Chapter 2 #2
Yet he would not rush her. This time, he meant to proceed with patience and care.
He wished to show her not only what life as his wife might offer, but what it would mean to share in the stewardship of Pemberley—the responsibilities, the peace, and call of the land itself.
He knew well that he could not win her affection through wealth or grandeur alone.
No, he wished to show her what they might build together, how perfectly she belonged within its walls, and how wholly she had already claimed his heart.
Much to his relief—and, if he were honest, his utter delight—Elizabeth seemed to seek out his company more often than he had dared hope.
Georgiana’s presence provided a comfortable buffer at times, and he was deeply gratified to see how warmly his sister had taken to her.
Yet even when Georgiana was otherwise occupied, Elizabeth somehow managed to appear where he happened to be.
In the early mornings, she often joined him in the gardens before the rest of the household had stirred.
Their walks became a quiet ritual, their conversation easy and companionable as they spoke of the beauty of the grounds, the changing light over the hills, and even the habits of the swans gliding across the lake.
One morning, she paused beside a rosebush heavy with bloom, her fingers brushing lightly against a velvet petal. Smiling, she said, “Every morning it seems I discover something new to admire here, Mr. Darcy. Your gardens are cared for as well as everything else at Pemberley.”
He looked at her then, the early sunlight catching in her hair, and replied, “I am fortunate in my gardeners, Miss Elizabeth—but even the best of them cannot claim such credit. It is the land itself that inspires care. When something is precious, one tends it with diligence.”
She glanced up at him, her expression softening when she saw the look upon his own face. Ducking slightly to cover the heat she was certain rose to her cheeks at his words, she said solemnly. “You speak as if Pemberley were alive.”
“In a way, it is,” he said quietly. “It has a spirit of its own, but it requires stewardship—someone to see its worth and preserve it.”
Her smile lingered as she looked back toward the roses. “Then it could not be in better hands. You are a very diligent master, sir.”
He smiled at her praise, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips in a sweet kiss, the first he had given her. Again, she felt her cheeks heat, but this time, she did not look away.
That was not the only time they spoke along, since they met in the library almost daily at some point, both seeking a respite, or perhaps just a moment of private conversation.
Their relations did not trouble them, but it seemed as though the rest of Pemberley avoided the library, leaving it to the quietly courting couple.
On two separate occasions in that first fortnight, he even invited her into his study, careful to leave the door open for propriety’s sake. There, he asked her opinion on a matter regarding one of his tenants, or the repair of a bridge on the estate.
“I am hardly an authority on such matters,” she had said the first time, amusement lighting her eyes.
“Perhaps not,” he replied, “but your judgement has proven sound on more than one occasion. I find I value your counsel more than you may realise.”
The faint blush that coloured her cheeks in response had pleased him more than he wished to admit.
After a fortnight of the Gardiners’ stay, Darcy could wait no longer.
His resolve had grown firmer with each passing day, strengthened by every smile, every quiet conversation that hinted at her growing affection.
He had already written to Mr. Bennet soon after Elizabeth’s departure from Longbourn with her aunt and uncle, requesting permission to make his addresses when the time was right.
That very morning, he received Mr. Bennet’s reply, which was expectedly brief.
After sharing the contents with Mr. Gardiner, Darcy began to make his plans.
The weather that afternoon was fair and inviting.
The air held the warmth of summer, touched by the faintest breeze.
Darcy ordered his curricle readied and asked for a basket to be packed with tea and a selection of the cook’s finest pastries.
Once all was prepared, he sought Elizabeth in the drawing room, where she stood near the window, sunlight glinting in her hair.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, with as much calm as he could muster, “the day is too fine to be spent indoors. Might I persuade you to join me for a drive? There is a spot not far from here that I believe you would admire.”
She looked up, surprise flickering in her eyes before it softened into a smile. “I should like that very much, Mr. Darcy.”
With that simple assent, his heart quickened. Silently, he offered his arm and escorted her into the hall, where the servants waited with their outdoor things. Once her bonnet and gloves were in place, he led her outside to where the carriage stood ready in the drive.
