Chapter 21 The Morning After
by Melissa Anne
Rosings Park, Kent
To say that Elizabeth sought anyone to help her make sense of her dreams would not be entirely true.
She walked through the grove at Rosings Park, the cool stillness of the early morning broken only by the faint rustle of leaves overhead. As she wandered along the path, she noticed little of the morning, for her thoughts wholly occupied her mind.
In truth, there was only one person she hoped to encounter: Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Through all manner of curious dreams, she had come to know him better—or at least she considered she had.
So much of what she could remember was hazy, but if anything had remained constant, it had been Mr Darcy.
And several different versions of a proposal of marriage, some of which she had refused vehemently, but a few she had accepted, for various reasons.
She recalled how, when he first confessed his affection for her in the sitting room of the parsonage, the very notion of it had filled her with indignation.
The very manner of his proposal had been enough to raise her ire, and they had argued about his mistaken idea that she, like so many others, would delight in such a proposal from him.
Yes, he was very wealthy, but his actions had done little to recommend him to her beforehand.
It had been reasonable for her to refuse him, and she had told him, quite plainly, what she thought of him.
Yet how mistaken she had been then. She could scarcely summon the strength of her former resentment, not after the many and varying dreams—if they were indeed dreams—in which she had come to see him with increasing clarity.
“I must never speak of my memories to anyone else,” she murmured as she walked. “They would think me quite mad. Maybe I am mad.”
The thought diverted her, and a chuckle escaped her as she imagined attempting to explain her circumstances to anyone else.
What would they say to the notion that she and Darcy might be obligated to wed because they both possessed some strange magic?
Or that she herself had once considered that they ought to elope?
Worse still were the dreams where they had been rendered miserable due to misunderstandings between them.
No, she could never mention these to any other soul.
Lost in these reflections, she still laughed to herself at her ridiculous notions when she nearly collided with the gentleman himself.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, surprised to find him suddenly before her.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” he replied, his voice deep and unexpectedly gentle.
Darcy could not help but stare at her. He awoke that morning burdened with a bewildering collection of thoughts—Netherfield, London, a pirate ship, all vivid enough to leave him uncertain which belonged to reality and which to imagination.
They were all dreams; they must be, for they could be nothing else.
Still, each bore the same mixture of triumph and disappointment in his dealings with the lady now standing before him.
One truth, however, had emerged with unmistakable clarity: he could not imagine a life without her. Unlike his proposal, whenever it may have occurred, he now understood that it would never be enough for Elizabeth to merely accept him.
He loved her. Of that, there was no longer any doubt. It seemed he had loved her for months, perhaps longer, but he had long ago learnt that a marriage entered into for any reason other than mutual affection would be unbearable.
In coming to know her better, he had also come to see himself more clearly. He no longer considered her beneath him, but rather his equal—and, in many respects, his superior. They were, in every respect that signified, a match—save, perhaps, in feeling.
And it was that disparity which troubled him most as he looked upon her that morning.
“Good morning, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth smiled politely, but less warmly than he had hoped. Darcy wondered if she felt the awkwardness of this meeting just as he did.
“Good morning,” he repeated, and he felt his cheeks heat even as he said it again. He paused, attempting to steady himself. “Miss Bennet… Miss Elizabeth, I… Forgive me.”
“For what?”
Her cheeks coloured as well, and he wondered why.
“For so many things, indeed, for almost the entirety of our acquaintance.” He winced as he considered some of their past interactions.
Some of those interactions still felt like dreams, making him wonder if they really happened.
Still, those half-remembered moments now pressed upon him with an unsettling weight, as intense and insistent as memories themselves.
Still uncertain how to proceed, he rubbed his jaw, suddenly aware that he had not taken the time to shave. He could not dismiss the persistent sense that she, too, felt more between them.
