Chapter 23
The Day It Cleared
The rain began in the night and did not cease.
By Sunday morning, the roads were rendered nearly impassable, and the idea of attending church was abandoned with little ceremony, though not without disappointment in some quarters.
By Monday, the steady fall had settled into a grey persistence; by Tuesday, it seemed as though the skies had resolved never to clear again.
At Netherfield, the confinement was not borne equally.
Bingley contrived to remain cheerful. He read, wrote letters, and walked from window to window with a hopeful air, as though the clouds might part out of civility if he regarded them kindly enough.
Darcy did not pretend to such patience.
He made it his object to avoid Miss Bingley and her complaints – or her pointed attentions.
He played billiards when he must or retreated to his room whenever he could.
He had taken up a book more than once and laid it aside again with increasing brevity.
He answered all of his correspondence – and more – but time and the weather seemed equally determined to oppose him.
He could never have imagined that he would one day wish himself under the same roof as Mrs. Bennet. Yet, so it was.
With all his heart, he wished to be with the Bennet family – and above all, with Elizabeth. Yes, Elizabeth, he thought, not Miss Elizabeth anymore.
More than once, he closed his eyes and allowed himself the indulgence of imagining her.
He saw her smiling at him – arch, playful, and unguarded. He saw her in the garden, standing her ground against Wickham with courage that had both surprised and impressed him. He saw the moment after – her composure shaken yet not lost; her turning to him, not in weakness, but in trust.
He saw her as she had stood before him only days before – her composure not quite what she intended it to be, her eyes bright, her manner at once steady and unguarded.
He recalled her words – her frankness, her refusal to soften what must be said – qualities which had first provoked him, and now… held him fast.
And then… the memory altered.
He saw her expression when he had withdrawn too soon – the faintest pout, half playful, half reproachful. She could not have known what restraint it had cost him. He would not abuse the Bennets’ hospitality – no matter how strongly he might have wished otherwise.
And then the second time…
He drew a slow breath.
There had been no interruption. No hesitation. No retreat. She had met him – fully, willingly – without reserve.
He pressed his hand briefly against the back of a chair.
He frowned slightly. Had she regretted it? Or did she think of it as he did? Or – he allowed the thought only for a moment – did she feel that same restless want of his presence, which he could neither quiet nor ignore?
The question unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He turned toward the window and looked out at the relentless rain with open dissatisfaction.
He cursed the weather – silently, but with feeling.
It had detained him at the very moment when everything seemed to have shifted between them.
He believed – he dared to believe – that she now saw him differently.
That she might even consider him, seriously, as a future husband. He prayed he was not mistaken.
Did she miss him?
Did she have any idea how entirely he missed her?
It seemed to him that, since he had given himself to pursuing his happiness with Elizabeth, her presence had become not just desirable, but necessary. Every meeting had deepened it, and every moment had confirmed it.
And now, he was denied even that.
He turned abruptly from the window.
He walked the length of the room, paused, returned, and began again. The same path, the same turn, the same restraint – repeated until even that restraint seemed in danger of failing him.
At length, Bingley, who had watched this progression with growing amusement, said lightly, “Fitzwilliam, if you continue in this manner, you will wear a path into the carpet, and Mrs. Nicholls will never forgive you. But, most importantly, you look like you have taken a dislike to your own company.”
Darcy stopped. “This weather is intolerable,” he said at last.
“It is only rain. I have heard you say yourself that the rain may inconvenience us, but it is good for the fields. Or have you forgotten?”
Darcy allowed a faint smile. “You are perfectly right. I should not feel as I do. It is only rain.” He seated himself.
“Only,” he added after a moment, “I cannot help it. How are you so composed? If you feel for Miss Bennet half what I feel for Miss Elizabeth, you ought to be pacing the house with me.”
Bingley’s expression altered slightly. “Ah. I feel it. But I have only good things to anticipate. I am… content.”
Darcy just stared at him. “Content?” He leant back to consider that. After some time, he leant forward again. “Charles, as there has been no formal announcement, I take it you have not yet spoken to Mr. Bennet.”
Bingley blinked. “Spoken? No, not particularly.”
Darcy regarded him steadily. “You have shown his daughter very marked attention.”
Bingley coloured slightly. “I hope not improperly.”
