Chapter 23 #2
Three days could hardly be called long, and yet it had not felt so.
She had always prided herself on the ability to occupy her time usefully, to find interest where others might not – but these past days had been unlike any she could remember.
Nothing seemed to engage her as it ought.
She moved from one occupation to another without satisfaction, and even the conversation of her sisters, which had never before failed to amuse or divert her, now required an effort she could not entirely command.
Turning away, she meant to put an end to the thought, yet it did not leave her. On the contrary, it returned with greater clarity.
She had grown used to him.
The realisation did not come all at once, but settled gradually, as though it had been forming long before she chose to acknowledge it.
His presence – his manner of speaking, of observing, even of contradicting – had become familiar to her in a way she had never expected.
What she had once examined, even resisted, she now received without effort – and, she must own, anticipated.
She began to understand his mannerisms, his expressions – his half smile that was so subtle that one might miss it if one were not paying attention. And his eyes – when they were on her, they told her of feeling.
She had never supposed Mr. Darcy capable of strong feeling; yet in this, as in so many other things, she had been mistaken.
And she had been mistaken in herself as well.
She, who had once laughed at those heroines who swooned at a mere glance, now found in herself something not entirely unlike it.
She felt it – this strange, unaccountable longing – and, what was more, she did not wish it away.
She wanted this – this strange union of affection and feeling – in her life; and with him.
Elizabeth moved away and sat down, though she did not immediately recover her composure.
His conduct, though never ostentatious, had been quietly flattering. At times, he would say something that left her quite astonished – that a man like him… There had been no inconsistency, no lightness of purpose. He had not trifled. Whatever he felt, he had felt seriously.
He had trusted her.
That thought, more than any other, returned to her now. Not merely in his attentions, but in what he had chosen to share – what he had allowed her to see of his private concerns, of his sister, of his past. Such confidence was not lightly given.
And yet – he had said nothing. Not formally.
Elizabeth considered this more steadily.
It was not hesitation that had restrained him. Of that she was now persuaded. Nor could it be indifference. If anything, his manner had been too deliberate – too constant – for either.
No. He had waited.
For her.
The thought settled upon her with a quiet force. Was he waiting for her to speak? Surely, he knew. She coloured slightly.
She had not refused him. She had not withdrawn. She had… accepted him.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes, following the thought where it led.
He had waited because she had not been ready. There had been a time – not long past – when she would have met any declaration from him with doubt, perhaps even with a resistance she could not now justify.
A faint smile, half at herself, touched her lips.
And he had waited.
That reflection affected her deeply. Mr. Darcy had spoken of attachment, of feeling – that she made him happy. He had chosen her – Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire.
It was no longer merely a question of astonishment at how greatly she had misjudged him. Rather, she found, more and more, that she wished to make him happy – that his happiness was now inseparable from her own.
She rose again, more slowly now, and with far less restlessness than before.
If he had delayed for her sake…
Was she still unready? She did not hesitate long. She was not. The certainty of it settled upon her, without agitation, and with steadiness.
Her hand lingered for a moment upon the still alive patels of her rose.
Fitzwilliam…
The name formed itself in her thoughts with a softness that surprised her.
At last, she turned toward the window. The rain had ceased, and the light, though still pale, had begun to return.
If he came today… she would not leave him in doubt.
***
The morning had scarcely settled into calm when the sound of approaching horses broke upon the quiet. It was Lydia who first rushed to the window – though not with her usual impatience, but with a purpose she had lately discovered.
“They are come!” she cried.
To the surprise of the whole family, she had joined the cook during the rain in preparing special desserts for Miss Darcy’s visit. She had placed them on a plate, and they were waiting on the pianoforte.
Elizabeth was upstairs when she heard the commotion below. She looked out her window.
Mr. Darcy. Fitzwilliam.
And beside him, Georgiana.
For one instant, she remained perfectly still.
She dropped everything and started for the door, only to stop to check her reflection in the looking glass before she descended with a speed which, had she been observed by her mother, might have occasioned a lecture on decorum.
She paused at the parlour and, with a shriek, let the others know that Mr. Darcy had come.
