Chapter Sixteen #3
He sat as he did everything, with precision and care.
She took a seat opposite him, folding her hands and placing them in her lap.
She wondered for a moment whether the man ever let himself truly relax.
Perhaps when he is with Georgie. They sat for a moment while she watched his expression turned pained, then determined.
Even as she awaited his rebuke, she could not help but notice how handsome he was.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, then halted.
“Yes, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, hoping to hurry him along.
He cleared his throat and removed her sketch, laying it on the table between them.
Elizabeth took one look and knew immediately which portrait it was. Oh, no. How could I have been so irresponsible?
Mr. Darcy tapped the paper. “It is a remarkable likeness, Miss Elizabeth.” He then turned the page over. “Though I must say, it was what you have written here that persuaded me to knock on your sister’s door this morning.”
Elizabeth felt warm and uncomfortable, but when she lifted her eyes from the table, she saw something different in Mr. Darcy’s air.
He was looking away from her, his chin dropped nearly to his chest, his shoulders slightly hunched.
He is ashamed. She tried to rouse her ire against him.
He should be. Still, she was the one who had drawn such a thing and then been careless with it.
Suppose someone else had discovered it? She let out a relieved puff of air.
“I came,” he said to the floor, “to offer you my most profound apology. To see those words staring back at me… it was meanly done. It was ungentlemanly.”
“You were under duress, Mr. Darcy,” she responded, trying to bring this unusual conference to a quick end. “Though I applaud his intentions, Mr. Bingley did seek to force you to be sociable when you had given every sign that you did not wish it.”
Mr. Darcy looked up at her. “I did give him every sign. But I was impolite, even rude.”
“Perhaps your cravat was too tight,” she murmured, a tease in her tone.
“You must hate me, Miss Elizabeth.” His voice sounded puzzled. “Why are you not ringing a peal over my head? My sister surely would.”
Elizabeth began to smile, thinking about Georgiana.
She certainly would. The privilege of a sibling.
Before she could reply, Mr. Darcy resumed speaking.
She could not help but watch his expression, which had changed once more, though each alteration was so minute, she flattered herself that most people might not notice at all.
He appeared to her now as a small boy asking for a favor, and her heart went out to him.
“Is it possible, Miss Elizabeth,” he asked, and she could hear the trepidation in his tone, “that I may have improved in your estimation since you drew this unfortunately accurate portrait of me?”
Elizabeth searched Mr. Darcy’s face. It was awash in despair and hope, shame and pride, dark and light, and her fingers began to itch.
She squelched the rising need to draw. He had the most intriguing, complex expressions she had ever encountered.
She could draw him forever, but this was too important a conversation to leave unfinished.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said reprovingly, “it was poorly done, I grant you. However, it was hardly something that merits such grief.” She lifted an eyebrow and one corner of her mouth twitched up.
“You have only made yourself look quite foolish and given the matrons of Meryton another reason to dislike you.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Another reason?”
She laughed quietly. “Yes. You refused to dance with any of their daughters--a capital offense, sir. I was simply the one called out for your special attentions.” She pursed her lips. “They are angry at you on my behalf.”
“You were staring at me,” he protested, his chagrin momentarily forgotten.
“I was,” she replied, pleased to be needling him out of his dark mood. “And you have paid me back amply since.”
“Of what are you speaking, madam?” he asked, mesmerized by the merry scolding he was receiving, quite different from the one to which Georgiana had subjected him on their journey away from Ramsgate.
She stood. “Wait here a moment, please.” She walked past Mary into Jane’s room to retrieve her portfolio from its hiding place between the headboard and the wall.
“Lizzy,” Mary whispered urgently, “I am here without invitation. I must go.”
“Mary,” she said, grasping her sister’s hand, “I need you to stay. Please? I promise to get you out of the house.”
Mary gave her a dubious look but nodded.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, and returned to Mr. Darcy, who stood abruptly as she entered.
She tried not to smile. He was such a funny man, even when he did not intend it.
It was rather endearing, really. Stop it, Elizabeth.
She motioned for him to sit, but he waited for her.
