Chapter 27
Lady Catherine never imagined she would be the one trying to lift the heavy mood that had settled over Pemberley.
There was work aplenty for all. Darcy and his steward, Baxter, rode out every day to visit the farms and the cottagers, identifying repairs to be made to the barns, houses, bridges, and lanes.
The Great Storm, as it was known, had cut a swathe through the estate, and not all the damage could be attended to straight away.
Baxter drew up a schedule of works, and Darcy fell naturally into his role as superintendent, just as he had done in Ireland building the canal.
Her ladyship supervised the cleanup of Lambton.
Where once she had been arrogant, interfering, and dictatorial, she found that gentle persuasion—occasionally enforcing her rank with the truly obstinate—accomplished far more than merely ordering the villagers to bend to her will.
Yet, of an evening, after Anne and Georgiana returned from their visits to the wives of the farmers and cottagers—Anne driving the market cart, for she had much experience with her phaeton at Rosings—Lady Catherine felt a sadness dampen the erstwhile cheerful evenings in the drawing room after dinner.
Naturally, during the day, Elizabeth was everywhere; there was a compulsion which drove her—soon the coach from Child to have children, raised with affection and care.
She glanced up at the man walking beside her.
Her first impression, when she had met him at Fleet Street, had been of a proud and arrogant man.
But through his letters, she had come to know a man of deep feelings, sharing with her his innermost thoughts—raised to a world of consequence, of connections, of wealth and high society, but truly a man of strong and generous principles—proud of his heritage, but oftentimes uncertain, certainly human.
She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her.
His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes.
The staff at Pemberley admired him; all on the estate benefited from his care and generosity; he loved his sister Georgiana so strongly that Elizabeth felt a pang of jealousy.
Jealousy! Oh, she certainly envied Georgiana, for who could not desire what she possessed—the love of the finest of brothers?
But jealousy? Did she really worry that Georgiana’s claim would prevent him from ever forming an attachment to herself?
The realisation that she loved him, that she wished for his love, not as a brother but as a companion, as mentor, as lover, as wife, struck her as bright and thunderous as lightning.
She was stunned. She, who prided herself on her understanding and perspicacity, only now recognised that she wished, with all her heart, to stay forever at Pemberley.
Yet every day brought Child’s coach closer to returning her to London—there would be no happy marriage to teach the world what love truly was.
She found she could not bear the thought of so much delight.
Hah! How could the thought of such felicity lead to so much unhappiness?
“Mrs. Elizabeth,” cried Darcy, looking down at her, “you appear unwell. Should we return to the house—perhaps a glass of wine will restore your spirits?”
Unconsciously, she leant into his arm, clutching at it for security lest she stumble.
Before they had gone five paces further, Darcy stopped.
“Mrs. Elizabeth, I must ask you a question which has been tearing at me for some time.
I find I am unable to express myself—‘tis strange, is it not, that we shared such companionable and familiar dialogues in our letters, yet I now find myself bereft of words.”
Elizabeth could only mumble her reply, for she was too overcome by her previous thoughts to comprehend his words.
“Is it certain that you must return to London?—to be a partner of Child & Co. would be of great consequence. Yet—I must say it. Please, if I speak out of turn, you must tell me so—you are far too generous to trifle with me.”
Elizabeth felt the intensity of his gaze. She coloured, barely conscious of her surroundings. “Mr. Darcy?” She could hardly speak.
“When we first met, I knew not your name, but I found myself unable to keep my eyes from you—captivated as they were by yours.
Then, in Ireland, I came to think of Bennet as a brother—as close to me as my cousin Richard.
Someone with whom I could share my innermost thoughts and concerns—Bennet lightened my heart, knowing that Pemberley and Georgiana were in safe hands.
”Mrs. Elizabeth… You are everything that I have ever wished for—my closest, truest friend. Elizabeth, dearest, I admire, respect, and love you with all my heart. Will you do me the very great honour of being my wife?”
There was a time for wit and a time for solemnity—both were eclipsed by the heartfelt joy that overwhelmed Elizabeth, an intensity of emotion she had never felt before.
She gazed into his eyes—were there truly flecks of gold?
She breathed deeply, leaning up, shyly kissing his cheek.
Oh, this is too much happiness. She already knew the answer before she spoke the words: “Yes, Mr. Darcy, I will gladly be your wife.”