Chapter Thirteen #3
“Charles . . .” Miss Bingley said, as shocked as the rest of them that Jane was sending her away, “you cannot allow your wife to speak to me this way.”
“It is her house, Caroline. She may speak as she finds.” He smiled proudly. “In fact, I am rather enjoying this.”
“But where do you expect me to go?”
Mr. Darcy’s expression spoke his answer to that, and it was not to heaven. Elizabeth cleared her throat very quietly to interrupt any impolite sound of mirth. In truth, her relief was so profound that she might not be able to stop.
“To Scarborough,” Charles replied. “Louisa and Hurst are still there, and if they will not admit you to their family circle again, you may stay with Aunt Penelope. Poor Mrs. Matthias has already inquired whether she might return to her own family, so she will again serve as your companion, and I will pay her handsomely for the journey. But Caroline, do not think I shall be covering any of your personal expenses henceforth. You have enough money to purchase everything you need and most of what you want. I have other responsibilities now.”
“Charles!” Miss Bingley’s countenance was ashen. “How will I purchase new clothing for the season?”
“Do not importune my husband, Miss Bingley,” Jane said steadily.
“We cannot shelter a woman who would willingly injure two good people for nothing but her own selfish gain. Please do not bother to join us for meals. You may take them in your rooms.” She turned to Mr. Darcy.
“You, however, should dine with us. No more hiding in your chamber.”
Mr. Darcy inclined his head slowly in assent. Perhaps he was afraid to move too quickly for fear that Jane might lambaste him. Elizabeth did not utter a sound. She did not want to draw Jane’s ire down on her head, either.
Charles rang the bell for Carstairs, who appeared so quickly that he must have been standing nearly at the door. Whether he had been preventing eavesdropping by the other servants, or doing so himself, she did not know.
“Carstairs, have a maid escort Miss Bingley to her rooms,” Jane said politely. “And please follow her to make certain she does not walk anywhere else first.”
“Very good, madam,” Carstairs replied and waited.
Miss Bingley looked pleadingly at her brother, but Charles merely lifted an eyebrow.
Then she glanced at Mr. Darcy, but whatever she saw on his countenance did not encourage her to speak.
So Miss Bingley straightened her shoulders and tossed her head back before stepping regally out of the room.
Carstairs followed, closing the door behind them.
A great deal of tension left the room with Miss Bingley’s departure, and Darcy’s mind began to sort through all that had been revealed. Bingley knew all about his failed proposal now, knew that what Darcy felt was not some mild infatuation.
The paper of his letter was rough against his fingertips.
Elizabeth glanced at her sister, whose eyes were closed. “Are you well, Jane?”
“I will be well,” Mrs. Bingley replied, opening her eyes and releasing a deep breath. “I do not care for confrontation, as you know, but it could not be helped.”
“Absolutely not,” Bingley agreed, taking her hand to kiss. “I find myself even more in awe of you than when I asked you to be my wife, Jane Bingley.”
Mrs. Bingley smiled beatifically at her husband. “It is easier to be strong when I have you to support me,” she told him, and he beamed back at her.
“Bingley,” Darcy asked suddenly, “was anyone ever ill?”
“Only you, Darcy,” Charles replied without looking at his friend. “Lovesick. Terrible case. There will be no leaving Netherfield until you are out of danger.”
“Charles,” Mrs. Bingley said reprovingly, but then laughed a little.
Darcy tossed his head back and stared at the ceiling as he attempted to compose himself, caught between irritation and appreciation. He ought to have known instantly what Bingley was about, but he had been so unhappy it had quite slipped past him. Lovesick indeed.
Mrs. Bingley turned back to the room. “Now, Lizzy,” she said firmly, “You will have ten minutes alone with Mr. Darcy and then we will return. I beg you, be honest with him. A great deal of trouble might have been spared if you had simply spoken your hearts to one another after the wedding.” She was still holding Bingley’s hand as she began to walk again, and he hurried to catch up.
“Does Lizzy care for Darcy?” Bingley asked his wife as they walked away. Darcy’s eyes shot to Elizabeth, who winced; surely Bingley was unaware he was speaking so loudly. “I could see that Darcy cared for her. I kept delaying him in the hopes he would speak with her.”
This drew his attention back to Bingley. “You delayed me?” Darcy asked. “More than telling me the house was under quarantine?” He was shocked, though he ought not be. Bingley’s behaviour was all of a piece.
