Chapter 1
Optimistic Expedition
Darcy House in London
Fitzwilliam Darcy dipped the tip of his sharpened quill into the silver ink jar, tapped it onto the edge to remove the excess fluid, and etched a precise X inside the square for the twenty-sixth of October.
Smoothing one hand over the calendar page while returning the quill to its stand, he gazed at the rows of squares, each with a bold X indicating the date had passed.
It was tempting to mark today as complete, but doing so would be premature, considering his breakfast tray sat on the table, and the pot of coffee remained half full.
Best not to violate the rules, no matter the satisfaction in seeing precisely one month remaining until the day scheduled for his marriage to Elizabeth Bennet.
In one respect Darcy did not wish to rush the time.
Each day within this season of courtship brought new delights and increased the hope of their future happiness together.
The remaining month promised to be especially splendid.
Managing to keep a tight grip on his passions, he determined, was the only obstacle to a blissful engagement period!
Coffee cup in hand, Darcy relaxed into the chair and lifted his eyes to the window where sunlight glistened on the drops of dew coating the panes.
The small patio outside his bedchamber had transformed from the lush, green-shrouded privacy of summer with bright colors of wisteria, lilac, and potted flowers, to an open terrace of faded blooms and semi-bare branches with clinging leaves of oranges and yellows.
While perhaps not as gloriously beautiful, Darcy tended to prefer the rustic, earthy colors of autumn.
For some, this season too vividly illustrated decay and death.
To Darcy, autumn marked a gradual easing of life’s busyness and ushered in a period of restful, solitude.
For as long as memory served, he had embraced the tranquility of winter at Pemberley.
This upcoming winter, with Elizabeth in his life, anticipation for the season was multiplied tenfold.
Nay, after yesterday’s miraculous revelations, make that a hundredfold.
Before arriving in London two days ago, the rapport forged with Elizabeth in the month since their engagement had exceeded Darcy’s wildest imaginings.
He had lost count of the times when their easy conversation, similar humor, and reciprocated insights had amazed him.
Gradually his guilt over past missteps had faded, as Darcy accepted that by some miracle Elizabeth loved him—almost as deeply as he loved her.
On this fine autumn morning, Darcy freely admitted to his error on two points.
One, Elizabeth already loved him as deeply as he loved her, this being the first miracle revelation from yesterday’s fiery encounter in his mother’s bedchamber.
The second miracle revelation was how thoroughly Elizabeth understood his heart and mind. Clearer than he did, as it turned out.
Oh, my Elizabeth! How remarkable you are. With that thought, Darcy set the empty coffee cup down, slid his journal atop the calendar, and opened at the marked page for last night’s entry.
Once again, she defied my direct order, proving, as she undoubtedly did when confronting Lady Catherine, that she is fearless.
Brave and bold, perhaps more so than I. She refused to leave the bedchamber as I commanded, charging toward me until nearly nose to nose for a scathing rebuke I shall never forget.
“Tell me truthfully Fitzwilliam Darcy. Am I to conclude that our mutual love and desire are emotions to be disdained and ashamed of? Is this contempt and repugnance to continue after we wed? Or is it that you honestly reckon you are such an uncontainable beast that you would hurt the woman you love? Or do you have so little faith in my self-control that you assume I would willingly allow you to ravage me like a bought woman?”
Hurt Elizabeth? God no! The very thought brings me to my knees.
Had my actions unwittingly given her the impression that I distrusted her virtue and strength of character?
Had I shunned her affections to the point of damaging our future marital relations?
Suddenly my fear of losing her respect and love was far greater than my ridiculous physical struggles.
Then, with her next words, I abruptly comprehended that fear was the true root indeed, just not the fear I had surmised.
“William, listen to me carefully. I do not believe any of the questions I asked are true of you. What I do believe is that you are afraid to express your emotions freely. You are wrapped in an inflexible cocoon of discipline and righteousness, terrified that if you loosen one single cord, you will unravel completely. You love me and desire me, yet resist showing me how much because you fear I will be disgusted or disappointed if I discover you are not this towering paragon of virtue and excellence you deem yourself.”
