Chapter Twelve The St Stephen’s Day Dash #2
"Her stubbornness can put a mule to shame," Mr Bennet warned. "She has opinions. Endless. She will argue with you, constantly."
"I am counting on it."
"And she is currently in London, hating you. Or so I gathered from her last letter."
"We have reached an understanding. A truce."
"A truce." Mr Bennet laughed. "Well, if you can get a truce out of Lizzy, you are doing better than most."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the snow.
"You have my permission to court her. And the Viscount has permission for Jane. But—" He turned back, his face serious. "I will not give my blessing for marriage."
"Sir?"
"My daughters are not parcels to be traded between Cambridge acquaintances. If you want to marry them, they must come to me. They must tell me themselves, that they wish it. I will not have them pushed. Not by their mother, and not by two wealthy men in expensive riding boots."
"I would have it no other way," Darcy said. "I do not want Miss Elizabeth's hand unless she gives it freely."
"Good." Mr Bennet sat back down. "Now, go away. I suspect my wife is currently trying to measure your cousin for wedding clothes. You should probably rescue him."
"Thank you, Sir."
"And Mr Darcy? Tell Henry Fitzwilliam I still want my five guineas. With interest."
Darcy returned to the parlour to find a scene that defied all logic. Robert was not being tortured. He was thriving. He was sitting on the sofa, flanked by Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty, while Mrs Bennet fanned herself nearby.
"And then," Robert was saying, "the horse sat down. Simply sat down in the mud. And I said, 'Well, if you are going to be like that, I shall simply have tea here.'"
Miss Lydia shrieked with laughter. "Oh, Lord Keathley! You are so funny! Is it true you have been to a duel?"
"Two," Robert lied smoothly. "I ran away from both. Running is a very underrated military tactic."
"I like him!" Miss Lydia declared to the room. "He is much more fun than you, Mr Darcy."
"Most people are," Darcy said mildly, entering the room.
"Mr Darcy!" Mrs Bennet clapped her hands. "Did you have a nice chat with Mr Bennet?"
"We had a productive discussion, Madam," Darcy said, avoiding the trap.
He looked around the room. Miss Mary was sitting by the window, a book in her lap, looking ignored. Darcy felt a sudden pang of sympathy. He walked over to her.
"Miss Mary," he said.
Mary looked up, startled. "Mr Darcy."
"What are you reading?"
"Fordyce's Sermons," she said defensively.
"Ah." Darcy paused. "I find his views on female vanity to be rather repetitive. Do you not agree?"
She blinked. "I... well, yes. He does harp on it."
"I prefer Blair," Darcy offered. "Or maybe… have you read the essays of Mr Addison? He values wit over sermonizing."
"I have not."
"I shall send you a copy," Darcy promised. "I think you might find his perspective refreshing. It suggests that a woman's mind is her greatest asset."
Miss Mary stared at him. Then, slowly, she smiled. It was a genuine smile, one that made her look surprisingly like Elizabeth. "Thank you, Sir. I should like that very much."
Across the room, Miss Kitty was giggling at Robert's cravat.
"It is a waterfall," Robert was explaining solemnly. "It takes three hours to tie. If I sneeze, it explodes."
"You are funning me!" Miss Kitty laughed.
"I am deadly serious. Fashion is an important business, Miss Kitty."
Mrs Bennet was beaming. She looked from the Viscount to Darcy, her mind clearly calculating the annual income of the room.
"Oh, this is the best Christmas!" she declared. "Even if the girls are away. You must stay for dinner! We have a ham!"
"Alas, Madam," Darcy stepped in. "We must return to London. We have family obligations."
"Oh, but you just got here!" Miss Lydia whined. "Take us with you! I want to go to London!"
"Miss Lydia," Robert said, standing up. "London is boring. Full of smoke and politicians. You are the queen of Longbourn. Stay here and rule."
Miss Lydia preened. "I suppose I am."
Robert bowed to Mrs Bennet. "Madam, you have been a delight. I see now where your daughters get their beauty. And their spirit."
Mrs Bennet actually blushed. "Oh, my Lord! Go on!"
"We must ride," Darcy said, checking the clock. "The sun will set soon."
"Farewell!" Mrs Bennet waved a handkerchief. "Give my love to Jane and Lizzy! Tell them to buy new bonnets!"
As they walked out into the cold courtyard, Robert turned to Darcy.
"She is magnificent," Robert declared. "She is a force of nature. I adore her. She offered to knit me a scarf."
"She is... enthusiastic," Darcy conceded.
"And the father?"
"He wants his five guineas from your father. An old bet, don't ask."
Robert laughed. "Classic Father. Well? Did we get it? The permission?"
"We have permission to court," Darcy said, mounting his horse. "The rest is up to the ladies."
The ride back to London was a battle against the elements. The temperature dropped as the sun lowered, turning the world into a landscape of blue shadows and biting wind.
They rode in silence for the most part, heads down, collars up. But there was a difference in the silence now. It wasn't the silence of anxiety. It was one of resolution. They stopped once at an inn to water the horses and drink hot cider that burned their throats.
"You realize," Robert said, cupping the mug with shaking hands, "that we are now committed. There is no going back."
"I do not wish to go back," Darcy said.
"Neither do I." Robert stared into the fire. "Jane... she is worth the frostbite, Darcy. She is worth the mother. She is worth everything."
"She is."
"And Elizabeth?"
Darcy looked at the flames and saw her eyes, the way she defended her sister. He saw the way she had looked at him accepting his truce.
"She is the only thing that makes sense in this world," he said.
They remounted. The final stretch into London was gruelling.
Their horses struggled, but did not disappoint them.
The lights of the city appeared on the horizon like a promise of warmth.
When they finally clattered onto the cobblestones of Mayfair, it was full dark.
They were stiff, frozen, and exhausted. They parted ways at the corner of Grosvenor Square.
"Good luck for tomorrow," Robert called out, his voice hoarse.
Darcy laughed. "Let her come."
He rode the last few yards to Darcy House. He dismounted, handing the reins to a groom who looked horrified by the state of the master's horse.
Darcy walked up the steps. He entered his home, allowing the warmth to envelope him. He was tired, his legs ached, and his face was windburned. But as he stripped off his gloves and looked at the pile of mail on the hall table—no new letters from Rosings, thank God—he felt a fierce, burning calm.
He had faced the snow, the Bennets, and his own pride. He was ready for the twenty-seventh. He was ready for the battle.
And more importantly, he was ready to win.