Chapter Seven
Two days later, an invitation arrived, addressed to Mrs. Gardiner and the Misses Bennet. Miss Darcy hoped they would do her the honour of calling at the Darcy residence in Grosvenor Square on Thursday afternoon.
“Will you come, Lydia?” Elizabeth asked.
Lydia sighed. “I—I am not ready to appear in company, even such a small society as that. Please give Miss Darcy my regrets and my thanks for the invitation.”
So it was only Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner who presented themselves at the great house on Thursday.
A liveried footman admitted them to an entrance hall of impressive proportions, where high ceilings and marble floors held a pleasant chill despite the late summer warmth outside.
They were shown to a drawing room both elegant and comfortable, with tall windows overlooking a small garden.
Elizabeth looked about with barely concealed delight. The furnishings were of excellent quality.
Nothing ostentatious, but everything of the finest design and workmanship. Paintings in gilded frames adorned the walls, and fresh flowers stood in crystal vases on the mantelpiece. The air was fragrant with hothouse roses.
Georgiana greeted them with considerably more ease than she had shown at their first meeting. “Mrs. Gardiner, Miss Bennet, I am so pleased you could come. Please, sit. I have ordered tea.”
As they settled themselves, Mr. Darcy entered. Elizabeth was immediately aware of him; he stood in the doorway with his usual commanding quiet. The confidence in his bearing tempered now by a new gentleness. Elizabeth smoothed her skirts.
“Mrs. Gardiner, Miss Bennet.” He bowed. “Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you for having us, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “You have a lovely house.”
“My late mother’s influence,” he said. “She had excellent taste.”
Tea was brought, and conversation flowed more naturally than Elizabeth might have expected.
Mrs. Gardiner and Georgiana discovered mutual acquaintance in Lambton and fell into an animated discussion of that neighbourhood, comparing notes on the various families and the changes that had occurred over the years.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes returned to her often. His steady regard discomposed her. Mrs. Gardiner caught her eye more than once, her expression knowing and faintly amused.
After some time, Mr. Darcy rose and crossed the room to where Elizabeth sat. “Miss Bennet, might I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course.”
He took the chair beside hers, angling it slightly so they had a measure of privacy whilst still remaining properly in view of Mrs. Gardiner and his sister.
He seated himself close enough that she felt the warmth of his presence.
Neither moved away. She was conscious of his nearness—of the clean scent of his linen and soap, the slight creak of his chair as he shifted.
He said nothing, his eyes shifting to her face and away. Elizabeth watched him struggle with whatever he wished to say. His customary composure seemed to have deserted him.
“Miss Bennet,” he began at last. His voice, lower than customary, carried in the quiet room. “I wonder—that is, I hope—” He stopped, then started again. “Would you permit me to call upon you? At the Gardiners’ residence?”
Elizabeth could not contain the smile that spread across her face. “I should be very happy to receive you, Mr. Darcy. Indeed, I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure.”
His expression transformed—relief giving his expression a boyish warmth. “Then I shall call tomorrow, if that would be convenient?”
“Tomorrow would be perfectly convenient,” she said, unable to keep the warmth from her voice or the smile from her face. “I shall await your call with much expectation.”
He reached for her hand, then seemed to remember himself and stopped, his fingers hovering inches from hers. “May I?” he asked.
She gave him her hand. He raised it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers, and kissed it with a tenderness. that left her composure unsteady. She felt his nearness as though through the very fabric of her gown.
“Until tomorrow, then, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Until tomorrow, Mr. Darcy.”
The next morning, Elizabeth woke with a sense of anticipation she could not suppress. She dressed with particular care, choosing her best morning gown and asking her aunt’s maid to arrange her hair in a becoming style.
“You look lovely, my dear,” Mrs. Gardiner observed with a knowing smile.
A note from Mr. Darcy’s man reached them the previous evening, reporting that Wickham had been seen to board a merchant vessel bound for the West Indies, which departed from the London Docks on the morning tide.
