Chapter 8 Mixed Blessings #2
She was glad of his distraction. It meant he did not witness the blush that any and all mention of his and Jane’s wedding brought to her cheeks.
Arrangements for the occasion were now a source of constant deliberation at Longbourn—and constant anxiety for her as she fretted over Mr Darcy’s attendance.
She dreaded feeling his enmity should he come but dared not ask after him lest she learn he meant not to, for the prospect of never seeing him again grew ever more difficult to bear—which was, perhaps, the reason that the unmistakable sound of his voice affected her so.
“Elizabeth.”
She whipped her head up—but too quickly.
Her temple throbbed, and her vision swam.
Nevertheless, she saw him, standing motionless beyond the wall, his eyes fixed upon her.
She gasped at the familiar intensity of his stare.
He was come! Pressing a hand to her thundering heart, she took a step towards him but no more, for faintness encroached, and her knees buckled.
“Lizzy!” cried Bingley, lurching to his feet to arrest her fall.
Once the wave of dizziness receded, Elizabeth thanked him for his assistance and twisted from his grip to look for Mr Darcy. She almost cried out to discover he was no longer there.
“What is going on?” Jane enquired, approaching them along the path from the church.
“Your sister is unwell,” Bingley informed her. “She almost fainted.”
“I am not unwell,” Elizabeth assured them. “I only felt a little faint. It has passed now.”
“I see. How fortunate Charles was here to catch you,” Jane replied coolly. Taking Bingley’s arm, she said to him, “The curate will see us now.”
“But your sister—”
“Go, go, I am perfectly well,” Elizabeth insisted, though she began to wonder whether she might actually be hallucinating, for Mr Darcy was nowhere to be seen.
Resolved on searching for him beyond the churchyard, she added, “Indeed, I believe I shall continue on to Oakham Mount and join you back at Longbourn.”
Jane took her at her word and turned back towards the church, pulling Bingley with her.
No sooner had they disappeared inside than Elizabeth whirled about in the direction of the lane—and gasped in surprise.
Mr Darcy, more striking, more imposing, more real than any memory she had conjured in his absence, stood directly before her. The world stilled.
“You awoke,” he said gruffly, staring at her as though she were an apparition.
“I, oh, I—pardon?”
“You awoke. You are alive.” His accent had none of its usual sedateness; his voice was hoarse and urgent.
“I do not—” She shook her head in confusion.
“Bingley sent word that you never awoke.” Darcy’s eyes darted across her face and settled on her injury. “After that happened. I thought you dead.”
“Heavens, no! I suffered from a concussion for a few days, but I am recovered now. But for the odd spell of light-headedness,” she added, indicating the spot behind her where she had swooned moments before.
“Then, Bingley—”
“Caught me.”
Elizabeth fancied she saw a greater contrariety of emotion in his look at that moment than in the whole of their previous acquaintance.
His manner bemused her. He was as discomposed as she had ever seen him, with an urgency about him of which she could make no sense, but her heart yearned to understand.
“Pardon me—if you thought me dead, why are you come?”
He was shaking slightly, as though from some great emotion—or the effort to constrain it. “I have yet to find a way to live without you by my side. When I thought I should have to live without you alive in the world at all, I could not bear it. I came to say goodbye. I knew not what else to do.”
Hope overturned her heart. “Then I am very glad to be alive, for I should have been sorry to miss the opportunity of seeing you again. Very sorry indeed.” He blinked at her several times but was otherwise motionless; thus, she continued, “Mr Darcy, please allow me to apologise for what I—”
“Nay, it is I who must apologise. Not least for allowing this to happen.” Once again, his gaze drifted to her bruise, and to her astonishment, he raised his hand as though to cup her face.
He did not, but for a heartbeat, the backs of his fingers brushed her skin, and she could not refrain from turning her head a little towards his touch.
Darcy visibly caught his breath. Then his palm, warm and sure, came to rest upon her cheek, and with his thumb, he gently stroked her temple.
Elizabeth was barely able to breathe; never had she been so tenderly touched nor so lovingly regarded.