“Lizzy!” Jane called after her, though not without a smile.
But Elizabeth was already gone. By the time the door was opened, she was already there.
The morning air, still fresh from the retreat of the rain, met her at once – but she scarcely felt it.
“Miss Darcy!” she called, with a warmth that left no doubt of her pleasure. “You are come at last!” She glanced at Darcy as she said it.
Georgiana, who had just been assisted from her horse by her brother, smiled with visible relief. “We feared we might be prevented again. But I could not be persuaded to wait longer.”
“And I am very glad you were not,” Elizabeth returned.
She smiled at Darcy. Her expression altered – though not into composure. If anything, it brightened further.
“You have been most impatiently expected,” she said, though the form of the words did little to disguise the sincerity beneath them. “We had nearly resolved to come to Netherfield ourselves, had the roads allowed it.”
Darcy stood before her, but for a moment did not find words. There was something in her manner – so unguarded, so entirely without reserve. He could not have said why – for she had surprised him before – but never in quite this way.
“I should have been most honoured by such a visit,” he said at last.
Elizabeth smiled up at him. “And Miss Bingley?” she asked, with a quick turn of thought. “And Mr. Bingley?”
Darcy recovered himself slightly. “My sister insisted upon coming at once,” he said, with a brief glance toward Georgiana. “And I… did not oppose her.” A pause. “Bingley will follow later. He was detained by some business on the estate.”
“I am glad he is to come,” Elizabeth said. “Jane will be, too.”
There was a lightness in her tone – a quickness in her manner – which made itself felt in every word she spoke.
She turned again to Georgiana.
“You must come in directly. Lydia has been quite determined that your lesson should not be further delayed, and I believe she has already made preparations of the most elaborate kind.”
Georgiana laughed softly. “Then I must not disappoint her. I have brought my sheets.”
Elizabeth stepped slightly aside to allow them to pass – though not before her eyes returned, almost involuntarily, to Darcy.
He met her look.
And for a moment, something of her earlier composure seemed to return – not fully, but enough to soften what had been too vivid to be mistaken.
Darcy, however, was not so easily restored.
As he followed them toward the house, he found himself wondering. Elizabeth Bennet, whom he had known to be lively, was now… radiant. And he did not yet know what to make of it.
***
The company had assembled in the parlour, and Lydia’s long-anticipated lesson began in the adjoining room in a manner far more lively than orderly.
Miss Darcy, though at first hesitant, had been persuaded to take her place at the pianoforte, while Lydia stood beside her with an air of importance wholly disproportionate to the extent of her instruction.
Kitty hovered near, eager to contribute; and Mary, though outwardly composed, listened with a degree of critical attention she did not even attempt to conceal.
Mrs. Bennet moved about the parlour with restless satisfaction, pausing from time to time to remark upon Miss Darcy’s elegance, her touch, or the great advantages of early instruction.
Elizabeth, seated near the window, was only half attentive. Her eyes rose now and then, almost without her own knowledge, toward Darcy, who stood somewhat apart, though by no means disengaged.
If his manner was composed, it was not indifferent. Elizabeth was fidgeting, he noticed; and he could not help speculating what it was she had tried to communicate to him that morning.
“Mr. Darcy, how very good of you to visit us in such weather,” said Mr. Bennet, as he joined the others.
“Though I believe my wife has taken the weather itself as a personal affront. Mrs. Bennet, what refreshments have you prepared for our guests? You have a most devoted hostess in my wife, Mr. Darcy. She has been considering all morning what might properly be offered to you – and I confess I am not sorry to profit by her cares myself.”
Darcy bowed to Mrs. Bennet. “You are more than generous, madam. We are quite spoiled.”
“Oh, Mr. Darcy, you are very obliging. We are delighted by your company. Refreshments shall be brought directly.”
A sudden sound from the drive interrupted them.
“Another visitor!” cried Lydia from the adjoining room. “How excessively agreeable!”
Kitty was already at the window. “It is Mr. Bingley!” she exclaimed. “And – oh! – he is bringing a carriage.”
Elizabeth turned at once, though without Lydia’s eager delight. Darcy, however, had already moved nearer the window.