Ah, such truth. Indeed, I, Fitzwilliam Darcy, a man forever prideful of his intelligence and clarity, have been stupid and blind.
Elizabeth pierced through every facade. She saw the truth of my fears and laid them bare.
Elizabeth, who faces me boldly as few can, knows of my weaknesses yet loves me for them and still trusts me with her entire being.
How can I not trust her with the same? There is an amusing irony to the charade when viewed in light of our past. Fearing to release my “inflexible cocoon of discipline and righteousness” and fearing the free expression of my emotions at this point in our relationship is nonsensical when it is exactly those negative traits that caused Elizabeth to refuse my first proposal of marriage.
“Do you not yet comprehend how deeply I love you?” This singular question, uttered with raw emotion, was alone adequate proof of how wrong I was to judge her feelings as being of a lesser intensity than mine.
If I needed additional validation, her subsequent words—her endearment, her touch—were amply sufficient to lift the yoke from my shoulders.
My dearest Elizabeth shall forever be my sufficiency.
This was the extent of his entry. Volumes more could have been added, but chronicling every impression was unnecessary.
Darcy would eternally remember the whole of last evening’s conversation as vividly as he would their argument after his horrendous first proposal.
Thankfully, the aftermath of this most recent confrontation was encouraging, rather than the heartbreaking outcome from last April.
Minutes later Darcy entered his dressing room whistling a jaunty tune. His valet, Samuel Oliver, greeted him politely and commenced the routine morning toilette as if Mr. Darcy whistling was normal.
Nearly laughing aloud, Darcy suddenly realized that whistling had become a normal activity—whistling, along with humming and involuntary smiles. Extraordinary!
Samuel’s natural reticence and impassive expressions gave no hint as to his opinion regarding Darcy’s unusual mannerisms of late.
Based on Samuel’s reaction to his master’s engagement news, Darcy doubted his severely proper valet dwelt upon the matter beyond the professional regard for which waistcoat, cravat knot, or cologne selection was best for the planned activity of the day.
A month prior, on the afternoon of his engagement to Elizabeth, Darcy had informed his valet, as calmly as possible, “We shall be staying in Netherfield for an indefinite period.”
Samuel had nodded once and replied with a simple, “Very well, sir.”
When no further questions were asked, Darcy pressed on, “As it happens, I have asked for the honor of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s hand in marriage, and she has accepted my proposal.”
Expression unchanged, the valet had given a second nod identical to the first and continued brushing Darcy’s coat without the slightest falter in rhythm.
“Congratulations, Mr. Darcy,” he had offered in his typical bland tone.
“Will you need particular wardrobe requirements for the weeks ahead? I can send a footman to Pemberley or London for additional supplies and garments.”
In the weeks since, wardrobe and grooming concerns were still the main topics of their conversations.
Clothing selection and a detailed awareness of Mr. Darcy’s daily schedule was the closest Samuel came to touching upon the subject of his master’s upcoming marriage.
For twelve years Samuel Oliver had been in Darcy’s employ, inarguably familiar with his physical person above anyone in the world.
Regardless, as two men with similarly introverted personalities and strict adherence to protocols, conversations beyond the business at hand were rare and always had been.
Darcy preferred it this way and was unfazed by Samuel’s indifference to his engagement.
Exiting his suite, Darcy went in search of his sister.
Too often over the past several years he and Georgiana had not resided in the same house at the same time.
Usually, this was the result of her remaining at Pemberley while he was away in London or elsewhere.
Rarely were they at Darcy House together, and he suddenly saw the error in eating from a tray at his desk rather than meeting her in the breakfast room to share in the morning repast.
Old habits die hard, he thought. Then, smiling, he realized that with his marriage there would undoubtedly be a long list of “old habits” needing to die, like it or not.
Georgiana was in the parlor, as he expected, but not playing the pianoforte, as was typical.
Instead, Darcy heard the murmur of voices rather than music and, before reaching the half-open door, distinguished his sister’s dulcet tones from Mrs. Smyth’s gruff accent.
It only took a minute to ascertain they were discussing the luncheon scheduled for the following day.