Chapter 37
Darcy was among the last to leave the church, remaining until the bride and groom had departed.
He had no wish to draw attention from them, though he was certain that his sudden appearance had already occasioned much curiosity.
What he had not expected was to be greeted by those outside with smiles that expressed but one sentiment: they all knew.
Later, Elizabeth told him that Mr Bennet—ordinarily the least inclined to involve himself in affairs of the heart—had been the one to inform, as soon as possible, Mrs Bennet that Darcy had come to ask for Elizabeth’s hand, and that their daughter had accepted him.
It was, he owned, a gentle punishment. Mr Bennet had known that Elizabeth had refused his proposal.
Yet, he had also perceived the regret which, in time, had appeared in his daughter’s eyes.
When, afterwards, he learnt of Mr Darcy’s engagement, that event placed the gentleman among the few whom Mr Bennet sincerely disliked.
He had not been deceived by Elizabeth’s cheerful composure and discerned her pain beneath her smiles, even amidst the satisfactions she found at the Academy.
No matter how firmly she had refused him, she came to regret it, and, by then, nothing could be done…
he was betrothed to another woman. Mr Bennet ascribed that haste to a certain superficiality he disliked.
But all was well that ended well, and even Mr Bennet’s displeasure had lost its meaning.
He could now only enjoy the confusion Darcy met before the church: Mrs Bennet, who but a short time earlier had almost fainted in the arms of Mrs Gardiner and Mrs Phillips at the news, was now loudly proclaiming that her fourth daughter was about to be married.
Elizabeth smiled at her father with evident complicity. At the same time, he, with a gentle nod, encouraged her to withdraw from the crowd and go with the man she loved.
Taking his arm with quiet decision, she walked away under the eyes of those preparing to depart for the wedding breakfast.
“Do we walk?” he asked, yet indifferent to anything but being with her.
“No. A chaise waits for us in the next street. I had intended to return with Papa, but I believe he understands—and will find another conveyance.”
They reached the chaise unhurriedly, arm in arm, rejoicing only in the nearness of each other, which, this time, was not fleeting. Darcy assisted her to mount, and they set out through the narrow streets of the town.
It was scarcely two miles to the Academy, and the chaise covered the distance at a leisurely pace, the sound of the horses’ hooves echoing softly in the damp morning air.
Neither spoke. Happiness, too new and too profound, required silence; both needed time to comprehend what had truly come to pass—to understand that the joy which filled their hearts marked but the beginning of their new life.
Only before the Academy, as he helped her to alight, did he break the magical silence that had reigned between them…but both felt that the moment for words had come.
“You will be my wife,” he said. It was not a question; he had already asked it. It was a joyful certainty, spoken as though to convince himself that it was indeed real.
“Yes, I shall be your wife,” she answered with a bright smile, stepping down and taking his arm, indifferent to all rules of decorum.
Without hesitation, she led him into her study.
The sound of the door closing behind them was the signal that their love was possible—at last, they were together.
The long months of distance and reserve dissolved as though they had never been.
Darcy took her in his arms—a gesture he had never dared to imagine, for even the thought of such nearness had been forbidden, knowing the pain it would bring when the dream faded away.
Now she was in his arms, sighing, her eyes bright with wonder and tears, trembling against him, and blushing all at once.
For though in that room she had, for six months, been the principal of an academy, in his arms she was the pure girl who had only imagined what love could be…
and it was far from her dreams. Reality was this storm of feelings, that strange sensation which at moments resembled fear, and which was in truth nothing but desire, which she was only beginning to recognise.
In his arms, she sighed again, certain that he was the man she had waited for all her life.
She smiled, then blushed anew, her lips parting in confusion and delight.
Holding her close, he sought impatiently for her lips.
Nothing she had ever lived prepared her for the avalanche of feelings that overwhelmed her when she felt his lips join hers.
Their pure embrace became a passionate kiss that flung wide the gates of love.
If, until then, she had believed that love resided only in the soul, his body beside hers made her understand that love was a force that had also taken possession of her body.
