Chapter 22 #2
Elizabeth, however, could not help but reflect that if Mr. Bingley’s courage had not set the example that morning, Mr. Collins might yet have remained hovering at her sister’s elbow for another fortnight. Encouragement, it seemed, was contagious.
And Longbourn had become most unexpectedly infectious.
This thought lingered with Elizabeth as she lay in bed later that night.
The house had at last settled into uneasy quiet—Mrs. Bennet sighing in satisfied exhaustion, Lydia whispering animated speculations to Kitty across the darkened room, and Mary no doubt composing her future sermons in solemn triumph.
But Elizabeth could not sleep.
Mary engaged.
Jane being courted.
Is it possible I will be the next?
The thought sent a most inconvenient flutter through her chest.
It was odd—very odd—that Mary should be secured before Elizabeth. No one would have wagered upon such an outcome a month ago. Yet there it was. Mr. Collins had acted. Mary’s happiness was declared. The future, once distant and theoretical, now pressed forward with surprising haste.
Would Darcy act as well?
Did she wish him to?
A courtship was pleasant. It was lively. It allowed for conversation, for discovery, even for retreat if one discovered a misjudgment. An engagement, however, was no trifling matter. Engagements were seldom dissolved without scandal. They bore the weight of permanence.
She had always vowed—though only to herself—that she would marry for the deepest affection. Not for security. Not for convenience. Not for relief from her mother’s nerves.
For love.
She turned upon her pillow.
Do I love him?
The question ought to have been simple.
She knew that her pulse quickened at the sight of him. She knew that she sought him in every room, that her spirits rose when he entered and settled when he stood beside her. She knew that she valued his judgment and respected his steadiness, even when she wished to tease it.
She knew she missed him when he was absent.
Was that love?
Or merely inclination?
Her mind, inconveniently, supplied a caution.
Her father must once have felt something not unlike it.
Mr. Bennet had not married from indifference.
There must have been warmth once—laughter, admiration, perhaps even delight.
Elizabeth could recall, from her earliest childhood, moments when her parents had seemed united in amusement.
Yet over the years something had altered.
Disappointment had crept in. Respect had thinned.
Her mother’s nerves had grown louder; her father’s retreat into irony more complete.
The affection had not vanished, perhaps—but it had changed.
Could such a change occur between herself and Darcy?
She looked up at the ceiling, staring into the dimness as flickers of light from the dying fire danced across the small cracks in the stone and plaster.
She believed Darcy to be honorable. She believed him to be principled.
She believed him to be steady where her father had been careless.
Yet how did one know that present admiration would withstand years of shared life?
How did one guard against discovering, too late, that early warmth had mistaken itself for permanence?
The stronger her feelings grew, the less certain she felt in naming them.
If she loved him—truly loved him—ought she not feel assured?
Instead, she felt… vulnerable. Exposed. As though her heart had been set beating in a manner not entirely under her governance.
How can I know?
Elizabeth turned upon her pillow, first to one side, then the other, as though by altering her position she might alter the nature of her thoughts. The house lay quiet around her, but her mind refused to follow its example.
She reviewed, one by one, the marriages within her acquaintance.
Her parents came first—inevitably. There must once have been admiration.
Her father had not married a woman he despised.
Yet admiration had yielded to disappointment, and disappointment to distance.
Respect, once thinned, had never returned.
Their early warmth had not preserved them from later discontent.
Was that the danger? That affection might be founded upon partial knowledge?
She considered the Gouldings, who quarreled in company with remarkable indifference to spectators. Of the Lucases, whose civility seemed maintained by habit rather than ardor.
Only her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner came readily to mind as an example unmarred by qualification.
In their company there was ease. Conversation flowed without effort.
Disagreement never sharpened into contempt.
There was affection, certainly—but also esteem.
Mutual regard. A kind of cheerful partnership.
How had her aunt known?
Had she felt certainty? Or had she felt this same restless mixture of warmth and fear?
If only she were here for me to ask.
Elizabeth shifted beneath the coverlet and gave a small, impatient exhale at herself.
Then write her a letter, you silly goose.
The simplicity of it brought the faintest smile to her lips.
She turned once more, but less restlessly now.
The question, which had moments before seemed vast and unsolvable, now possessed a practical remedy.
Her aunt had ever been candid, sensible, and kind.
If anyone could distinguish between transient admiration and enduring affection, it was Mrs. Gardiner.
I shall write to her first thing tomorrow.
The resolution steadied her thoughts. The tumult within her breast did not vanish, but it softened, as though it had been given direction.
With that small but certain plan formed, Elizabeth Bennet at last drifted into sleep—her heart no less engaged, but her mind somewhat eased by the promise of counsel to come.
∞∞∞
The fire upon his hearth had burned low; shadows from the dying embers flickered faintly against the ceiling. Darcy stared upward, hands folded loosely over his chest, as though the plaster above him might yield an answer if studied with sufficient intensity.
Coward.
The word rose unbidden.
He had faced Parliament’s hostility toward Catholics without flinching. He had stood firm before men who regarded his faith as an antiquated loyalty best surrendered for convenience. He had endured Cambridge’s sly mockery and London’s polite suspicion.
Yet he had not spoken one necessary sentence to Elizabeth Bennet.
The past days had been… easy.
More than easy. They had been bright.
Walks across frost-tinged fields. Conversation that moved from wit to reflection without effort. The warmth in her eyes when she listened. The liveliness in her expression when she challenged him.
In her presence, the world seemed ordered—balanced—almost inevitable. She had laughed—at him, with him. There had been no tension between them save that which arose from mutual delight.
He did not wish to introduce gravity where lightness presently reigned.
But now it has already been disturbed, has it not? Bingley courting, Miss Mary engaged…
Darcy turned slightly upon his pillow. Time was moving whether he acknowledged it or not. A courtship could not remain suspended indefinitely. If he intended marriage—and he did—then the question must be faced before matters advanced further.
He did not fear Elizabeth’s displeasure.
He feared her refusal.
He exhaled slowly.
Bingley had mentioned a ball during the ride home—spoken of it with bright enthusiasm. A public celebration. An occasion that would fix expectations more firmly in the minds of the neighborhood.
What if Lady Anne and Georgiana came for the ball?
Yes, that was it! If his sister and stepmother were in Hertfordshire, he could know better what to do, what path to take.
Seeing Elizabeth with two of the women he loved best in the world—observing how she spoke, how she listened, how she regarded them—might give him guidance where it felt like none existed.
Yes, I will have them come.
He would write in the morning. Invite them to Netherfield for the ball. Bingley would not object. Indeed, he would likely be delighted.
If I go to London to fetch them, I could have a marriage settlement drawn up. Just in case.
Darcy lay still for several minutes, turning the idea over in his head. The longer he considered the plan, the more he felt comfortable with it.
The conversation with Elizabeth could not be delayed forever.
But perhaps it need not occur tomorrow.
That was sensible, right?
It was not avoidance. It was information.
Still, he knew it did not absolve him. The conversation could not be postponed indefinitely. If he delayed too long, he would deserve the title he had privately assigned himself.
At last ready for sleep, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. In the dark, he lifted his hand and made the sign of the cross—forehead, breast, shoulder to shoulder—quiet, habitual, without flourish.
He did not pray for certainty.
He prayed for steadiness.
Then he closed his eyes.
Sleep came slowly, but without further argument.