Mr. Darcy’s man had reported that he had gone aboard with ill grace but no resistance, understanding at last that his options were exhausted.
A weight lifted from her shoulders. The very air in the house seemed lighter, as though a miasma had been cleared. He was truly gone.
At precisely eleven o’clock, the knocker sounded. Heat rose to Elizabeth’s cheeks as she pressed her hands together.
Mr. Darcy was shown into the drawing room. Elizabeth sat with Mrs. Gardiner. He bowed, his eyes seeking Elizabeth’s immediately.
“Mr. Darcy, how good of you to call,” Mrs. Gardiner said warmly. “Do forgive me—I have just remembered some household matters that require my attention. Elizabeth, my dear, will you entertain our guest?”
She departed before either could respond, though Elizabeth caught the gleam of mischief in her aunt’s eye.
Mrs. Gardiner had scarcely left when Lydia appeared in the doorway, drawn by curiosity.
She glanced from Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth, and understanding transformed her expression.
Her eyes widened, then softened, and without a word she retreated, pulling the door nearly closed behind her—not entirely shut, for that would be improper, but enough to afford them a degree of privacy.
For a moment, neither spoke. Mr. Darcy stood in the centre of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, with an air of unusual hesitation.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, then stopped. He paused and tried again. “I have rehearsed what I wished to say a hundred times, but now that I am here, I find the words inadequate.”
She could scarcely form a coherent thought. “Then perhaps you need not rehearse, sir. You might say only what you truly feel.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and she saw in his eyes everything she had hoped to see since that morning at Pemberley.
“Very well.” He took a step closer. “I love you. I have loved you almost from our first acquaintance, though I was too proud and too foolish to acknowledge it properly. When I spoke to you at Hunsford, I insulted you and your family. I presumed upon your acceptance without considering your sentiments. I was arrogant and—”
“You were honest,” Elizabeth interrupted softly. “Exceedingly honest, perhaps, but not wrong in everything you said. And I—I was prejudiced and quick to judge. I formed opinions without proper evidence and defended a man who did not deserve my defence.”
“You could not have known—”
“But you tried to tell me, did you not? When we danced at Netherfield? And I dismissed it as pride and vindictiveness.” She shook her head. “We were both at fault, Mr. Darcy.”
He moved closer still until only a few inches separated them.
She could smell the starch in his cravat.
A peculiar stillness seemed to fall between them.
“When I saw you at Pemberley, I hardly dared hope that you might think differently of me. But you were so kind to Georgiana, so easy and natural, and I thought—I dared to think—perhaps there was a chance.”
“There was,” Elizabeth said, her voice nearly a whisper. “There is.”
His expression transformed with hope. “Then may I ask—Miss Bennet, Elizabeth—would you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife? I know I have no right to ask after how I spoke to you before, but I am asking nonetheless. My affection surpasses all I could hope to convey. You have taught me what it means to be a better man, and I wish to spend my life proving myself worthy of you.”
“Yes,” she said simply. “Yes, I will marry you.”
For a moment he seemed unable to believe what he had heard.
Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—not the small, restrained smile she had seen before, but an expression open and warm.
His whole countenance was transformed—not just his expression, but the set of his shoulders, the tension that had held him rigid releasing all at once.
“You will?”
“I will.” She laughed, happiness rising up inside her. “Did you think I would refuse you again?”
“I hardly dared presume—”
“Then presume, sir. Presume that I have come to love you as you love me. Presume that I admire your character, your constancy, your kindness to those who have no claim upon you. Presume that I wish nothing more than to be your wife.”
He reached for her hands, and she gave them gladly. His hands were warm and slightly rough at the fingertips—from writing, she thought, or from holding reins. His grip was sure, steadying, warm and strong, and he looked at her as though she were the most precious thing in the world.
“I will make you happy,” he said fervently. “I swear it.”
“You do,” she replied.
He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them, first one and then the other. “When may I speak to your father?” The warmth of his breath seeped through the thin silk of her gloves, felt his lips linger a moment longer than propriety dictated.
