Chapter Ten
“Must you really go today?” Ambrose’s plaintive question tugged at Elizabeth’s heartstrings as she adjusted her travelling pelisse in Netherfield’s entrance hall. The boy had attached himself to her skirts like a determined burr, already anxious about her departure.
“I’m afraid I must, Ambrose. My family expects me home, and I have already extended my visit far beyond what propriety allows.” Elizabeth knelt to his level, smoothing an unruly curl from his forehead. “But I shall return to visit very soon. That is a promise.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Perhaps not quite so soon as that,” she replied, laughing gently. “But you may write to me if you like. I should be delighted to receive letters from such an accomplished correspondent.”
Ambrose brightened at this prospect. “I shall write every day! I shall tell you about my lessons, the birds in the garden, and whether Miss Francesca has scolded me for getting my clothes dirty.”
“I look forward to every letter,” Elizabeth assured him, pressing a kiss to his cheek before rising.
The farewell proved more difficult than she had anticipated; somewhere during the past weeks, this motherless child had wound himself around her affections with silken threads she had not even perceived being spun.
The journey home in Mr Bingley’s comfortable carriage afforded too much time for reflection.
As the familiar countryside rolled past the windows, Elizabeth wrestled with the uncomfortable realisation of how thoroughly Ambrose had claimed her devotion.
When had his welfare become so central to her peace of mind?
When had the prospect of his eventual departure from Hertfordshire—for surely Mr Darcy would return to his own estate soon—begun to feel like an impending loss?
She pressed her fingers to the glass, watching a flock of starlings wheel across the autumn sky.
Mr Darcy was not a man to neglect his responsibilities indefinitely.
Pemberley required his attention, his business affairs demanded his presence, and when duty called, he would take Ambrose to Derbyshire.
The thought of the little boy disappearing from her life as suddenly as he had entered it created an ache in her chest that she was reluctant to examine too closely.
How foolish to grow so attached to a child who was not hers, who could never be hers. Yet the alternative—maintaining careful distance to protect her own feelings—seemed equally impossible now that she had experienced the particular joy of being needed by someone so innocent and trusting.
Longbourn’s familiar chimneys appeared through the trees, and Elizabeth forced herself to set aside such melancholy reflections. Her family would expect cheerful accounts of her adventure, not maudlin confessions of attachment to other people’s children.
“Lizzy!” Lydia’s shriek of delight announced her arrival before the carriage wheels had fully ceased their turning.
Her youngest sister burst from the house like a cork from a bottle, followed more sedately by Kitty and Mary, and finally by Jane, whose serene smile conveyed welcome more eloquently than any amount of noise.
“How brown you have grown!” Mrs Bennet declared, subjecting Elizabeth to intense maternal scrutiny.
“All that walking about in the fresh air, I suppose. Still, you look well enough. Come, you must tell us everything immediately. Did Mr Bingley’s sisters treat you civilly?
Was the food to your liking? And what of this mysterious little boy we have heard so much about? ”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be swept into the familiar chaos of family life, answering questions through carefully edited accounts that emphasised the amusing rather than the poignant aspects of her stay.
She described Miss Bingley’s elaborate morning toilettes, Mr Hurst’s dedicated pursuit of the best cuts of meat at dinner, and Ambrose’s endearing habit of conducting elaborate conversations around the garden statuary.
“And Mr Darcy?” her father enquired from his corner chair, his keen eyes suggesting he perceived more than her measured tone revealed. “I trust he proved a tolerable companion during your extended visit?”
“Mr Darcy is a complex gentleman,” Elizabeth replied carefully. “Not always easy to understand, but devoted to the child’s welfare.”
“How romantic!” Lydia sighed dramatically. “A mysterious gentleman caring for an orphaned child. It sounds like something from one of Mary’s improving novels.”
“There is nothing romantic about it,” Elizabeth said more sharply than she intended. “It is merely a man fulfilling his obligations.”
Jane’s perceptive gaze lingered on her sister’s face, but she said nothing, for which Elizabeth was grateful.
The last thing she needed was to endure well-meaning questions about her thoughts regarding Mr Darcy when she was not entirely certain of them herself.
He remained an enigma—a man whose arrogance could infuriate her one moment, yet whose devotion to Ambrose moved her the next.
The conversation eventually turned to local news, and Elizabeth learned happily that Mr Bingley’s attentions to Jane had grown markedly more particular during her absence.
“He has called three times since you left,” Jane confided later when they had gained the privacy of their shared chamber. “Each visit lasted longer than the previous, and yesterday he brought flowers from his own hothouse.”
“That sounds most promising, dearest. He would be a fool not to recognise your worth.”
Jane’s soft blush spoke eloquently of her growing attachment. “I dare not hope too much, yet I confess I have never met a gentleman whose company I enjoy more thoroughly.”
“Mr Bingley strikes me as an honourable man,” Elizabeth said, squeezing her sister’s hand. “I believe his intentions towards you are entirely serious.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Mary’s announcement that a gentleman had arrived and requested a private audience alongside Elizabeth. The unusual formality of the request sent curious glances flying between the sisters, though only Jane seemed to guess at the caller’s identity.
Elizabeth descended to the parlour, her pulse quickening rapidly. Mr Darcy stood near the window, his tall figure outlined against the fading afternoon light. He had changed from his morning dress into formal evening attire, lending an air of ceremony to his unexpected visit.
“Miss Bennet.” He turned as she entered, executing a precise bow. “I must thank you for receiving me at such short notice.”