“No,” Darcy said, “not improperly – but very decidedly. You have distinguished her above every other lady in the neighbourhood. Since you came back, you visit daily, and not briefly. You dine there constantly.”
Bingley did not deny it.
Darcy continued, “A gentleman does not persist in such conduct without explanation.”
Bingley’s expression sobered. “You think I ought…”
“I think,” Darcy said, “that it is time.”
“You mean that I should speak to her father.”
“I do.”
Bingley drew a breath.
Darcy observed him. “Do your sisters still attempt to dissuade you?”
Bingley looked away. “They have threatened to cut ties with me.”
“That will not endure,” Darcy said calmly. “It is not in their interest.”
He rose and came to stand before Bingley. “Charles,” he said more seriously, “this is not a trifling matter. You have gone too far to retreat without consequence. If you are not ready to commit, you ought not to remain in the neighbourhood.”
“What? No, no.” Bingley protested.
Darcy held Bingley’s gaze. “Then you must act as a man of honour.”
There was a pause.
“At present, there is but one course open to you.”
Bingley exhaled. “Very well. I understand you. I will speak to Mr. Bennet.”
Darcy studied him a moment longer. “Do you truly wish it, Charles?”
“Yes,” he said more firmly. “I know my own heart. It is only… difficult when they are continually advising against it.”
“I understand. But you are master of your own conduct.”
Darcy returned to his chair. “I am glad you accept your duty. Otherwise, I would have had to cut ties with you.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. If I have to choose, I will choose my wife’s family. That is only proper.”
“Well, there will be no occasion for that. Once this rain stops, I will speak to her father.”
Darcy nodded.
“One more thing,” he added. “Do not be in such haste as to secure everything at once. You may first request permission to court her.”
Bingley frowned slightly. “Why so cautious?”
Darcy allowed himself the faintest hint of amusement. “Because I intend to marry first.”
Bingley laughed. “Is that so?”
“Do not challenge me, Charles. I am perfectly serious.”
“You have formed your plans already. She has not yet accepted you.”
Darcy sighed. “Yes, that is true. But I am engaged in the attempt.”
***
By Wednesday morning, the rain had at last withdrawn, though the ground still bore every trace of it.
The sky, for the first time in days, admitted a pale and cautious light; and with it came a change not only in the weather, but in the spirits of the household.
Elizabeth stood before her wardrobe.
She had opened it some minutes before and, having selected nothing, had proceeded to examine each gown with a degree of attention wholly disproportionate to the occasion – or so she would have insisted, had anyone accused her of it.
Jane, who had entered unnoticed, watched her for a moment before speaking. “My dear Lizzy, I had not supposed the weather had so altered your taste.”
Elizabeth turned. “My taste?”
“You appear quite unable to determine it this morning.”
“I am merely considering what is suitable.”
“For what?” Jane asked, with perfect innocence.
Elizabeth hesitated only the smallest fraction. “For a walk.”
“In the garden?”
“Yes.”
“In the company of Mr. Darcy?”
Elizabeth gave her a look. “You are very impertinent.”
Jane laughed softly. “And you are very much mistaken if you suppose yourself unaffected.”
“I am not affected,” Elizabeth returned. “I am only…” She stopped.
“Only what?” Jane prompted.
Elizabeth turned back to the wardrobe. “It has been three days.”
“Yes.”
“… And I do not like to be interrupted in my habits.”
Jane’s smile deepened. “Of course not.” However, her manner suggested quite the contrary.
Elizabeth took up one gown, considered it, and replaced it. Then another.
Jane stepped closer. “If I may advise – choose the one in which you feel most yourself.”
Elizabeth glanced at her. “That is not helpful.”
“It is entirely so.”
Elizabeth paused. At last, she selected one – not with triumph, but with decision.
Jane watched her a moment longer, then said, more gently,
“You have missed him.”
Elizabeth did not answer at once. “No more than you have missed Mr. Bingley. I imagine,” she said at last.
Jane coloured slightly – but did not deny it.
Elizabeth stood before her wardrobe longer than was at all necessary. She had already looked through her gowns once, and now went through them again, though with less purpose than before. It would be, after all, only to be a visit – if the ground should dry sufficiently.
She paused, her fingers resting lightly against a sleeve. She had worn that dress when he kissed her. The recollection came unbidden, and with it a warmth she did not immediately attempt to dismiss.