Chapter Fifteen The Resolutions of 1812 #2
"I cannot take credit for Mr Darcy's character," Elizabeth said. "But I believe he has realized that duty to one's lineage does not require the sacrifice of one's happiness."
Lady Catherine huffed. She walked past Elizabeth, staring at a portrait of an ancestor who looked particularly miserable.
"My daughter," she said abruptly, "does not wish to marry him. She told me so. She said he walks too loudly."
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. "I have noticed he has a firm tread."
"If Anne will not have him... and if he will not have Anne..." Lady Catherine turned back. "Then I suppose the compact is void. And I am left with a beloved nephew who needs a wife."
She looked at Elizabeth again. This time, the look wasn't dismissive. It was assessing. It was the look of a stable master inspecting new horseflesh.
"You are not rich," Lady Catherine listed. "You have no connections. Your uncle sells rum."
"Excellent rum," Elizabeth murmured.
"But," Lady Catherine continued, ignoring the interruption, "you are not afraid of me. And you are not afraid of him. Fitzwilliam needs a firm hand. He needs a woman who will not swoon when he broods. He needs management."
"I am fairly adept at management, your Ladyship."
"I suspect you are." Lady Catherine sighed, a sound of supreme resignation. "Very well. If my daughter cannot have him... you will do. You have good teeth. And you stand up straight."
Elizabeth felt a strange warmth. It wasn't affection, exactly, but it was respect.
"Thank you, Lady Catherine."
"Do not thank me yet. Being mistress of Pemberley is not a game. It is a burden. The tenants, the accounts, the social obligations... do you think you can manage it? A gentle girl from the country?"
Elizabeth met the older woman's gaze. "I do not know everything, your Ladyship.
But I am willing to learn." She took a step forward.
"In fact, you are the daughter of an Earl.
You have managed a great estate alone for years.
You know what is required." She paused, then offered the olive branch.
"Will you teach me? Will you show me how to be the mistress Pemberley deserves? "
Lady Catherine blinked, stunned. No one ever asked her for advice. She usually imposed it.
"Teach you?" she puffed up her chest. "Well. Well, of course I can teach you. Someone must. We cannot have you shaming the family with improper menu planning."
"I would be grateful for your guidance," Elizabeth said demurely.
Lady Catherine tapped her cane. A small, terrifying smile appeared on her face. "Very well. We shall start tomorrow. Your posture is adequate, but your curtsy is rustic. We shall fix it."
"I look forward to it."
"Go on then," Lady Catherine shooed her away. "Go find him. He is probably brooding in a corner somewhere wondering where you are. Men are useless without direction."
Elizabeth curtsied—rustically—and retreated. She had survived. More than that, she had tamed the gorgon. She practically ran once she was out of Lady Catherine's sight, of course, her heart beating arrhythmically.
The supper dance was the centrepiece of the evening, and Darcy claimed it with a determined glee in his eye.
"You look triumphant," he observed as he led her onto the floor. "Did you win a wager?"
"I won an ally," Elizabeth smiled, taking her place opposite him in the set. "I have just come from the gallery. I spoke with Lady Catherine."
Darcy nearly tripped. "You spoke to her? And you lived to tell the tale?"
"Very much alive and thriving. We have reached an accord. She has agreed to teach me how to be a proper mistress of a great estate, and I have agreed to let her criticize my curtsy."
Darcy stared at her as the music began. "You asked her to teach you?"
"I appealed to her vanity. It was very effective. She actually smiled, Fitzwilliam. It gave me goosebumps."
Darcy laughed. It was a free, open sound that drew eyes from the surrounding couples. "You are brilliant. You have tamed the Leviathan."
"I simply reminded her that we are on the same side. We both want you to be managed properly."
"Is that what I am to expect? Management?"
"Constantly," she teased as they circled each other. "I intend to manage your brooding, your reading habits, and your tendency to stare."
"I only stare at you," he murmured, his hand tightening on hers as the figure brought them together. "And I have no intention of stopping."
The dance was a blur of motion and light, but for Elizabeth, the world had narrowed to the man in front of her. She saw the way his eyes tracked her. She saw the tension in his jaw, a nervousness that belied his confident movements.
