Chapter Twenty-Five
Longbourn
Elizabeth
The morning dawned differently than Elizabeth had expected.
She had retired with a heart full of anticipation, her mind circling without cease.
Sleep had not come easily, and when it did, it was filled with visions of Darcy—tall and steadfast, with his attention fixed upon her alone.
In a dream he had taken her hand and spoken words she could not recall upon waking, only the echo of warmth and certainty that they had been uttered in love.
But now, in the still grey light of dawn, her eyes fluttered open.
The fire in the grate had long since gone cold, the air in the chamber biting as she drew the covers close about her shoulders.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, willing herself to wake, and turned her head instinctively toward the small table beside her favorite chair.
Empty.
Her heart plummeted. Surely not. She threw back the counterpane, pulled on some wool socks, and crossed the cold floor, her breath catching in her throat as she reached the table.
Still nothing. No ribboned parcel, no folded note, no surprise.
Eleven days of wonder, of tokens so carefully chosen, each one feeling more like a secret avowal of devotion, and now, on the final day—nothing.
A chill deeper than the room’s cold settled upon her as she sank into the chair.
What had changed? Had she mistaken everything?
Her thoughts raced, doubt seeping into the fragile hope she had nurtured.
What if Charlotte had been right? What if he were not her Darcy, but rather, a gentleman already bound by marriage, and all this merely some cruel amusement at her expense?
She choked back a sob. What gentleman would woo with such care, only to withdraw at the last?
Surely not Darcy! And if it had not been he—then who?
Anger rose, but it was fleeting, soon giving way to sorrow.
She had wanted it to be him—had believed it was he.
His presence these past weeks, his steady attentions, the way he regarded her when he thought himself unobserved—it had all seemed so real.
She pressed a hand against her heart. The ache was more bitter than she expected. She had dared to hope.
A knock on her door startled her.
She turned in haste, brushing her eyes as the maid entered with a small curtsy. “Pardon, miss. I have a note for ye.”
Elizabeth blinked. “A note?”
“Yes, miss. I am terribly sorry. I overslept and—” The maid looked down and fell silent.
“You have been delivering the gifts?”
The girl nodded. “They were brought to me from the village, and it were my task to place them in your chamber when I tended the fire.”
“Then you do not know who the sender is?”
The maid shook her head.
Elizabeth sighed. So much for that.
The maid stepped forward and held out a folded paper.
Elizabeth’s breath caught the moment her eyes fell upon the hand—his hand.
The same bold, orderly script that had graced the card with the locket.
The ache that had held her so motionless gave way to relief, and her fingers trembled as she broke the seal. Two words.
Oakham Mount.
She was filled with a sudden exhilaration that set her whole frame in motion.
Elizabeth clutched the note tightly and moved without hesitation, calling for her morning things.
She dressed swiftly, choosing a dark green wool gown that flattered her figure and held warmth.
Over it she slipped a shawl—one of his—and wrapped her red pelisse close, fastening the buttons with careful fingers.
She tied her bonnet, then donned the fine gloves he had given her. Last of all, she took up her fur muff.
The sun had not yet risen above the horizon when she stepped outside, her boots crunching through the crust of snow that covered the path.
The world before her lay hushed, small branches and hedge rows weighted by their wintry burden.
It must have fallen in the night. Longbourn’s garden was transformed into a winter kingdom, and she, a solitary pilgrim, went forth in search of her fate.
Her pace was brisk, urgent. The cold stung her cheeks, but her blood ran warm with possibilities. Her breath formed clouds before her, and behind her, the eastern sky kindled with a faint golden wash.
At the base of Oakham Mount, she slowed. The snow lay deeper here, and the climb was steeper; she paused, not from weariness, but wonder.
The landscape stretched in frozen stillness around her, painted in pearl and silver. On either side of the path, the bare trees rose like sentinels, their branches laden with snow. The air was crisp and pure, the whole scene a harmony of repose. She marveled that she could behold nature’s beauty.
Just before gaining the summit, Elizabeth set a gloved hand on the rough trunk of a tree and stilled herself once more to master her feelings. At length, when she stepped forward to continue, she halted for an entirely new reason.