She stared at him in wonder, greedily drinking in the countenance that had for so long occupied her dreams. He was every bit as handsome as she recalled, though with one addition to his features.
Quite without forethought, she raised her fingers to the vivid red line beneath his left eye. “This is new.”
His eyes widened, and he claimed her hand with his own, pulling it down to hold it firmly against his chest. “Have I any hope?” His voice was strained with emotion.
She let out a breathy, nervous laugh. “I think you may never be more assured of anything.”
His countenance assumed an extraordinary intensity. His eyes darkened to a fathomless ebon hue. “Marry me, Elizabeth. I am so in love with you. Marry me, I beg you.”
All her wishes were answered—he loved her still!
With nary a moment’s hesitation, Elizabeth assured him of her jubilant acceptance and was at once pulled into his fervent, desperate embrace.
Encircling her completely in his arms, he whispered her name like a promise and held her to him as though he would never let her go.
Barely crediting her own boldness, she snaked her arms about his waist beneath his coat.
He stiffened and drew back far enough to look at her.
“I have not the words to describe what I feel for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.”
Slowly, reverently, Darcy leant to press his lips to hers. At once, every feeling of futility was banished, all hope vindicated and every expectation exceeded. Elizabeth’s skin veritably crackled beneath his touch. She was lost to him.
She kept her eyes closed for a moment or two after he ceased his caress, for she dared not break the spell. When she did open them, she found him watching her, piercing her with his gaze and thrilling her with the most enigmatic smile she had ever beheld.
“I do not give you leave to ever die again, Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy’s happiness was such as he had never felt before.
Elizabeth, who only weeks earlier had fractured his world with her avowals of disgust and until moments before he had believed dead, had agreed to marry him, had allowed him to kiss her, and was standing in his embrace, laughing with unaffected delight.
It was nothing, however, compared to the joy her next deed produced.
He watched, enthralled, as she pressed both her hands flat upon his chest and fixed him with the same exquisite dark eyes that had haunted him since the first moment of their acquaintance.
“I love you.”
He stilled, astonishment and exultation paralysing him as readily as had his utter despair the previous day.
“I see you doubt it,” she said softly, smiling a small but magnificent smile. “I shall say it again and again, ’til you believe me. I love, I love, I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Such elation as this declaration produced could not be constrained to speech. He kissed her again—possessively, as a man kisses a woman he means to bind to him forever. His heart, his soul and his world were bound up in this one woman, and here she was in his arms at last. His.
Regardless of his disinclination to desist, they could not continue thus indefinitely.
He withdrew a short distance and regarded her with unabated wonder.
He knew he ought to speak but could no more form a coherent thought than he could bestill his racing heart, which in contrast to its notable silence over the last day, was near deafening him with its present thundering.
He caught the familiar expression in Elizabeth’s eyes.
Without doubt, she was laughing at him, and his heart soared.
That decided him. He stepped back and held out his arm. “Shall we?”
She gave him a quizzical look, wrinkling her nose charmingly, but nevertheless wrapped both hands about his arm. He drew her tightly to his side and set off along the path.
“What are you about, sir?”
“I am taking you to that church.”
“That is as I thought. May I ask why?”
“I am done waiting for you, Elizabeth. I would marry you. I daresay this church will do as well as any other.”
Her laughter lifted his soul. To his complete joy, she rested her head against his arm and gave him a playful nudge.
“I would not object, but we must wait our turn. Jane and Mr Bingley are within—oh! Does Mr Bingley know you are here? I do not think he saw you before.”
Darcy immediately adjusted their path, overtaken with an irrational surge of resentment at the memory of Elizabeth in Bingley’s arms. “Not as yet, and I would keep it that way for a while longer, for I am in no haste to share you. Would you do me the honour of walking with me? I have much I would say.”
Thus, together they passed beneath the lychgate, and though he had expected to leave his heart behind in the churchyard, Darcy left with not only his but Elizabeth’s also.
Elizabeth glanced up at Darcy. He looked happier than she had ever seen him, his eyes burning intensely, and his lips curled slightly at the corners as though a laugh might come as easily as a smile—or a kiss.