Chapter Fourteen The Frostbitten Romance
The twenty-eighth of December brought a thaw to London, turning the pristine snow into slush, but inside the drawing room of Gracechurch Street, the atmosphere was nothing short of vernal.
It was eleven o'clock in the morning. The tea tray had been deployed. And the "Cheapside Invasion Force," as Robert had christened them, had arrived.
This time, however, they did not come empty-handed. Robert carried a box of chocolates from a French confectioner in Bond Street that was large enough to house a small cat. Darcy carried a bouquet of winter lilies that must have cost a king's ransom.
"Sweets for the sweet," Robert announced, presenting the box to Jane with a flourish. "And for the rest of us, sustenance to survive the rigours of polite conversation."
"You are incorrigible, my Lord," Miss Bennet smiled, accepting the gift.
"I am consistently incorrigible. It is my best quality."
Darcy approached Elizabeth. He did not have Robert's theatrical flair, but the look in his eyes—warm, steady and open—was far more potent than any speech.
"Miss Elizabeth," he said, offering the flowers. "Lilies. I recall you admiring them in the conservatory at Netherfield."
Elizabeth took them, burying her nose in the fragrant petals. "You have a dangerous memory, Mr Darcy. One must be careful what one admires in your presence, lest it appear on one's doorstep the next morning."
"I aim to be attentive."
"You succeed." She looked up at him. "Though I confess, I am surprised to see you both so spirited. Wasn't there a battle yesterday?"
"The Battle of Grosvenor Square was merely a skirmish," Darcy said, a small smile touching his lips. "The real campaign was St Stephen's Day."
"St Stephen's Day?" Elizabeth led him to the sofa, away from Robert, who was currently trying to teach Henry how to juggle truffles. "I thought you were resting after the Christmas festivities."
"We were not resting," Darcy admitted. He sat beside her, leaning in slightly. "Robert and I we took a ride. A rather long one."
"In the snow? Where to?"
"Hertfordshire."
Elizabeth froze. The teacup paused halfway to her lips. "Hertfordshire? Whatever for?"
"To see your father."
The cup rattled in its saucer as she set it down. She stared at him. "You went to Longbourn? In the freezing cold?"
"We did. Robert felt his nose might fall off, and I believe my horse has not forgiven me, but it was necessary.
" Darcy's expression turned serious. "With Lady Catherine arriving, I needed to know.
I needed to know that if I stood against my family, I had the support of yours.
I needed his permission to court you properly. Openly."
"And?" Elizabeth whispered. "What did he say?"
"He said we were mad," Darcy smiled. "He said you were stubborn. And he said that if we wished to marry his daughters, you must ask his blessing yourselves. He would not trade his daughters like cattle."
"That sounds like Papa."
"He gave us leave to court, though. He gave us his permission to try."
Elizabeth looked at this proud man, who hated the cold and valued his dignity, riding through a frozen landscape just to ensure he did right by her father.
"You are a singular man, Fitzwilliam Darcy," she said softly.
"I am a man who knows what he wants," he replied. "And I am done waiting for the weather to improve before I pursue it."
Across the room, Robert threw a truffle into the air and caught it in his mouth. Miss Bennet clapped.
"We have permission!" Robert announced to the room, chewing happily. "Mr Bennet has sanctioned my madness! Jane, prepare yourself. I intend to be relentless."
"I am prepared, Robert," she laughed.
Elizabeth looked back at Darcy. "Relentless," she mused. "Is that your strategy?"
"Constancy," Darcy corrected, taking her hand. "My strategy is constancy. And a few more visits to Hatchards."
The twenty-ninth of December saw the Fitzwilliam barouche parked once again on Piccadilly. But unlike the grim expedition of the twentieth, this outing was a triumph.
The group was large—Darcy, Georgiana, Robert, the two Bennet sisters, and Mrs Gardiner. They moved through the streets like a small, well-dressed army.
When they entered Hatchards, the bell chimed a familiar greeting. Darcy paused on the threshold, a sudden memory washing over him—the ache in his chest, the copy of Cecilia clutched in his hand, the absolute certainty that he would be miserable for the entirety of his life.
"You are frowning," Elizabeth noted, touching his arm. "Do you wish to leave?"
"No," Darcy said, looking down at her. "I was just remembering the last time I was here. I was not in charity with the world."
"You were hugging a romance novel," Robert supplied helpfully from behind them. "It was pathetic. Charming, but pathetic."
"I was not hugging it."