"You seem anxious," she noted during a promenade. "Is the truce holding?"
"The truce is holding," he assured her. "But the clock is ticking."
"The clock?"
"New Year's Eve," he said. "Midnight. It is significant."
"Is it?" She looked at him innocently. "I thought it was merely a change of date."
"It is a change of everything," he said intensely. "Or I hope it will be."
Elizabeth felt a flush rise in her cheeks. She knew. Of course she knew. But seeing him like this—vulnerable, eager, stripping away his pride layer by layer just to stand before her—made her heart ache with love.
Across the room, she saw Robert and Jane. They weren't dancing. They were standing near the punch bowl, looking guilty and ecstatic. Jane raised her hand to wave, and a flash of sapphire caught the light.
Elizabeth gasped. "Look."
Darcy followed her gaze. He saw the ring. He saw Robert's smug expression.
"He did it," Darcy groaned. "The scoundrel. He proposed before midnight. He stole the moment."
"He stole a moment," Elizabeth corrected, squeezing Darcy's hand. "Not the moment. Not our moment."
Darcy looked back at her. The frustration vanished, replaced by a heat that made her knees weak.
"No," he agreed. "Not ours."
The dance ended. The room began to clear as guests moved towards the supper room.
"Come," Darcy said, ignoring the flow of the crowd. "I need air. And I need you."
He didn't wait for an answer. He led her away from the ballroom, away from the noise, towards the glass doors that led to the terrace.
The terrace was cold, but the cold was bracing. The snow had stopped, leaving a world of stark contrasts—black sky, white ground, and the golden spill of light from the ballroom windows.
He led her to a stone balustrade overlooking the garden. He didn't let go of her hand.
"Are you cold?" he asked, his voice low.
"No. The excitement keeps me warm."
"Elizabeth." He turned to her. He looked nervous. He looked magnificent. "I had a plan. I had a strategy. I was going to wait for the bells. I was going to make a speech about resolutions."
"I like resolutions," she whispered.
"But I find... I find I cannot wait for the bells. I cannot wait another second."
He took a step back, giving her space, giving her the choice.
"This year..." he began, his voice shaking slightly. "This year began with me as a man I do not like to remember. A man who was proud. Closed. A man who thought he knew the worth of everyone he met."
"You were protecting yourself," she said softly.
"I was hiding," he corrected. "And then I met you. And you looked at me with those eyes, those fine, unforgiving eyes, and you saw me. You saw the man I was, and you challenged me to be better."
He reached into his pocket.
"My resolution for the New Year," he said, "is not to be the Master of Pemberley. It is not to be the nephew of an Earl. It is to be the man who deserves you. To be the man who makes you laugh. The man who buys you books and stands by your side against the world."
He pulled out the ring. It was a simple velvet box, but in his hand, it looked like the weight of the world.
"I do not offer you perfection, Elizabeth. I am still learning. I am still stubborn and proud. But I offer you my heart. Completely. Irrevocably."
He knelt. In the snow, on the terrace, Fitzwilliam Darcy knelt before her.
"Elizabeth Bennet. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? Will you resolve to tolerate me for the rest of our lives?"
Elizabeth looked down at him, at the fear in his eyes, and the love reflected in their depths. She thought of the man who saved his sister, who rode to Longbourn in the cold to speak with her father, and the man who apologized to her for saving her sister from an unworthy man.
"I will not tolerate you, Fitzwilliam," she said, her voice choking with tears.
His face fell.
"I will love you," she finished, dropping to her knees in the snow beside him, heedless of her silk gown. "I will love you fiercely. Every day. For every year."
"Yes?" he whispered.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, yes, yes."
He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He pulled the ring from the box—a stunning pink diamond—and slid it onto her finger. Then he pulled her into his arms.
He kissed her. It was cold air and warm lips, desperation and promise. It was the end of pride and the beginning of prejudice's demise.
And as they kissed, kneeling in the snow, the bells of St. George's began to toll.
One. Two. Three.
"Happy New Year," he murmured against her lips.
"Happy New Year," she replied.
They stayed on the terrace until the bells finished ringing, wrapped in each other's arms, ignoring the cold. Her head was resting on his chest, exactly above the spot he used to rub because it hurt. When she pulled back, she looked down at her dress and laughed.