“He is here,” Elizabeth said. “In the house. Uncle Gardiner’s study, I believe.”
“Then I shall speak to him immediately,” Mr. Darcy said with determination. “I will not wait another moment to secure his consent. I shall be the most importunate suitor ever to besiege a father until he grants his consent.”
Elizabeth laughed again, giddy with joy. “I do not think you will be required to be importunate. Papa is not blind to your kindness to our family.”
“I did not act for gratitude—”
“I know,” she said, squeezing his hands. “You did it because it was right. That is why I love you.”
He started at those words—I love you—and she saw how much they meant to him, how desperately he had longed to hear them.
He rested his forehead on their joined hands, his shoulders shaking just slightly.
She felt the slight dampness of his brow, the tremor that ran through him.
His hair brushed softly against her wrist.
The door opened wider, and Mrs. Gardiner entered with a tea tray, her expression one of studied innocence. “I thought you might like some refreshment,” she said brightly, though her eyes danced with mischief.
Mr. Darcy reluctantly released Elizabeth’s hands and stepped back to a more proper distance. But the look he gave her stated very plainly that this was but the beginning.
Elizabeth waited in great suspense after Mr. Darcy disappeared into her uncle’s study. She could hear the low murmur of male voices but could distinguish no words. Mrs. Gardiner sat with her, ostensibly occupied with her needlework but casting frequent sympathetic glances at Elizabeth.
When the study door finally opened, both Mr. Darcy and her father emerged. Mr. Bennet looked bemused, Mr. Darcy cautiously hopeful.
“Well, Lizzy,” her father said, “I have given Mr. Darcy my consent. He is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything which he condescended to ask.”
Elizabeth’s smile broadened.
“However,” Mr. Bennet continued, his expression growing more serious, “I must speak with you privately before this matter is settled.”
He gestured toward the study, and Elizabeth followed him in, her stomach fluttering with nerves worthy of her mother. Her father closed the door and regarded her gravely.
“Lizzy, I know your disposition. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable unless you truly esteemed your husband, unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You know not what you are about if you enter into this engagement due to gratitude, or without genuine affection and respect. I must have the truth from you. Are you doing this for Lydia’s sake? ”
“No!” Elizabeth was startled by the raw anxiety in his voice.
“Papa,” Elizabeth said earnestly, “I would never sacrifice myself so. I do respect him. I esteem him greatly. More than that—I love him.”
He leant forward, his face serious. “Then you are not marrying him for his ten thousand a year? You despised him but six months ago. I will not have you bind yourself to a man you dislike simply because his vast fortune makes his arrogance bearable.”
Elizabeth took a seat opposite him and reached across the desk, touching his hand.
“I was prejudiced then. I judged him wrongly. I see now that his pride is only reserve. I have seen him at his worst—his humiliation, his frustration, his boundless generosity on our behalf—and through it all, he has acted with integrity and devotion.”
She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I love him. Not out of duty, but because he is the best man I know.”
Mr. Bennet studied her face for a long moment, searching.
Finally, a genuine smile touched his lips.
“Well, Lizzy,” he said, letting out a deep breath.
“If you truly love him, and if he can make you happy, then I am well pleased. Though,” he added, a spark of his old humour returning, “I shall be very poor company once you are gone. Who will endure my little eccentricities now?”
Elizabeth laughed, the lightness in her chest overwhelming. “I fear you must bear your misery, sir. I shall call him in.”
Her father’s expression softened. “You have my blessing, child. And my hopes for your happiness.”
Mr. Bennet returned with her to the drawing room, then nodded. “Very well. I shall write to Longbourn today and have the banns read. Though I suspect you two will wish to marry with all possible haste.”
“As soon as may be,” Mr. Darcy confirmed, looking at Elizabeth with such tenderness that she felt a warmth that reached her very being.
“Three weeks, then,” Mr. Bennet said. “The church at Longbourn, I presume?”
“If Elizabeth wishes it,” Mr. Darcy said.
“I do,” Elizabeth said. “With my family present.”