“Not at all, sir. I trust Ambrose was not too distressed by my departure?”
“He bears it admirably, though he has already begun composing his first letter to you.” A brief smile softened his austere features. “He wishes to inform you that he has successfully taught one of the peacocks to eat from his hand.”
Despite her growing nervousness, Elizabeth felt her lips curve upward. “A significant achievement indeed. I shall respond with all due gravity to such momentous news.”
Silence fell between them, weighted by unspoken purpose. Mr Darcy’s hands were clasped behind his back in his characteristic pose, yet she detected a tension in his bearing that suggested carefully controlled emotion.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, then stopped, seeming to struggle over his words. “I find myself in the unusual position of needing to speak plainly about matters that convention would dictate be approached more… delicately.”
Elizabeth’s heart began to beat more rapidly, though she could not have said why. “I appreciate plain speaking, sir. It prevents misunderstanding.”
“Very well.” He drew a deep breath, his dark gaze fixing on her face intensely. “I have come to ask for your hand in marriage.”
The words struck her hard, leaving her momentarily speechless. Of all the reasons she might have imagined for his visit, this had not been among them.
“I realise,” he continued before she could formulate a response, “that my proposal must seem sudden. Indeed, under ordinary circumstances, I would never presume to make such a request based on so brief an acquaintance. However, circumstances are far from ordinary.”
“Mr Darcy, I—”
“Please, allow me to explain my reasoning before you respond.” His voice carried a note of quiet desperation that gave her pause.
“You have observed the affection that exists between yourself and Ambrose. It is clear to me—indeed, to anyone observing—that you have come to care for him as deeply as if he were your own child.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened at the accuracy of his observation. “That may be true, but—”
“Wickham intends to claim him through legal channels. My solicitor believes his case may have merit, particularly if he can produce evidence of marriage to Ambrose’s mother.
” Mr Darcy’s jaw clenched visibly. “A married man in an established household would present a far stronger defence against such claims than a bachelor, however well-intentioned.”
The practical nature of his proposal stung more than Elizabeth cared to admit. “You are asking me to marry you to strengthen your legal position.”
“I am asking you to marry me to protect a child we both care deeply for,” he corrected quietly.
“But I would not insult your intelligence by pretending that is the sole consideration. You would gain security, position, and freedom from the financial uncertainties that plague your family. I would gain…” he paused, his gaze growing almost tender.
“I would gain the companionship of a woman whose courage and principles I have come to admire greatly.”
“And what of affection? Of love?” The question escaped before prudence could check it.
Something flickered in his dark eyes—surprise, perhaps, or hope.
“I believe affection may grow between two people of compatible temperaments and shared values. As for love…” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
“I offer you my devotion, my protection, and whatever measure of love you might be willing to accept from me.”
The confession hung between them, more moving for its restraint than any passionate declaration might have been. Elizabeth studied his face, noting the vulnerability he tried so hard to conceal behind his formal manner.
“There is another matter,” he continued, seeming to gather his composure. “Your family’s situation regarding the entailment. Should you consent to this union, I would take steps to break the entail on Longbourn. Your sisters would inherit their father’s property regardless of their marital status.”
The offer struck her like a thunderbolt. To secure her family’s future, to ensure that her sisters need never face the spectre of destitution—it was more than she had ever dared hope for.
“You would do that?”
“I would do a great deal more to secure your agreement,” he replied sincerely.
Elizabeth turned away, her mind reeling. Marriage to Mr Darcy would solve so many problems—Ambrose’s security, her family’s future, her own uncertain prospects. Yet was it wise to enter into such a union based on practical considerations rather than mutual attachment?
Then she thought of Ambrose’s trusting smile, of the way he had clung to her that morning, of the bleak future that awaited him if Wickham succeeded in his claims. Could she live by herself if she refused this chance to protect him?
“I need time to consider your proposal,” she said finally.
“Of course. Though I confess time is not a luxury we possess in abundance. Wickham’s legal proceedings move forward with alarming speed.”
Elizabeth nodded, understanding the urgency even as her heart rebelled against making such a momentous decision under pressure. Yet when she thought of Ambrose’s innocent faith that the adults in his life would keep him safe, her resolve crystallised.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, turning to face him once more. “If I were to accept your proposal, what assurances could you give me regarding my independence of thought and action?”
“You would be my wife, not my subordinate,” he replied immediately. “I have no desire to crush your spirit or silence your opinions. Indeed, it is precisely your strength of character that makes you so well-suited to this role.”
The certainty in his voice decided her. Whatever foundation such a marriage might have, surely it offered advantages and would benefit Ambrose’s welfare and her family’s security.
“Then I accept your proposal, sir.”
The words seemed to surprise them both. Mr Darcy’s composure cracked slightly, revealing something that might have been relief or gratitude or perhaps something deeper.
“You honour me beyond my deserving,” he said quietly. “As your husband, I will do my best to ensure that you never have cause to regret this decision.”
As he spoke her given name for the first time, Elizabeth wondered if she had just made the wisest choice of her life or the most foolish. Only time would tell whether duty and affection could bloom into something resembling happiness.
But watching the tension leave his shoulders, seeing the hope that illuminated his face, she felt not the stirring of romance but the cold weight of responsibility settling upon her.
She had made her choice based on responsibility, not sentiment.
Whether Mr Darcy’s professed devotion would prove genuine or merely convenient remained to be seen.
For now, she would guard her heart carefully and judge him by his actions rather than his words.
Time would reveal whether the man who had once dismissed her opinions so readily could truly value the woman he now claimed to admire.