Charles looked over his shoulder to say, quite calmly, “Anders helped.”
“Anders knew?” Darcy felt quite stupid. Of course Anders knew. Darcy would not take Bingley’s word on the state of his horses, but he would trust Anders without question.
“Of course. I spoke with him when he came to Longbourn after the wedding. He knew you were not yourself, and I told him I thought I could help. Good man, Anders.”
“Unbelievable.”
“What is unbelievable is that you believed it all,” Bingley called as his wife pulled him into the hall.
Darcy could not but agree. He had been miserable and blind.
“You have ten minutes,” Mrs. Bingley said warningly. “Do not waste the time.”
The door clicked shut behind her. Darcy stared at it and then at Elizabeth. “You and your sister are more alike than I had guessed.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched, and a strangled sort of mirth burst out of her mouth before she gave in and began to laugh. It was like music, her laughter, and he could not help but chuckle, too.
“May I see my letter?” she inquired boldly when she had done. She stretched out her hand and then withdrew it. “It is for me, is it not?”
“It is.” Darcy held out the note, but just before she took it, he lifted it above her head, quite out of reach. He smiled roguishly. “I would like to see my letter as well, Miss Bennet.”
Her cheeks flushed, but she moved resolutely to her little wooden box and lifted the lid. With exaggerated care, she placed the tattered letter she had been holding inside and removed a newer one.
Shyly, she held it out to him, and he offered his in return.
There was absolute silence for a few of their precious minutes as they read. When he reached the closing of Elizabeth’s letter to him, Darcy’s heart beat a little harder.
If you cannot give your heart again to one who did not value it rightly the first time it was
offered, I will think you wise. However, if you were willing to be foolish instead, I can promise you
that it would be received with the love and care that it deserves.
“If I am willing to be foolish . . . Elizabeth Bennet!” he cried, delighted. “Are you proposing to me?”
She gazed up at him, her eyes a little glossy. Had she been crying over his words? “Do not be ridiculous,” she told him impertinently. “It is not my place to propose to any man.”
He laughed with delight and held up the letter in his hand. “You are, and I have the proof!”
Her adorable face collapsed into a pout. “Give it back, Mr. Darcy.”
“You will never have this letter back. I accept, by the way.”
“I have not asked.”
“You have.” He waved the letter at her, then folded it and put it in his breast pocket.
“Is that the safest place for such a letter?” she inquired pointedly, folding hers and locking it in the wooden box. She glanced at him askance and folded her arms across her chest. One slender eyebrow rose as she stared impishly at him.
He reached for her hands, gently tugging at them until she uncrossed her arms. She did not remove her hands from his. Rather, she trained her eyes on where those hands were joined.
“I have been teasing you, and now I wish to be serious,” he told her. She glanced up at him. “You will think me vain and presumptuous.”
She lifted her chin haughtily. “As if I do not think you those things already.” Her eyes sparkled when she spoke. It gave him courage.
“Very well,” he replied directly. “When I think of you, I do not call you Miss Bennet or even Miss Elizabeth. You are Elizabeth to me, and you have been since Pemberley. In my heart, you are mine.”
An almost unbearable silence descended. He could even hear the clock in the hall. Had he gone too far? Tick. Tick. Tick . . . He could hear his life draining away as he waited for Elizabeth to speak.
“It is presumptuous, sir,” she said at last.
Darcy closed his eyes in defeat.
“But no more than I, for I consider you mine as well.”
His eyes shot open. “You do?”
She smiled and laughed quietly. “If you will be mine, I will be yours. That is, if you will have me.”
“If I will have you? What do you think I have been . . . I cannot believe that . . .” Words failed him.
This was neither unusual nor unexpected, for powerful emotions often rendered him mute.
But Darcy’s feelings could not be contained merely by not speaking of them, and the very staid, very respectable Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire released his joy by embracing the woman he loved, picking her up and swinging her around once, twice, three times.
“Stop!” Elizabeth exclaimed with a squeal. “You are making me dizzy!”
He set her down at once. She swayed a bit but laughed cheerfully at his alarm. When she was steady, he took her again by the hands. “Do you mean it?”
“Why would I say such a thing if I did not?” she asked pertly.
“And you will marry me?” He felt stupid, asking her so many times to confirm it, but this moment had taken a very long time to arrive.
She gazed up into his face, all trace of levity gone. “Yes, Fitzwilliam. I will marry you. I love you.”