They drove for nearly half an hour before Darcy drew the horses to a stop at a quiet, shaded glade overlooking the lake. The air was fragrant with wildflowers and the soft rustle of the leaves in the trees. He alighted first, then, after securing the team, turned to assist Elizabeth down.
“Careful,” he murmured, steadying her as her foot met the step. Her hand lingered in his a moment longer than propriety demanded, and though neither spoke, both were keenly aware of it.
He handed her the blanket that had been neatly folded atop the picnic basket and nodded toward the trees. “Perhaps over there, Miss Bennet—where the shade from the trees will protect us both.”
She smiled and carried the blanket to the spot he had indicated. Once she had spread it to her liking, Darcy brought the basket and helped her to sit, his movements careful, deliberate—each one measured against the storm of feeling he fought to conceal.
Although he knew precisely what he wished to say, the words refused to form.
Instead, he busied himself with the contents of the basket, arranging plates and cups that did not need arranging, desperate for something to occupy his hands.
He was startled when Elizabeth’s hand came to rest lightly upon his arm.
“Are you well, Mr. Darcy?” she asked gently, her brow creased with concern.
“Very,” he replied, though his voice wavered slightly.
He drew a slow breath and let it out before continuing, more quietly, “I am merely… anxious, Miss Bennet—Elizabeth. I know what I wish to say, yet I find myself hesitating. Although I believe your feelings have changed since April, I cannot bring myself to speak without fear of presuming too much.”
Elizabeth said nothing, her gaze steady upon him. The silence stretched until it became almost unbearable. At last, he looked up to meet her eyes.
“One word from you on the subject will silence me forever,” he said softly, his voice unsteady yet resolute. “But you cannot mistake that my feelings are as they ever were—indeed, stronger now than they have ever been.”
You cannot…” Elizabeth began, her words faltering as her breath caught.
“Elizabeth, I love you,” he burst out, unable to contain it a moment longer.
“I have never stopped loving you. Indeed, I believe I love you all the more for refusing me when I deserved it most. You were right to humble me, to force me to see myself as I was. Were it not for you, I would still be proud, arrogant, and certain of my own worth. But you—” his voice softened, trembling with feeling, “you changed me. And I hope that, in these months since that awful proposal, I have shown myself a man who might now be worthy of the woman he loves.”
Tears welled in Elizabeth’s eyes, blurring her vision. Darcy reached out, instinctively brushing one away with his thumb, but she caught his hands in hers and brought them to her lips, pressing a kiss to each with trembling tenderness.
“Yes, Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam,” she said shyly, lowering her gaze for only a moment before meeting his eyes again.
“I am so grateful to have come to know the man you truly are. I… I missed you dreadfully when you left Hertfordshire. I hoped you might one day renew your addresses, although I feared that when you said we would begin again, you meant only as friends.”
A faint, knowing smile curved his lips. “Yes, I did hope for your friendship,” he admitted quietly. “But I never ceased wishing for far more.” He drew a steadying breath, then reached up, cupping her face in both hands, his thumbs tenderly sweeping away the last of her tears.
“Marry me, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Be my wife—mistress of my home, my friend, my love, and, in time, the mother of my children. I will marry no other. My heart is, and always shall be, yours.”
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, but the radiance in her expression left him breathless. Her eyes shone with a joy so pure that Darcy scarcely dared to believe it. She nodded once, unable to speak at first, then whispered the words he had longed for with all his soul.
“Yes, Fitzwilliam. I will marry you.”
That Fitzwilliam Darcy, who months earlier had insulted her so grievously within her own hearing, should find himself engaged to that very same woman was a marvel few could comprehend.
Yet it was so. And with Elizabeth’s good-humoured consent, he used every ounce of his former hauteur to persuade Mrs. Bennet not only to plan their wedding, but to advance it—insisting that Jane Bennet and Charles Bingley should be married alongside them in August, rather than waiting until October.
Everyone, with the possible exception of Mrs. Bennet (who lamented the loss of several weeks of making arrangements and bragging over having two daughters engaged), was well pleased by the arrangement.
And though both couples were exceedingly happy in their marriages, Elizabeth would often declare, with her eyes alight and her husband smiling beside her, that hers was the happiest of all.
“I am happier than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world, that he can spare from me.”