She set her portfolio down next to her chair and took her seat.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, holding a hand out as if to keep her from showing him anything more, “before we begin…” he tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. “Before we begin, I should tell you that I admire you. Greatly admire you. And even, I mean…” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
Elizabeth sat, stunned, her hand frozen halfway to her portfolio. “What?” she asked weakly.
Mr. Darcy dropped his hand and looked at her. His face was pale, and he tapped his fingers against the side of his leg. “I cannot believe I am saying this now, but it is so difficult to speak to you privately, I fear I may never have another opportunity.” He fixed his gaze on her.
The words hung in the air. Elizabeth was shocked speechless. Mr. Darcy continued, “I know I have made a mess of it, but it was only because I was worried for my sister.” He paused again, a pained expression on his face.
What about his sister? “Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, confused, “What has your declaration, or lack of it, to do with your sister?”
“Her prospects, you see,” he stumbled, his cheeks reddening.
Oh, now he has really stepped in it, Elizabeth thought, tossing an amused glance over at Mary. It did not appear Mary could hear what they were saying. So much the better. Let us see how he extracts himself. “Her prospects?” she asked, as though she had no idea what he meant.
“Well, you know.” He waved a hand. “You and your sisters have little in the way of a dowry and no London connections, and my sister is coming out in two years’ time.” He grimaced. “I will admit that I allowed your situation keep me from admitting my… affections, even to myself.”
“May I ask what it was that changed your mind, sir?” Elizabeth asked. “With all this against me, how have you come to make such a bold declaration?” A declaration, I might add, with no offer. What was he about? Would he confess and then leave? Ask her to wait?
“I do not know that anything changed my mind, Miss Elizabeth,” he explained, his dark brows pinching together in that pensive look that had become familiar to her.
“I simply stopped fighting it.” He motioned at the picture.
“I found this last night, and I believe it was the straw from the old proverb.”
Elizabeth watched him carefully. “The one that broke the camel’s back? Are you a camel now?”
Mr. Darcy picked up the drawing to study it before gazing directly at her. His eyes were very like his sister’s, but somehow his were darker, deeper, more intense. The skin on Elizabeth’s arms began to tingle, and she rubbed at it with her hands.
“I found I could not bear that you believed me to be this man.” He shook the drawing slightly, and continued, contrite, “I am not, I promise you.” He put the paper down and reached out suddenly to take her hand.
“And, there is another, more important promise I should like to make to you, if you are willing to entertain it.”
Elizabeth startled at his sudden movement but did not draw away. He cannot. . . “A promise is a serious thing, sir.”
“I understand.” Mr. Darcy stood, still holding her hand, and drew her up with him.
He took a deep breath. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said in a voice that was earnest and just a bit uncertain, “I ardently admire and love you. I understand that you bring little to a marriage besides yourself and I hope you will believe me when I say that it is enough.” He ran his thumb along the back of her hand and met her gaze. “It is enough.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
Mr. Darcy continued. “I will never to be other than deeply grateful for your willingness to forgive me, if you would only say yes.”
There was silence, and Elizabeth, seeing that he was growing rather anxious, pressed her lips together before asking, “Was there a question in there somewhere, Mr. Darcy?”
A short, barking laugh erupted from him. “I do seem to have jumped the mark.” He took her other hand. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said somberly, “will you accept my hand? Will you marry me?”
Darcy waited a second time while Miss Elizabeth studied him.
She seemed uneasy. “I understand the great honor you do me,” she began, and his heart plunged to his boots.
He had meant to ask to call on her when she returned home, but his heart, his stupid heart had pushed for what it really wanted. Disaster.
He dropped her hands and nodded. “You need not say any more, Miss Elizabeth,” he said solemnly, his chest constricting painfully. “I am sorry for having imposed.” He turned to go.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said sharply, and he heard her anger. Why is she angry?
“Yes, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, turning back. He would be a gentleman. It might kill him, but he would do it.
“You will sit down, sir. It is my turn to speak and yours to listen.” Despite the churning of his stomach, he did as he was told and looked up at her. Her color was heightened, and her eyes flashed brightly. She was even lovely in a temper.
She huffed and, provoked, shook her head. “Stop that,” she insisted.