Chapter Nineteen #2
“Have you chosen the gentleman who will stand beside you on that occasion?”
“Indeed, I have.”
“Someone I know, perhaps?”
“I should hope so,” she teased, the corner of her mouth betraying her. “After all, you see him each morning when you look in the mirror.”
He turned her gently by the arm to face him fully. The teasing light faded from their eyes, and the world narrowed to a hush around them.
“You are too kind to toy with me,” he said, voice soft as velvet. “If your feelings have grown since last April, speak now. My affections remain unchanged, but one word from you will end my pursuit forever.”
“My feelings have indeed undergone a profound change. If I could return to the past, I would go back to Hunsford and allow you to propose unimpeded.” Darcy’s eyes darkened with an emotion she could not name, and a warm flush rose in her chest. “Are you shocked by this?”
“Not at all. However, if I could go back in time, I would travel back to the fifteenth of October, 1811, and ask for an introduction to the most beautiful woman I know when Bingley badgered me to dance.”
“You would dance with Jane?” she teased.
He gave her a look of tender exasperation. “To me, you are the most beautiful woman in all of England.”
“I am glad you did not say the world, for then I would suggest that you require very thick spectacles.”
“You tease because I am making you uncomfortable.”
“Partially. I am not used to trumping Jane in the card game of looks and grace.”
“If it helps, you are my Queen of Hearts.”
“Mr. Darcy! When did you become a poet?”
“The fifteenth of October, 1811,” came his earnest reply, “where at a horrid little assembly, that I did not want to attend, my world tilted on its axis, and I have yet to regain my balance.”
What could she say to that? She held his gaze and realised — nothing. There was nothing she could say to that, for her heart had melted and she had no words… except…
“I love you, Fitzwilliam.”
It seemed that was all she needed to say, for his hands lovingly cupped her face, and his lips were upon hers. After that, no words were required for a very long time.
Later that afternoon, Elizabeth found her father in his library, settled deep into his favourite armchair with a book open across his knee.
She closed the door behind her and did not sit.
She had no intention of leaving without his blessing on her engagement to William and proceeded to tell her father that very thing.
“William, is it?” her father said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth when she had finished pleading her case. “I had always understood his Christian name to be Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“Very well, Fitzwilliam and I wish to marry on the fifteenth of October at St. George’s Hanover Square.”
He closed his book. “Not Longbourn?”
“We could hardly impose upon the Turners while we made our preparations. Besides, we keep a house in Town, and St. George’s is Fitzwilliam’s parish.”
“And the date itself? Is there some particular reason for it?”
“There is, though it is a private matter.”
He studied her over the rims of his spectacles, not entirely satisfied, but she trusted that in time, when he had occasion to reflect on the year past, the reason would make itself plain enough.
“Have you spoken with Jane? Would she and Morgan care to share the occasion?”
“You are the first to know, so I have not yet had the chance. But Jane and I have long spoken of a double wedding. If she and Mr. Morgan find the date and church agreeable, there is little left to arrange beyond booking the church, ordering the flowers, and allowing Mamma the great pleasure of planning the breakfast.”
“And the matter of your trousseau and gown.” He set his book aside entirely now, folding his hands. “Your mother will not be short of opinions there.”
“Aunt Madeline will keep things within reason. Mamma may have all the lace she likes, provided she leaves Jane’s gown and mine to us.”
He was quiet for a moment, looking at her in a way that made her feel, as she sometimes did, that he was committing her to memory.
“I wish you every success, my dear. You shall want it.”
“I have every faith in our arrangements.”
Meanwhile, back in Kent…
“Mr. and Mrs. Richard Fitzwilliam,” Rogers, the faithful butler of Rosings Park, announced in his familiar sonorous tone. The double doors swung open to reveal Richard and Anne, halted like statues on the threshold.
“What?” Lady Catherine exclaimed. “My nephew Richard has married? To whom?”
“To me, Mother.”
Anne, her gloved hand resting lightly on Richard’s forearm, advanced with serene composure.
He led his wife to a small settee, situated a careful distance from her mother’s ‘throne’, then lowered his own large frame on the seat beside her.
Not once did he relax, although he kept his mien cheerful, ever mindful of how rapidly his aunt’s anger could rise and eventually erupt.
He likened Lady Catherine’s simmering rage to Mount Vesuvius, and did not want the two of them to be caught unaware of an impending explosion.
A maid in starched linen poured two cups of tea, placing them before Richard and his wife. Her voice trembled as she ventured to serve her mistress.
“Madam, shall I replenish your cup?”
“Be gone,” Lady Catherine snapped, waving her away with a single, impatient flick of her wrist. Her dark eyes narrowed to slits as she assessed her daughter and new husband. “I was given to understand you would marry Darcy.”
“You heard only what you wished to hear.”
“I distinctly recall you announcing your intention to marry him.”