There on the rise above her, silhouetted against the paling sky, stood a man.
Waiting.
In that instant she knew him, and a thrill of certainty swept through her; no distance could disguise him from her. Not waiting another moment, she hastened forward. The crunch of her steps in the snow betrayed her presence, and he turned.
What he had long kept hidden from her was revealed to her at last. Love—deep and unguarded—was laid bare. Longing too, and reverence. He regarded her as if she were the answer to a question he had carried for a very long time.
“Elizabeth,” he greeted, his voice warm despite the cold air. Then, almost shyly, he advanced a pace, holding a long, ribbon-wrapped package in his gloved hands.
“For the most tolerable lady of my acquaintance.” A familiar wry smile played about his lips.
A warmth spread through her at his first use of her given name; it was at once disarming and exhilarating, yet she reached for the parcel, unable to resist a playful retort. “Am I then tolerable enough to tempt you?”
His smile deepened, amusement giving way to something more tender. “More than enough. Entirely, wholly, and irrevocably. It has been many weeks now since I considered you the handsomest woman of my acquaintance.”
“High praise, considering my sister is Jane Bennet.” She cradled the gift, the weight light, yet laden with meaning. The corners of her mouth lifted as she studied him.
“I believe, sir, since those first moments at the assembly, you have improved upon further acquaintance.”
“I have had an excellent teacher in humility,” he replied, stepping closer, “and in hope.”
A gust swept past them, scattering snowflakes through the air like falling diamonds in the rising sun. Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to the package in her arms, then back at him.
“Shall I open it now?”
“If you please. Though the words I mean to speak matter more than anything within.”
She lowered her eyes and untied the ribbon slowly, her fingers deft despite the cold.
Inside lay twelve silk roses, each a perfect imitation of nature, yet unfading.
Their colors ranged from the palest blush to the richest crimson, the petals curled with exquisite workmanship.
Their stems, she thought, were wood, wrapped with green ribbon, and even the leaves were of silk, embroidered and stitched with care.
Beside them lay a small card, handwritten in his now-familiar hand:
On the twelfth day of Christmas, twelve silk roses lie,
Unfading, eternal—as steadfast as I.
With treasures so lovely, yet none half so dear,
As the vow that I whisper for only you to hear.
When she looked up, he was no longer smiling; his features were serious now, his eyes searching hers.
“Elizabeth, these last twelve days have been the most meaningful of my life. I dared to hope that you might guess the heart behind them. But hope is not enough. I must speak plainly.”
She grew utterly still. The roses trembled in her hands.
Darcy steadied himself, his eyes fixed on hers, the winter air between them suspended, as though time itself had ceased its course.
“I love you. With all that I am. And I know—I know—that your love cannot be bought with wealth or flattery. Not at all. You are not a woman to be impressed by gold or titles, nor swayed by grand houses or fine carriages.”
Elizabeth’s lips parted, but she said nothing. She felt overcome, as though every nerve had awakened at once.
He continued, stepping closer, his gloved hands open at his sides as though offering all he had.
“You value what is real. A man’s honor. His principles.
The content of his character.” He paused, his gaze earnest. “That is why I chose each gift not for its worth, but for what it might convey. The meaning behind the object—the intention—was what I wished you would see.”
Elizabeth blinked, her composure wavering as her mind traveled backward. Yes. She had seen meaning. The books, the combs, the locket, the hairpins… She had wondered, suspected. Her eyes swam with rising tears as she gave a slow, silent nod.
Darcy took another step, the snow crunching beneath his boots.
His words came quieter now, but she knew he was no less certain.
“I love you, my dearest Elizabeth. And if you can love me in return, even a little…I beg you to end my suffering and consent to be my wife.”
He swallowed visibly, his features taut with the effort of restraint.
“But if you cannot…if your affections are already set against me, then still—forever—I shall love you. For the rest of my life, I shall love only you. There is no one else, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. There could never be another. You have my heart, my devotion, which I now offer freely, and without condition.”