What her mind did not yet know, her body recognised—or remembered—for surely within every being lies deeply implanted the paths of love.
He wanted more than anything to awaken the passion he knew Elizabeth possessed, hidden deep within her, yet he kept a reverence, fearing that too sudden a touch might be too profound, too soon, for the young lady in his arms who did not yet know what physical love was.
For him, it was fulfilment; for her, discovery.
The two of them had alike to remember every moment of that beginning; and for this, he must move in her rhythm—in the rhythm of her purity, which allowed itself to be conquered, yet required time.
And he suddenly stopped, for once he understood that nothing any longer divided them, he desired but one thing—that the young girl in his arms might discover what it meant to be a woman, slowly, tenderly, unhurriedly, not like a tempest that would sweep all away and leave no memory behind.
The long silence between them was broken only by his whisper.
“This is love, Elizabeth Bennet.”
She raised her eyes to his. “We ought to speak.”
“I am sorry…I am mad… But I had first to be certain you are truly mine.”
“I am.” Her voice trembled with both shyness and trust in a delicious combination.
He breathed deeply and released her gently, though his hands lingered at her waist, unwilling to part.
“Why did you stop?” she asked, her new impatience making him happy beyond anything he had ever imagined.
“You said we must talk,” he smiled, and she smiled too—a smile that seemed to promise that words might wait a little longer.
“Kiss me. Please kiss me,” she whispered.
He bent and kissed her—lightly upon her lips—a kiss that held neither haste nor demand, only gratitude and love.
“Again,” she entreated, “like before!”
But he laughed and kissed her lightly on the tip of the nose.
“I wish to see you while we speak,” he said.
They sat down upon the narrow sofa, as if made for two lovers, yet he did not take her in his arms. The time had come to speak their love in words, and before all else, he looked into her eyes.
“I love you, Elizabeth Bennet.”
Her cheeks glowed, yet without hesitation she answered, “I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
They were silent for a long while, for there was no need for further declarations.
From without came distant sounds—the world returning to life, guests gathering for the wedding breakfast—but he felt sure that no one enquired after them.
And even if anyone had, they would have found themselves before Mrs Bennet, who would have defended her daughter’s peace and solitude with her very life.
“Who shall begin?” she asked at last, then added playfully, to show him that even if they unveiled painful things from the past, they no longer brought suffering, “You must begin, Mr Darcy—you created all this confusion, and you must set it right.”
Darcy kissed her hand. It was true. He had been mistaken from the very first moment he had asked her to be his wife, and with every word that followed, everything had proceeded upon that same false path.
“I am changed,” he said, and Elizabeth assented. She had noticed that change each time they met, and after every meeting, their parting had become increasingly difficult.
“But tell me,” he asked, “if I had simply declared my love then, would you have said yes?”
“I do not know.” And he appreciated the sincerity in her voice, and that small crease formed upon her brow, a sign that the question had no answer even for her.
“Since discovering that I love you, that question has often haunted me. Yet it is certain that, had things continued as they were on that first evening—at the dinner at Rosings—my interest in you would have deepened. Yet…I was at fault too—”
Darcy silenced her with a gesture. In truth, it no longer mattered.
“Stop,” he whispered. “You said I had to begin.”
And she nodded like a sage girl inviting him to speak.
“I shall say it but once, and then we shall forget all that is not love.”
“Agreed,” she smiled.
“I left the Parsonage in anger and humiliation. I had been certain you would accept me—”
“You were certain? Good heavens, why?”
“Because I had been reared to believe that whatever I desired was my due. I had always possessed whatever I wished for—”
“I was not a possession.”
“Exactly. Yet I behaved as though you were.”
“Did it never occur to you to ask yourself whether I loved you? Did that not matter?”
“I understand it now, it matters now more than anything else in the world; then…will you believe me if I say that I can scarcely remember the man I was?”
“I shall believe whatever you tell me,” she smiled, with such trust that he was overcome, and, forgetting that they were to speak, he drew her into his arms, grateful that she made repentance so easy.