Chapter Eleven
On Saturday, Mr. Collins climbed into a gig for the first part of his journey back to Kent.
Darcy had never been so pleased to see a guest leave a place in all his life, and, as he had spent a good deal of time with Miss Bingley and his aunt Lady Catherine, this was not an inconsiderable thing.
Once Mr. Collins had been waved off by Mrs. Bennet and politely seen off by the eldest three sisters and Mr. Bennet, the house was remarkably calmer in spirit.
Perhaps this was in part because Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia were nowhere to be found.
Naturally, Darcy did find them. No sooner had Mr. Collins departed then they appeared in the drawing room as if by magic, sitting at the large table and industriously reworking their bonnets.
“Mm-hmm,” Miss Mary said in their direction as she strolled past. She collected the music sheets she had been copying and then left their company.
A minute later he flinched at the thumping of pianoforte keys that had undoubtedly not been formed for such abuse.
Fortunately, the instrument was in another room.
He walked back into the hall, intending to help Bingley descend the stairs as he had the day before, but his friend had anticipated him and was already taking the final two steps. Though the footman stood nearby to assist, he was not required.
“I feel almost as good as new,” Bingley announced just as the rest of the family came into the hall from out of doors. “It must be the soft bed and excellent meals.”
Mrs. Bennet beamed. “It is our pleasure to offer you our hospitality, Mr. Bingley.”
Mr. Bingley glanced at Darcy and then at Miss Bennet. “Is it warm enough today to take a short stroll in the garden for some fresh air?”
“Oh, it is warmer today,” Mrs. Bennet replied rather hastily.
Miss Bennet glanced at her sister. “There is a bench, sir, should you prefer to sit.”
They were up to something.
“Splendid,” Bingley exclaimed. “I am rarely indoors for so many hours together. Miss Bennet, might I persuade you to accompany me?”
“Of course,” Miss Bennet said. “Lizzy, will you and Mr. Darcy join us as chaperones?”
A faint pinkish colour tinged Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks, and Darcy struggled not to think about the kiss.
“Mr. Darcy?” Miss Elizabeth asked. “Would you care for a walk in the garden, or would you prefer a walk about the room? Either would be quite refreshing.”
“A walk about the room?” Mrs. Bennet nearly squawked. “What foolishness is that?”
It was Bingley who laughed this time. “A very great foolishness indeed, ma’am.”
Darcy cleared his throat with a soft “Ahem.” Miss Elizabeth’s gaze returned to him. “I would prefer the garden” was all he said.
This was it. Bingley would wish to be with Miss Bennet and Darcy would at last have time to ask Miss Elizabeth whether she might see her way to . . . to what?
Mr. Hill handed Elizabeth her cloak, and she swung it out over her shoulders before fastening it. He wished he might be the one to place it around her.
He could court Miss Elizabeth. But he was done denying that he wanted to marry her. Looking back, he had been lost nearly from the moment Miss Elizabeth had petulantly handed him the end of her scarf. He had unwound her, and she had undone him.
The practical part of his mind, which was nearly all of it, screamed at him not to wait.
As pleased as he was that Mr. Collins and his petty, vindictive slights were no longer a part of Miss Elizabeth’s daily life, he also knew that a man such as he would not wait for even a moment after returning to Hunsford before trundling over to Rosings to request an audience with his aunt.
All Darcy could hope was that she would not immediately set off to reprimand him, for a correction of some sort would be forthcoming—of that he had no doubt.
He wished to secure Elizabeth’s hand before the maelstrom descended upon him.
He frowned. Upon them, for Lady Catherine would not spare Elizabeth.
He would ask for her hand. He could court her afterward.
Miss Elizabeth nodded at Mr. Hill, who held out his greatcoat. Darcy shrugged into it, and when he was ready, he offered her his arm.
She smiled, and his world stopped.
Let his cousins think him a fool. Let his uncle and both his aunts bemoan his refusal to wed for political advantage or personal fortune. He did not only wish to marry this woman. He needed to marry her.
Georgiana, at least, would love her.
Elizabeth was a treasure, and if she would allow it, he would hoard her. He had never thought of himself as a dragon—that was reserved for Lady Catherine—but for Elizabeth he would be, were it required.
They stepped outside where, despite Mrs. Bennet’s declaration of warmth, it had actually begun to snow a little. He peevishly hoped that Mr. Collins would have an exceedingly cold ride home.
“You are wearing quite a ferocious expression, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Elizabeth informed him. “I hope a walk with me is not its cause?”
“Not at all, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied. “I am only thinking.”
