Chapter 17 #2
The guests did not linger over the moment. They did not need to. The joy of it carried through the remainder of the night, infusing every conversation, every movement, every exchange with a warmth that required no further explanation.
And through it all, Elizabeth found herself returning, again and again, to the same thought.
If such happiness were possible—
Might it not be possible for her as well?
Later, as the ball drew toward its close, she found herself once more beside Mr. Darcy.
“You have been thoughtful this evening,” he said.
“I have had reason to be.”
His gaze followed hers to where Jane stood with Bingley, their happiness plain.
“You are pleased for her.”
“I am,” Elizabeth said. “Very much so.”
“And for yourself?”
The question was thoughtful. Elizabeth did not answer at once.
“I think,” she said at last, “that I am no longer content to imagine that such happiness belongs only to others.”
Darcy’s breath stilled.
“That is a considerable change.”
“It is,” she replied.
She turned toward him then, her expression steady.
“I begin to think that I may wish for more than I once allowed.”
Darcy did not look away.
“Then I am very glad of it.”
Elizabeth smiled.
And this time—
There was no hesitation in it.
The weeks that followed the Netherfield ball passed with a steadiness that, to Darcy’s mind, would once have seemed almost uneventful.
He did not think so now.
What another man might have called a peaceful season, he found increasingly full—of expectation, of meaning, of small moments that would formerly have escaped his notice entirely and now seemed to shape the course of his days with disconcerting ease.
The weather turned in earnest as November gave way to December.
Frost came first in the mornings, silvering the fields and hedgerows, followed by a succession of days so gray and damp that the roads became nearly impassable.
Open-air exercise, once a ready excuse for movement and solitude, grew less practicable, and society contracted as winter often obliged it to do.
Calls were shorter. Visits required more determination.
The world seemed to gather itself inward.
Darcy did not resent it.
Indeed, he found that the narrowing of outward amusements brought with it a greater clarity in those things that mattered.
The society of Longbourn, so lightly dismissed by others and so steadily dearer to him, did not require diversion to sustain it.
It had, rather, a warmth of its own, one that seemed to deepen as the season advanced.
The drawing rooms were brighter for the darkness without.
The conversation seemed more companionable for the weather’s severity.
Even the absurdities of domestic life, once things he might have endured with private impatience, became part of an atmosphere that felt less like inconvenience than belonging.
Bingley, for his part, was wholly transformed by engagement.
There had never been much reserve in his disposition, but now what affection he had always scattered freely appeared to have gathered itself into one clear direction.
He spoke of Jane with a constancy that would have become tiresome in another man and was only endearing in him.
He accepted interruption from Mrs. Bennet, inquiries from Kitty and Lydia, and even the more solemn congratulations of Mr. Collins with a good humor that seemed proof against everything.
When, after some discussion of practicalities, it was determined that the wedding should take place in January, he appeared to regard the delay not as a necessary interval but as a personal trial imposed upon him without mercy.
“It is monstrous,” he said one afternoon at Netherfield, flinging himself into a chair with dramatic resignation, “that a man may be engaged and still expected to wait.”
Darcy, who sat opposite with a book open in his hand and no attention fixed upon it, raised a brow. “You have borne greater hardships.”
“Not with as little justice.” Bingley leaned forward. “You cannot imagine what patience is required of me.”
Darcy allowed himself the faintest smile. “I assure you, I can imagine a great deal.”
Bingley’s expression sharpened with immediate interest. “Can you?”
Darcy turned a page he had not read. “You have not been subtle, Bingley.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” Darcy replied calmly, “it is an observation.”
Bingley laughed, then shook his head. “I ought not press you. You reveal what you wish in your own time. Only do not wait so long that everyone else is made miserable by it.”
Darcy did not answer.
The remark, offered lightly, lodged where it would not easily be dismissed.
He had no wish to prolong uncertainty. Not his own, and certainly not Elizabeth Bennet’s.
Yet he was increasingly persuaded that haste would serve neither of them.