"Your dress," Darcy noted, pointing at the wet hem of her ivory silk. "It is ruined."
"It is christened," she corrected. "It has a story now."
"We should go inside. Before Robert sends out the hounds."
"Or before Lady Catherine comes to check my posture."
They walked back into the ballroom. The atmosphere had shifted. Inside the supper room, the guests were mingling, toasting, celebrating the arrival of 1812.
As they entered, heads turned. It was impossible to miss them. Darcy looked dishevelled and triumphant. Elizabeth looked radiant and wet.
Robert spotted them first. He marched over, Jane on his arm.
"Well?" Robert demanded. "Did you do it? Or did you just roll around in the snow?"
Elizabeth held up her hand. The pink diamond caught the candlelight.
"Finally!" Robert shouted, grabbing Darcy's hand and shaking it violently. "Welcome to the club, Cousin! We are all mad here!"
"You proposed first," Darcy accused, looking at Jane's hand.
"I panicked," Robert admitted cheerfully. "But she said yes, so it worked out. Congratulations, Miss Elizabeth! You have taken on a terrible burden, but the estates are nice."
"I am very happy for you," Jane hugged Elizabeth, tears in her eyes. "Oh, Lizzy. We are to be cousins."
"Sisters and cousins," Elizabeth hugged her back. "It is a tangled web."
The families converged. The Earl was beaming. Lady Matlock looked smug with an "I told you so" expression. Mrs Gardiner looked proud.
Georgiana ran to them, abandoning all decorum.
"William?" she asked, looking from him to Elizabeth.
"You will soon have a sister, Georgiana," Darcy said softly.
Georgiana squealed. She threw her arms around Elizabeth. "I knew it! I knew it! Happy New Year!"
Lady Catherine approached and looked at Darcy and Elizabeth's wet dress. She then looked at the ring.
She huffed.
"Well," she said. "At least it is a good stone. Darcy stones are always of quality. Stand up straight, girl. You will be a Darcy soon. Act like it."
"Yes, your ladyship," Elizabeth replied straightening her spine until it hurt.
Darcy grinned.
"Don't smirk at me, Fitzwilliam. It is vulgar." She tapped Elizabeth's arm with her fan. "Come to tea tomorrow. We have work to do."
"I shall be here," Elizabeth promised.
New Year's Day, 1812.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood at the window of the morning room in Darcy House. The sun was shining—actually shining—glittering off the melting snow in the square.
Everyone was invited for breakfast in the aftermath of the grand ball. None of them had slept a wink that night, except his uncle who dozed in his chair when no one was addressing him.
Breakfast was a riot. Robert was recounting the story of his proposal for the third time, embellishing the part about the library fire. The Earl was discussing wedding banns with Mr Gardiner. Georgiana and Elizabeth were looking at fashion plates for wedding trousseaus.
Darcy watched them. He held a cup of coffee, but he wasn't drinking it. He was savouring the noise.
A month ago, he had stood in this room, rubbing his chest, convinced his life was over. He had been alone, proud, and miserable.
Now, he was surrounded by chaos. He was engaged to a woman who laughed at him, laughed with him, and loved him fiercely. He had a cousin who was marrying her sister. He had an aunt who was teaching his betrothed how to rule the world.
He felt a hand on his arm.
"You are quiet," Elizabeth said, standing beside him. She looked fresh and lovely in the morning light, the ring on her finger flashing as she moved.
"I am reflecting," Darcy said.
"On what?"
"On resolutions." He turned to her. "I resolved to be happy. It seems I have succeeded early in the year."
"You have," she smiled. "But you must keep it up. It is a long year."
"I have help," he said, bringing her hand to his lips. "I have you."
"Then we shall do very well, indeed."
Across the room, Robert raised a toast with a piece of toast. "To 1812! The year the mice roared!"
"To 1812!" the room shouted back.
Darcy turned at his wife-to-be.
"To us," he whispered to Elizabeth.
"To us," she replied.
And as the sun climbed higher over London, Fitzwilliam Darcy realized that for the first time in his life, he didn't want to be anywhere else but exactly where he was.