“The sort of thoughts that produce a scowl such as the one on your countenance cannot be pleasant. Shall we speak of other things?”
“Such as your love for Gilpin and the . . . picturesque?” He grinned at her as they stepped out into the remains of the garden.
Miss Elizabeth sighed. “I should not have said it, but truly, they were so rude. You at least attempted to correct the slight.”
“The entirety of the jest did not occur to me until later, I confess. I had rather a good laugh about it.”
“I hope Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst never understood.”
“I daresay they did not. I should have been regaled with their distaste and disdain if they had.”
“Where do you suppose they are now?” she asked. “It is only that they must have sent a note to Mr. Bingley’s hotel and received no response. When do you think they shall return—or shall they?”
Darcy shrugged. “When it comes to Bingley’s sisters, I try not to think too much.”
“That must be the only time you attempt to turn off your mind, Mr. Darcy, for I find you are always thinking about something.”
Bingley and Miss Bennet were on the other side of the garden, speaking intently.
He took both of Miss Elizabeth’s slender hands in his. They were gloved, warm. His heart beat a little faster and he leaned in.
“Would you know what I am thinking of just now, Miss Elizabeth?”
Her reply was a little breathless. “I am sure I cannot say, Mr. Darcy.”
He tried to put all he was feeling into a smile, and for a second, Miss Elizabeth stopped breathing altogether.
He almost panicked, but then she returned his smile and tipped her face up to his.
“I have been entirely mystified by you, Mr. Darcy, so I believe you shall have to explain yourself and your thoughts to me.”
He chuckled. “You are as proper as your sister.”
“No,” Miss Elizabeth said, looking him straight in the eye. “I am not.”
Darcy’s mouth was suddenly quite dry. He coughed, swallowed, and cleared his throat. Certainly she did not mean that. She was an innocent. He shook his ungentlemanly thoughts away but stumbled over a rock in the path and had to bend one knee deeply in order to recover.
“Are you well, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Elizabeth inquired.
He cursed silently. “Perfectly so, though it is clear I must watch where I am placing my feet.” The moment was ruined by his clumsiness, and he berated himself for missing his opportunity.
“Lizzy!” shouted a young woman. Darcy sighed. That screeching howl of delight could only be one person.
“Lydia,” Miss Elizabeth said. “Lower your voice.”
“Oh, no one cares about that, Lizzy, not when you have had a proposal! Who would have thought Mr. Darcy would ask before Mr. Bingley? What a fine joke! Come, Kitty, we must tell Mamma!”
“Lydia!” Miss Elizabeth cried frantically, but her youngest sister, used to heeding no one, skipped inside, joyful at the prospect of announcing news that ought to be shared by Miss Elizabeth.
Not that there was any news to share.
Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed a deep red, making her appear even more beautiful with the light flakes of snow floating down around her. “She must have seen you lose your footing and assumed . . .”
Miss Lydia had been wrong. Not an uncommon occurrence. But she did not have to remain wrong.
“Do you wish to go inside and inform your parents that Miss Lydia is mistaken?” he asked.
“I probably should,” she said, worrying her bottom lip.
He chuckled. “That is not what I asked.”
“It is only that after having refused Mr. Collins, Mamma will be insufferable now, believing I have refused an even better offer.”
“Are you afraid of your mother, Miss Elizabeth?”
She pursed her lips and glared up at him.
“Well, then,” he said, barely containing his glee, “perhaps I shall have to rescue you with a proposal after all.”
She scoffed. “Is that meant to be a joke, Mr. Darcy?”
He took her hands and allowed his thumbs to brush over the bit of exposed skin between her gloves and the sleeves of her dress. She blinked and swallowed.
Darcy rejoiced. She was not unaffected by him. Not at all.
“I do not believe Bingley and I shall be returning with you after church, Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “Look.” He gestured towards Bingley and Miss Bennet, who were, at present, leaning into a sweet, chaste kiss.
“Oh,” Miss Elizabeth said happily, pulling her hands away and clasping them together under her chin.
Yes, yes. Wonderful news for Bingley. But now Miss Elizabeth’s hands were not in his, and his own proposal was yet untendered.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said forcefully, and she started. He took her hands again and she looked up into his eyes. “I am not my friend. I cannot offer you romance and poetry.”
“I believe you are aware of my position on sonnets, Mr. Darcy.”
He would laugh, but he was focused on making his proposal before being interrupted yet again. “What of your position on matrimony, Miss Elizabeth?”
A line appeared on her forehead, and he wished to smooth it away.