Chapter 25 #2
Darcy’s lips curved faintly. “Do you consider conversation a necessary component of dancing?”
“I consider it the safest opportunity for it,” she replied. “One may say nearly anything in the course of a figure and be carried away before it can be properly examined.”
His brows lifted. “A most strategic use of choreography.”
“Indeed. The set advances whether one’s courage does or not.”
He studied her more closely then.
“And what subject requires such fortification tonight?”
She met his gaze steadily.
“You know very well.”
A brief pause.
“Have you reached a decision?” he asked quietly, as they turned.
“I have reached a resolution,” she said. “Which may not be precisely the same thing.”
He waited.
They crossed paths again.
“I will not convert for the sake of expedience,” she said calmly. “Nor because I fear losing you.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“But,” she continued, “I have satisfied myself that consenting to our children being raised in Catholicism. As to whether or not I, myself, will convert, that I cannot promise. I understand your heritage and beliefs are important to you, and you will want to pass that down to any children we have.”
He missed a fraction of the measure before recovering.
“You are certain?”
“I am certain that God is not so fragile as to be offended by sincere seeking,” she replied. “And I would rather my children be guided by a father who takes belief seriously than one who treats it as an ornament.”
Something in him softened entirely at that. They moved closer in the next figure, and he remarked, “You have considered this quite extensively.”
“I have,” she said simply. “I do not wish to enter your world lightly.”
“And you do not fear it?”
She met his gaze fully. “I fear only acting without conviction. Not faith itself.”
His hand tightened almost imperceptibly around hers before the dance separated them once more.
“Elizabeth,” he said—quietly now, without formality— “you have given me more than I had any right to expect.”
She smiled faintly. “I have given you honesty. Nothing more.”
“And yet it is everything.”
The figure concluded. Applause rippled politely around the room.
Elizabeth felt the past week’s uncertainty settle into something steadier—something chosen. She did not yet know what the future would demand of her.
But she knew this: she had chosen with open eyes.
And he had not asked her to close them.
∞∞∞
The final notes of the first set faded, and Darcy released Elizabeth’s hand with visible reluctance.
“Will you save me the supper set?” he asked her.
“Yes, of course.”
He had intended to speak further—intended, perhaps, to say more than propriety allowed—but the room pressed in at once. Partners shifted. Conversations resumed. The next dance formed, and he crossed the room to Georgiana.
“You promised me two dances,” she reminded him softly, a hint of nervous brightness in her expression.
“I did,” he replied, offering his hand.
She moved through the steps with care, though her pleasure was evident. When she laughed at a minor miscalculation of direction, he felt an unexpected surge of gratitude. Elizabeth had been right—this evening would ease her into society far more gently than a formal season in town.
Lady Anne followed in the next set. She danced with quiet dignity, her composure unshaken by the press of company. As they moved through the figures, she regarded him steadily.
“You look resolved,” she observed.
“I am,” he answered.
She inclined her head once, as though that were sufficient.
Thereafter came Jane Bennet, whose serenity appeared untouched by the noise around them. Darcy saw, over her shoulder, Bingley watching them with unconcealed devotion. Jane’s joy was neither theatrical nor naive. It was simply steady.
Mrs. Hurst claimed the following dance, though without her sister’s presence she seemed subdued. The conversation was polite and mercifully brief.
By the time the supper dance began, Darcy was restless in desire to be with Elizabeth again. He looked around and found her near the refreshment table, speaking with Charlotte Lucas again. The candlelight suited her; the animation in her eyes had not dimmed since the first dance.
Without ceremony, he offered his hand and led her into the set. They completed the first figure in silence. The room was warm now—voices louder, laughter freer. It afforded them more privacy than an empty garden might have done.
When the pattern carried them briefly to the edge of the floor, he spoke. “I find I cannot defer this any longer.”
Her breath caught, but she did not look away.
“You have given me consideration,” he continued, his voice steady despite the quickened pulse beneath it. “You have given me honesty. I will not offer you less.”
The figure separated them.
When they came together again, he said plainly, “Elizabeth, I love you. I have loved you in reflection, in doubt, in hope—and now in certainty. Will you marry me?”
The music did not falter.
She did not hesitate.
“Yes.”
The word was soft—but it struck him like a bell.
He exhaled a breath he had not known he held.
“You make me the happiest of men.”
“I expect you to prove it,” she returned, though her eyes shone.
The dance ended. Applause followed.
Darcy did not release her. “If you will permit me,” he said quietly, “I must seek your father at once.”
She nodded.
Mr. Bennet was not difficult to locate. He stood near the doorway, observing the proceedings with a look that suggested he found the entire spectacle more instructive than entertaining.
Darcy bowed. “Sir, may I request a private word?”
Mr. Bennet studied him for a long moment before gesturing toward the adjoining room.
The conversation was brief. Darcy spoke plainly. He did not embellish. He did not soften his intentions.
Mr. Bennet listened, arms folded. “And my daughter consents?” he asked at last.
“She does.”
Mr. Bennet’s gaze sharpened slightly. “You understand that she has a mind of her own.”
“I do.”
“And that she will use it.”
“I hope she will.”
A faint glimmer of approval appeared.
“Very well,” Mr. Bennet said. “You have my consent.”
Darcy bowed deeply.
When they returned to the assembly room, supper was being laid. As the last course was being finished, Mr. Bennet rose from his chair and tapped his glass with his knife.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, his voice carrying more easily than his temperament might have suggested. “It appears that Longbourn is determined to distinguish itself this season.”
The room quieted.
“My daughter Elizabeth has just accepted Mr. Darcy’s offer of marriage.”
The reaction was immediate.
Mrs. Bennet shrieked. “Lizzy!” she cried, pressing both hands to her cheeks. “Mr. Darcy! Oh, my dear, dear Lizzy! To think—ten thousand a year!”
Before the commotion could subside, Mr. Bennet added mildly, “And as we are evidently committed to efficiency, Jane and Mr. Bingley are likewise engaged.”
If Mrs. Bennet had been animated before, she was now transported entirely beyond reason.
“Two daughters! In one evening! Oh, my nerves—my poor nerves—”
Jane flushed. Bingley looked as though he might embrace the entire company.
Guests surged forward in congratulation.
Elizabeth was swept into embraces. Darcy endured hearty handshakes. Well-wishers pressed around them in waves.
Among them was Wickham.
“My dear cousin,” he said smoothly, extending his hand. “Allow me to offer my congratulations.”
Darcy accepted it.
“You are family enough to claim that privilege,” Wickham added lightly. “Though I wonder—am I family enough to secure a dance with Miss Darcy before the evening concludes?”
Darcy hesitated only a fraction.
“I would have allowed it,” he said evenly. “But Georgiana has already retired for the evening. She is not yet formally out.”
“Prudent.” Wickham nodded without resentment. Then his expression shifted, amused. “I may instead solicit Lady Anne’s patience, then. And I believe I shall ask Miss Lydia Bennet for the final dance.”
Darcy regarded him. “Miss Lydia?” he repeated, surprised.
“I believe I have already had the pleasure of the supper set,” Wickham replied with a slight shrug. “She makes me laugh. Life ought to be interesting.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, but in consideration. “See that it remains respectable,” he said quietly.
Wickham’s smile widened. “Of course.”
Across the room, Lydia’s bright laughter rang out as she teased a cluster of officers.
Darcy exhaled slowly. The evening was filled with joy—yet not without its undercurrents. He turned back to Elizabeth, who was surrounded by well-wishers, her face radiant.
Whatever trials lay ahead, they would face them together.
And that, at last, was enough.