CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON brought the gentlemen of Netherfield and Apollo to Longbourn.
The November air was mild, the sunlight pale and thin through drifting clouds, and Elizabeth could not help a private smile when she heard the sound of hooves on the gravel drive.
That smile broadened when Hill entered to announce, “Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy, ma’am. ”
But her relief was greatest of all when she remembered that Mr. Collins had left earlier that morning for Lucas Lodge, carrying with him his self-importance and an air of wounded dignity.
Providence has smiled on me at last, she thought, glancing down at Pippin, who wagged her tail as though sharing the sentiment.
The gentlemen were received in Longbourn’s drawing room and offered tea. Pippin and Apollo, as though making amends for having been apart the previous night, caught sight of each other and at once dashed outside, racing across the lawn in playful delight.
Mrs. Bennet’s delight was scarcely containable. “Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy! What a pleasure. We are still quite in awe of the splendour of your ball. I told Mr. Bennet it was the most charming evening of the season.”
Mr. Bennet chuckled dryly, “It was indeed a fine display, sir. So fine that I could scarce hear myself think for all the chatter of admiration.”
Lydia and Kitty burst into laughter. “It was the merriest night ever, Papa! There were so many officers—so many red coats!”
Kitty leaned forward eagerly. “Though such a pity Mr. Wickham was not there. Lydia had hoped for him most.”
At this, Darcy’s expression changed. His brow tightened; his cup paused mid-air. “Mr. Wickham?” he repeated quietly.
“Yes, sir,” said Lydia, far too pleased to have drawn his attention. “He is one of the officers stationed with the militia in Meryton. The most handsome of them all, I assure you.”
Darcy’s voice was measured, though a trace of steel underlay it. “I see. I trust there can be no mistake in the name?”
“None, sir,” Lydia replied with a giggle.
Mr. Bennet, noting the gravity of Darcy’s look, asked, “You seem troubled, Mr. Darcy. Is the gentleman known to you?”
Darcy set down his cup. “I know of a man by that name—a scoundrel, if truth be told. But I am sure it cannot be the same. The Wickham I know would not submit to the discipline of a profession, least of all one of honour like the militia.”
A brief silence followed. Elizabeth, watching him, noted the shadow that crossed his features and the careful restraint in his tone.
Mrs. Bennet, eager to recover the conversation, fluttered her fan and said quickly, “Oh, I am certain it cannot be the same gentleman, Mr. Darcy. This Mr. Wickham Lydia speaks of, I have heard of is all politeness and good humour, quite the favourite among the officers. My girls would never speak so warmly of a man undeserving of it.”
Lydia laughed lightly, but Mr. Bennet’s look suggested he placed little faith in such second-hand assurances.
The moment passed; tea and conversation resumed.
After a short while, Mr. Bennet, who had been observing both gentlemen with quiet amusement, said, “Since my daughters have admired the gardens of Netherfield, it is only fair that you should see ours. You didn’t get to see them the last time you called.
You may find them modest, but they are faithful to the soil. ”
Bingley sprang up at once, all cheer and readiness, and Jane followed him with a smile that left her mother beaming in satisfaction. Darcy rose more deliberately, his gaze seeking Elizabeth’s almost instinctively.
***
OUTSIDE, THE AIR was sweet and still. The lawns glistened faintly with the damp of morning rain, and beyond the hedges, the last of the autumn roses still held their scent.
Pippin and Apollo raced ahead of them, their gleaming coats flashing between the garden paths, chasing at butterflies as though they had no memory of restraint.
Jane and Bingley walked some distance ahead, their voices light and happy, leaving Elizabeth and Darcy to follow at a quieter pace.
“The gardens are charming,” Darcy said. “And better tended than I expected. Your father seems a man of order.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Papa loves what grows without needing much encouragement. It reminds him of himself.”
He returned the smile, though his thoughts were elsewhere.
“I must say,” she continued, after a pause, “I enjoyed myself greatly last night. The evening exceeded my expectations.”
“I am glad,” he said simply. “You seemed—content.”
“I was,” she replied.
They walked for a few moments in silence, the soft rustle of the gravel their only sound. At last Elizabeth, unable to restrain her curiosity, said, “I could not but observe a change in your countenance earlier, when my sister mentioned Mr. Wickham.”
He hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. “You observed correctly. But I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, it is nothing that need concern your family. I am certain it is not the same man. The Wickham I know would not trouble himself with honest employment. He has long been... otherwise engaged.”
“For you to speak of a man in such a manner, he must have done you some wrong,” Elizabeth said softly.
Darcy’s expression grew remote. “Not only me,” he said, his tone low. “He wronged the memory of my father and betrayed a trust that should never have been broken. But I would rather not speak of it now.”
“I understand,” she said softly, sensing the depth of feeling he restrained. Then, with a tactful change of subject, she added, “It occurred to me only this morning, as I was thinking of our conversations, that you seem to know much of my family, yet I know so little of yours.”
Some colour found its way back to Darcy’s face as he smiled.
“On that subject, I believe your cousin, Mr. Collins, has spoken freely enough of my aunt, Lady Catherine, and my cousin Anne. I mentioned my sister to you yesterday. There are only a few others—my uncle, the Earl of Matlock, and his son, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Georgiana spends much of her time at the Colonel’s house when she is in London, as she is preparing for her first season. ”
Elizabeth smiled. “It sounds a happy little circle.”
“It is,” he said, with a quiet sigh. “Though family can sometimes feel more duty than delightful. And duty—” he paused—“can be a tiresome master.”
“Duty,” she repeated. “Such as the expectation of marrying one’s cousin?”
His eyes turned toward her, a glimmer of amusement softening his otherwise grave expression.
“Just so. My aunt has long cherished that particular plan, though I cannot see why happiness must be sacrificed to family arrangement. As I told you when you visited Netherfield, I have no intention of marrying my cousin.”
“Oh, I can well imagine,” she said, her eyes alight with mischief. “My cousin, Mr. Collins, made me such an offer only days ago—to preserve our estate, he said. A most noble act of duty, if ever one was.”
Darcy’s step faltered, and he turned his head slightly toward her. “If I may be so forward,” he said, his tone careful, “may I ask what answer you gave him?”
“I refused him, sir,” she replied with playful dignity. “I would sooner marry the pillars of Longbourn than bind myself to such a man.”
He released a breath that might almost have been a laugh—quiet, uneven, and filled with relief. “I confess, I should have been astonished had you accepted. No offence to your cousin, but it would never have suited you. I doubt he could endure a wife with opinions.”
Elizabeth’s laughter rang softly through the stillness. “Then we are perfectly agreed, Mr. Darcy. I doubt it as well.”
They had reached the rose arbour, the air still fragrant with the lingering bloom. For a moment neither spoke. Then Darcy turned to her, his expression grave but tender.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began at last, his voice low and steady, though there was tension beneath the calm, “I must speak what I have long endeavoured to silence. I told myself it was imprudent, unequal, unwise, yet I can no longer pretend indifference. When first our dogs grew so attached, I thought little of it, save that it afforded me more opportunity than was proper to observe your fine eyes.”
Elizabeth felt her breath quicken. The sound of her heart seemed suddenly loud in her ears, each word of his drawing her nearer to something she had not imagined she would hear. Her hands trembled faintly within her gloves.
Darcy’s voice softened. “But what began in chance, those brief meetings and small conversations, became before I knew it the moments I most desired. I know it has been but two months since I came to Hertfordshire, and that our acquaintance began far from pleasantly. Yet each encounter has undone me a little more. Your wit, your kindness, your spirit, they have overcome every argument of reason or caution. You have captivated me entirely. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Her mouth felt dry, her thoughts scattered like leaves in a sudden wind. For a long moment she could not speak, could scarcely even breathe. The world had grown strangely still—the murmur of the breeze, the soft stir of the garden, even the faint laughter from the house seemed distant, unreal.
At last she found her voice. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, though it trembled, “I... I did not expect this.”
“Nor did I,” he replied quietly. “Yet here I stand, unable to do otherwise. I know the brevity of our acquaintance, and I know how others might judge it, but my heart will not be persuaded. If you can pardon my failings and accept the affection that now declares itself, I would count myself most fortunate.”
She looked up at him then, her eyes wide, her pulse unsteady. “You astonish me, sir. Entirely.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Then I must hope it is not an unwelcome astonishment.”