"You were cradling it like a firstborn child." Robert breezed past them, offering his arm to Jane. "Come, my dear. Let us find the poetry section. I wish to find a sonnet that adequately describes your eyebrows."
"My eyebrows are quite ordinary, Robert," Jane laughed.
"They are architectural marvels. I shall prove it."
Darcy led Elizabeth deeper into the shop. This time, he didn't hide. He didn't avoid acquaintances. When Lord Metcalfe nodded to him, Darcy nodded back and calmly introduced "Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the daughter of Mr Bennet of Longbourn."
He watched Elizabeth browse the shelves. She moved through the stacks with the same eager intelligence he had admired at Netherfield, pulling books down, reading the first page, replacing them or adding them to her pile.
"I have a confession," she said, stopping in front of the biography section.
"Oh?"
"That day... when we met outside. I was not just walking. I was coming here. I was angry, and I wanted to buy a book to distract myself from how much I loathed you."
Darcy winced. "I deserved that."
"You did. But..." She picked up a volume of essays. "I think I was also hoping I might run into you. Just to yell at you. It seems fate had a sense of humour."
"Fate is a meddlesome matchmaker," Darcy agreed. He took the book from her hand. "Allow me."
"Mr Darcy, I can purchase my own books."
"I know. But I wish to purchase them for you. Consider it a replacement for the peace of mind I stole from you in Hertfordshire."
"That is a heavy price."
"I am a wealthy man. I can afford it."
Further down the aisle, Georgiana was speaking with Mrs Gardiner. The girl looked transformed. She was discussing the merits of Mozart versus Haydn with a confidence that made Darcy's heart swell.
"She is happy," Elizabeth observed, following his gaze.
"She is safe," Darcy said. "She knows she is not alone."
"She has Mrs Gardiner now," Elizabeth said. "And she has you. And..." She hesitated.
"And?"
"And she has me," Elizabeth finished bravely. "If she wants me."
"She wants nothing else," Darcy whispered. "And neither do I."
He bought her the essays. He bought her a novel.
He bought her a treatise on botany because she mentioned she liked oaks.
By the time they left the shop, Robert was laden with poetry, Darcy was carrying a library, and the ghost of the miserable man from the twentieth of December had been thoroughly exorcised.
"Books feed the mind," Robert announced as they emerged from Hatchards into the crowd of Piccadilly, "but they do remarkably little for the stomach. I propose we invade Gunter's. I have a sudden craving for an ice, despite the fact that it is quite freezing."
"You are a child," Darcy said.
"You are a visionary," Jane smiled, taking his arm.
They made their way to Gunter's Tea Shop in Berkeley Square. It was crowded, warm, and filled with the scent of sugar and scandal. They secured two tables near the window—a strategic victory Robert credited to his "aristocratic elbows."
But as they were settling in—Georgiana happily examining the menu with Mrs Gardiner—a hush fell over the entrance.
"Mr Darcy? Lord Keathley?"
The voice was high, shrill, and laced with a desperate sort of hope.
Darcy stiffened. He knew that voice. He turned slowly to see Caroline Bingley standing near the counter, dressed in a shade of orange that was aggressive even for the season. Beside her stood her brother, Charles Bingley.
"Miss Bingley," Darcy said, his voice dropping to absolute zero. "Bingley."
"What a delightful surprise!" Miss Bingley surged forward, ignoring the rest of the party to focus her beams on the two wealthy men. "We were just saying how dull town is. Charles has been positively mopish. Haven't you, Charles?"
She reached Darcy's table, and then her eyes landed on the others.
Her smile faltered. It didn't just fade. It curdled.
"Miss Bennet," Caroline said, the name tasting like vinegar in her mouth. "And Miss Elizabeth. I did not know you were in town."
"Evidently," Elizabeth said pleasantly. "Though your brother was informed of it."
Bingley, who had been staring at his boots, looked up. His gaze landed on Jane.
Jane sat calmly, her hands folded in her lap, looking radiant in her winter furs. She didn't look heartbroken. She looked regal.
"Jane," Bingley breathed. The old, puppy-like adoration flooded back into his face, forgetting entirely about the Shepherdess or the Greek Muse. "Miss Bennet. You look... you look radiant."
He stepped forward, past his sister, drawn by the old magnet. "I was going to call. Truly. In January. But seeing you now..."
He reached out. He took Jane's gloved hand, which was resting on the table. He squeezed it, leaning in with a familiarity that was entirely inappropriate given his month of silence.
"You must believe me," he said, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "I have missed you. I have been—"
Jane didn't pull away. She simply looked at him. Her expression was kind, but it was the kindness one shows to a stranger's child.