To his surprise, Elizabeth laughed. “Have you too had dreams that have left you feeling uncertain, yet so convinced they were real that you feel compelled to act on them? It seems you are also unsure what may have happened since you first proposed to me. At present, it feels as though I retain remembrances of events that could not possibly have occurred. There are recollections of a life far into the future, and, through my own foolishness, it was a miserable one. I cannot wish to endure what I experienced then. I am uncertain how we ought to proceed.”
“What do you mean, Elizabeth?” Darcy asked, the force of her words leaving him with no sense of propriety.
Could she be experiencing the same? That she had refused him before did nothing to diminish his present feelings; indeed, all that had occurred since had strengthened them.
He could now say, with absolute certainty, that he loved her more than before.
His own happiness no longer held the foremost place in his thoughts; he wished only for hers, even if it did not lie in a life with him.
“Mr Darcy.” She sighed. “Do you still feel as you did when you first asked for my hand?”
A low chuckle escaped him. “Yes and no.” He shook his head, reflecting on how unerringly she had gone to the heart of the matter.
“Yes, I still desire you as my wife and hope that you may, one day, return my affection. But I love you enough to accept that, though I love you completely and cannot imagine another as my wife, I would never wish you to accept me for any reason other than that you return my love.”
Darcy took her hand and led her to a fallen log. Removing his coat, he spread it to protect her skirt, then took his place beside her. He took up her gloved hand again.
“My first reaction to your refusal was anger,” he said, then paused, weighing the thought before continuing.
“But now, now I believe it was for the best that you refused me then.” His eyes closed, almost without his willing it, as he shook his head once more, the memory of his own words returning with unwelcome clarity.
“Had anyone spoken to my sister as I spoke to you before, I should have been incensed.” His grasp on Elizabeth’s hand tightened almost unconsciously.
“For a man who professed love, then to claim affection while confessing it was offered against his will and inclination, was not merely insulting but contemptuous from one who claims to be a gentleman. You were right to refuse me. Perhaps some of your information was wrong, but had you accepted my proposal at that time, you would have married a man who did not understand what it meant to love.”
Darcy removed his hat and ran his free hand through his hair, gathering himself before he spoke again.
“Elizabeth, I love you far more than I ever have before. However, you are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings remain the same, tell me at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged. But one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”
She gave him a beatific smile, making him gasp.
Never, not once in the whole of their acquaintance, had she looked at him in such a manner, with such open warmth and regard; it struck him with a force he had not anticipated, leaving him unable to speak.
He would not have wished to anyway, as he listened to her confession that followed.
“Mr Darcy,” she began, drawing her hand from his, to his regret, only to astonish him by resting both hands upon his chest. She angled herself towards him and looked him full in the eye, and he found that he could neither look away nor summon the presence of mind to move.
“My thoughts and wishes are so very different from what they once were,” she said.
“I have come to realise that you are the only man who would suit me. Your understanding and temper are unlike my own, yet I believe our marriage would be to our mutual advantage. My ease in company will aid you, while your greater knowledge of the world can assist me.”
“Is that all you feel for me, Elizabeth?” he asked, looking at her in earnest. “That we are well suited?”
With each word, the pressure of her hands seemed to steady him. His heart beat with a steadiness he scarce recognised, and yet his thoughts raced ahead of him, all at once both fearful and full of hope, uncertain if she meant what he thought she meant.
She shook her head, her fingers pressing against his coat.
“I have been too long at Longbourn, where my father mocks rather than instructs, and I have proved myself no great judge of character. You will surely help me, for you have had the benefit of a broader education and a far more liberal upbringing.”
“Elizabeth.” He breathed her in, leaning down and drawing their faces still closer together, until there was but a whisper between them. “What are you saying?”
“I accept you, Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice strong, though the emotion beneath it was unmistakable.
“I will be your wife. I… I do love you, sir, most ardently. More than that, I have learnt to respect you, and I think that knowing you better will make us quite the happiest husband and wife who ever lived.”