite remarkable. You should see it."
Jane agreed at once, and Mr Bingley with her. Elizabeth suspected immediately that this was no coincidence—and she was not mistaken.
Georgiana declined gracefully, saying she had already taken a turn earlier and was content to remain where she was.
Mary preferred to stay with her book. Elizabeth suspected Georgiana's refusal had far more to do with discretion than fatigue, and that Mary's decision stemmed from an unwillingness to walk alone when the other four had so neatly paired themselves off.
Which left Elizabeth with little choice but to accept—not that she minded in the least.
They set out together at first, their progress unhurried, the corridors bright with winter light reflected from the snow beyond the windows.
Conversation flowed easily enough. But as they reached the covered walk adjoining the garden, Mr Bingley was soon drawn into discussion with Jane over some trifling remark, and Darcy, with quiet deliberation, allowed a little distance to form.
Elizabeth found herself walking beside him alone.
“You are fortunate Kitty and Lydia are asleep,” Elizabeth said lightly. “The dancing last night quite exhausted them. Otherwise, their chatter would have made any quiet enjoyment of this walk impossible.”
“Then I must count myself very fortunate indeed,” Darcy replied, his tone low. “For quiet is precisely what I require at present.”
The implication of his statement was not lost upon her, but she gave no outward sign of having caught it.
They walked in silence for a few moments. The air seemed suddenly weighted, the moment demanding steadiness from them both.
At last, Darcy spoke.
"Miss Elizabeth," he said quietly, "might we pause here for a moment?"
She met his gaze, suddenly aware of the weight in his tone. "Of course."
He gestured to a spot where the path widened slightly beside the glassed-in windows overlooking the snow-draped garden.
They stopped there, turning toward the view.
Jane and Mr Bingley walked on ahead, remaining visible along the path yet far enough away to grant them the privacy of unheard conversation.
Elizabeth felt the weight of what was coming, yet she did not feel alarmed. Only resolved.
Before Darcy could speak, she drew a breath.
“Mr Darcy,” she said quietly, “before you say anything further, there is something I must tell you.”
He turned fully toward her at once, his attention wholly hers.
“I know,” she continued, “what you did for my family. For Lydia.”
The words did not tremble, though the feeling behind them was strong.
“I learned of it from my aunt, after I pressed her for the truth. I know you never intended it to be known, that you wished for no acknowledgment. But I cannot allow this moment to pass without speaking.”
She paused only to steady herself. “You saved my sister from ruin. You spared my parents—and all of us—from a disgrace that would have followed us always. Had I known of it sooner, I would have thanked you long before now. I do not exaggerate when I say you preserved not only my sister’s future, but those of us all. ”
Darcy shifted, plainly ill at ease. “You need not—”
“I do,” she said gently, but firmly. “I must. I was wrong to believe Mr Wickham. Ashamedly so. I misjudged you both, and I regret it deeply. What you did was not merely generous. It was honourable—and you did it without expectation of praise.”
Her voice softened. “For that, I thank you. From my heart.”
Darcy shook his head. “You must not reproach yourself so,” he said quietly. “I bore responsibility in remaining silent when I ought not to have done. Rectifying that wrong was simply my duty. I could not have acted otherwise.”
“Many men would have,” she replied. “You did not.”
Something in his expression yielded then—not pride, but humility. He stared at her face as if wanting to speak but weighing his words.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, after a moment, “I told you last night that I wished to speak with you today. I spoke in faith, for I did not then know whether I should be permitted to do so. I do now.”
Her heart steadied, as though it had been waiting for those words.
“I will not repeat what has passed between us before,” he continued, “nor attempt to persuade you with sentiments you might distrust. But I must speak plainly now.”
Darcy paused, drawing a steadying breath, before continuing.
“When your family arrived at Pemberley last week,” he said, “I had hoped you would remain only a day. I believed it would spare me the necessity of confronting feelings I have long possessed, but had no reason to suppose returned.”
Elizabeth felt the warmth rise swiftly to her cheeks, yet she did not look away.
“I have loved you,” he went on, his voice firm now, “through error and silence, through humility and hope. When I last spoke to you at Hunsford, I believed my regard unwelcome, and I concluded it best to withdraw entirely. That conviction kept me from returning to Hertfordshire, and Mr Bingley’s reluctance at the time confirmed me in it, though he knows better now, as do I. ”
He paused, as though measuring his next words with care.
“When I saw you again—here—I told myself it was too soon, and perhaps too late, to allow myself hope. I believed your feelings unchanged, and I would not presume upon them. Yet in these past days, through your attention, your manner, and the ease of our conversation, I have come to see how mistaken I was.”
His gaze did not waver from hers.
“I see now the folly of my restraint, and of my waiting.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Her heart beat fast, but there was no fear in it, only a bright and steady anticipation.
“I hope,” he said more softly, “that I have not erred in my understanding—that your regard for me is no longer what it was when last I addressed you at Hunsford. Knowing all that has been, and all that may yet come, I ask you now—whether you will do me the honour of becoming my wife.”
Elizabeth’s knees weakened, though she remained standing. Colour rose warmly to her cheeks, and she could not prevent her smile, nor the momentary lowering of her eyes before she looked at him again.
“I once believed,” she said softly, when she had mastered herself, “that accepting you would require me to surrender myself. I was mistaken.”
She lifted her gaze, steady and bright.
“I know you now, Mr Darcy. I knew you truly when I learned what you did for my family without hope of recognition. I confess I was hurt when you did not return to Hertfordshire, and more so when Mr Bingley did not, for I feared my family’s troubles had altered your opinion of us.
But these past days have shown me how wrong I was. ”
Her voice did not waver.
“I love you, Mr Darcy,” she added quietly. “And yes, I will marry you.”
Darcy let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. His expression softened at once, swift and unguarded, and he took her hands as though the moment itself were precious beyond measure.
“My dearest Elizabeth,” he said. “You have made me happier than I deserve.”
“And you, sir,” she replied softly, “have made me the happiest woman.”
He lifted her right hand and pressed a reverent kiss upon it, lingering only a moment longer than propriety strictly allowed. The warmth of the gesture travelled through her, settling somewhere deep and sure.
“We should return,” he said gently. “There are others who must be told.”
Elizabeth smiled, though she did not at once release his hand.
“Yes,” she said. Then, after a pause, she added more softly, “It seems fitting, does it not?”
He looked at her, questioning.
“That it should be Christmas,” she continued, her voice warm with quiet wonder. “Of all seasons, this one should bring us here. I believe it is meant for beginnings as much as endings. It is, after all, the season of love.”
His expression softened entirely.
“Then I am grateful to it,” he said. “For everything it has given me.”
She laughed, low and bright, and squeezed his hand once before letting it fall. “Merry Christmas, Mr Darcy.”
He bowed his head toward her, his smile unmistakable.
“And a very merry Christmas to you, my dear Elizabeth.”
Together, they turned back toward the others, the house waiting, the snow still gleaming beyond the glass, and the promise of what lay ahead resting between them, sure and unshakeable.