Something in her had begun to open toward him—not suddenly, not with youthful abandon, but with the caution of a woman who had learned the cost of misplaced hope and did not intend to surrender herself to it merely because she wished to.
He respected that. More than respected it, he found himself almost grateful for it, difficult though it made his own restraint.
What he sought from her must be given freely, not drawn out by pressure, gratitude, or emotional confusion.
If he had once been in danger of being misunderstood, he was now resolved that no word or action of his should give rise to the same error again.
This resolution did not make him tranquil.
On the contrary, the more time he spent in her company, the more difficult composure became.
He had thought, at the first, that admiration might settle into a form he could govern—that esteem, once acknowledged, would become easier for having been named.
He had been entirely mistaken. Nearness had only sharpened it.
Her voice, her wit, the changing shades of her expression, the directness with which she answered when she chose to answer plainly—none of it diminished with familiarity. Everything increased.
And she had begun, in return, to meet him with less reserve.
It was not dramatic. Elizabeth was not a woman inclined toward open demonstrations where feeling was concerned.
Nonetheless, he perceived the variance with a scrutiny so intense that he sometimes questioned his own ridiculousness.
She no longer turned every serious remark aside with irony.
She did not always retreat when conversation neared dangerous ground.
Once or twice, when some shared understanding passed between them in company, she had allowed her gaze to rest in his for a moment longer than before.
Such things might have meant nothing to another man. To Darcy, they meant everything.
One afternoon, when the weather had confined them all indoors and Mrs. Bennet had settled herself with a shawl and a catalogue of household concerns that required Jane’s attention, Elizabeth found herself near the farther window of the drawing room, a book in hand and no immediate prospect of being interrupted.
Darcy, who had entered with Bingley and been made to sit, as usual, where Mrs. Bennet might best observe his civility, had endured the first quarter hour with decorous patience before taking the earliest acceptable opportunity to cross the room.
“What have you there?” he asked.
Elizabeth turned the book slightly so he might see the cover. “Only a volume of sermons my mother believes will improve me.”
“Only improve you?”
She smiled. “I confess the effort seems likely to prove excessive.”
Darcy took the chair nearest her, though not so near as to invite remark from the rest of the room. “Then perhaps the sermons ought to be spared the labor.”
“That would be charitable to all involved.”
He glanced at the page. “Have they persuaded you of anything?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said gravely. “That one may endure a great deal under the appearance of moral benefit.”
He laughed then—more freely than he had intended—and the sound drew Lydia’s attention at once from the card table.
“Lizzy,” she said, “whatever have you said to Mr. Darcy? I did not know him susceptible to amusement in daylight.”
Elizabeth’s expression brightened. “It appears I possess hidden powers.”
“You do,” Lydia returned, “but I had not thought them ecclesiastical.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had heard only enough to know laughter was occurring in the neighborhood of two people she watched with increasing interest, looked between them and declared that good spirits were always a sign of health, which she wished for everyone, though particularly for those who had the most reason to be happy.
This produced a fresh blush in Jane and an expression of poorly concealed delight in Bingley.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes to hide her own smile, while Darcy, who had long since learned that resistance to Mrs. Bennet’s enthusiasm only prolonged it, said nothing at all.
The conversation turned, and because the room had resumed its general business, Darcy found he might remain where he was without challenge.
“You are easier now,” he said softly, once no one was directly attending to them.
Elizabeth turned her head slightly. “Easier?”
“With me.”
She considered that in silence for a moment, and he was absurdly conscious of the fact that she did not immediately evade the question.
“Perhaps,” she said at last, “I have grown less determined to quarrel with your conclusions.”
“I am gratified to hear it.”
“You ought not be too gratified. I reserve the right to resume quarreling at any time.”
“I should expect nothing less.”
Her mouth curved. “You say that as though you would regret my agreement.”
“I should regret your silence.”
The answer was so simply given that for a moment she did not speak. Then, looking not at him but at the window, she said, “You make it very difficult to remain cautious.”