Chapter Twelve
Elizabeth leaned against the cliff face, watching the bathers wading into the water, and listening to the low rushing of the surf.
Whoosh.
Shwoooo.
Whoosh.
Her hands were shaking. This was ridiculous. She could simply tell Mr. Darcy ‘no’.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Why were women not allowed to swear like men?
Amongst the many unfairnesses that subsisted between the sexes this was by no means the most severe restriction placed upon women, but it was symbolic of the whole.
Damn all men. Especially handsome, gentlemanlike creatures, with sharply angled features, a dry sense of humor, kind eyes, a friendly mind, and—why, why, why had he needed to ask her?
Damn him.
He could not promise that he would never regret it. He certainly had not spoken out of any long consideration of the matter. Elizabeth had seen his expression. He had been as surprised to hear himself ask her to marry him as she had been to hear him make the offer.
He was simply trying to convince himself that his impulsive request was a good idea. She would be doing him a great favor if she refused him.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Whoosh.
The seagulls cawed.
He was serious.
He only wanted to expiate his guilt. He said that three times. By raising George, which was not even a ridiculous notion. That at least did not have the pagan undertones of needing to marry the widow of a man he had killed. Yet…
That was not why.
There was a place deep inside Elizabeth that was convinced that none of this was why he had asked. That same place was quietly convinced that George, Emily, and practical concerns would also have very little to do with why she was going to agree to marry him.
Whoosh, swoosh, whoosh.
“Mama! Mama! Mama!” George ran up to her screaming. “Mama!”
Georgiana looked both apologetic and determined as she followed the child with an uneven stride as each step sunk into the sand.
Elizabeth picked her son up and smiled at him. “George! George! George!”
“I want a papa!”
“I thought you’d decided that was not necessary.”
“I want Mr. Darcy to be my papa.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Your opinion is noted.”
“Need to marry him.”
“I sincerely hope that nobody put you up to this.”
Georgiana blushed and said, “When he came back with Sally from running about in the park, I explained that you’d gone out to decide if my brother would become his papa, and—”
“And, of course, he decided that he wanted this. George, this is my decision, not yours.”
Her son started sobbing. When Elizabeth did not immediately proclaim her intention to marry Mr. Darcy the sobs turned into wails followed by screeches.
Elizabeth was intensely aware of the persons bathing down the coast, some of whom were now looking at her. She tried to pick up George to comfort him, but for a long time now George had the capability to hurl himself out of her arms if he particularly wanted to.
After two minutes of this Elizabeth sighed and sat down next to her wailing son. “George, if I hear you whine one more time, I will start to wail myself.”
Her son looked at her with curiosity. He experimentally screeched again. Elizabeth looked at him.
The look was a look that had only mixed success in Elizabeth’s experience, but this time George did quiet down. “I want a papa.”
“And I wish to think before I tell Mr. Darcy anything,” Elizabeth said. She resisted the urge to tell George that the only reason he needed a new papa was because Darcy had killed the previous one.
That was an urge which particularly needed to be resisted, because Wickham had given up the role long before then. And Darcy had been eagerly acting in the role of a loving parent to George ever since they had come to his house.
Reading to him, embracing him when he sobbed, offering sage advice.
None of the discipline or punishment that a father might see it as his place to impose, but Darcy had always calmly said things to Elizabeth that made it easier for her to bear disappointing George when she felt the need to place George in a corner or put him in his room for an hour before being allowed to have dinner.
“Don’t you want me to be happy?” George asked.
Something about the way the four-year-old spoke and looked reminded her of the boy’s father. “Never, never,” Elizabeth said sharply, “try to convince a person to do something against their principles or their interest for your own sake.”
George wailed.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and let it out. She then sat back down and laid herself out flat against the sand while looking up at the blue sky. The gulls swooped overhead.
George let Georgiana pick him up and comfort him. “But I wanna,” he wailed.
It was unclear to Elizabeth just what George wanted. To cry? To have a papa? To follow his father’s footsteps by convincing people in general to act against their best interest for his sake?
“You must let Lizzy think,” Georgiana said reasonably. “She’s like my brother. She likes to think matters through before making important decisions.”
Elizabeth laughed. That hardly matched her own image of herself, and she rather thought her view of herself as impulsive and a bit stupid matched the truth far more clearly than what Georgiana had just described.
She supposed that it was accurate enough about Mr. Darcy, except, of course, in the case of important decisions, like whether to kill someone in a duel, or whether to then marry their widow.
If she acted on impulse, without giving it any more thought what would she do?
Marry him.
At the thought she was filled with a glorious delight. Something like the trumpeting of angels sounded in her head.
A flash of a vision of them curled together intimately. She could at last run her hand over his skin, at least once the wound had fully closed and healed.
Heat flashed through Elizabeth’s body.
She wanted him.
Well. So that was why she hesitated. She would not let lascivious stupidity draw her into marriage again.
“Oh, my. He’s asleep,” Georgiana said. “I cannot carry him like this for long.”
“Really? He scarcely ever naps anymore.”
Elizabeth stood up and together they slowly lowered George into the sand. He curled up, his hair instantly filled with sand.
Elizabeth smiled at him.
“What do you think,” Elizabeth asked Georgiana as they both looked at the child.
“He looks too peaceful to wake. I left the footman on the promenade, at the top of the cliff—you see him there, and—”
“No, no. About your brother’s proposal.”
“Oh, it is so very romantic! He has made a sensible choice, unlike me. Of course you do not have any money, but no one could imagine that you are a fortune hunter. Even Cousin Richard does not think so.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Even Cousin Richard?”
“Oh, I know he would have at first, when he first came. He then had counselled me to be cautious about you, and to not trust you. He was sure you had some scheme afoot, and—”
“You mean,” Elizabeth said laughing, “like enticing your brother into making an offer of marriage to me.”
“Cousin Richard, I am sure, did not think about anything of that sort.”
“I strongly suspect that he did.”
“But it is in any case ridiculous. You would not do such a thing. You are…well, you are you. You can be trusted. I should not be so confident in my judgement on the matter. But I do have some experience in being deceived. You behave nothing like Mrs. Younge or Mr. Wickham did when they deceived me. And besides, you did not immediately accept my poor brother. He is anxious upon the matter.”
“Good. I have enough anxiety about it to be pleased with the company.”
“No, no. He is just scared that you shall say no. That is part of why I came out.”
“I had hoped for some time to think, not to hear you make his case for him.”
“You had at least an hour, Lizzy. That must be plenty if you were thinking about it sensibly.”
“And yet,” Elizabeth replied, “I made no progress at all in my thoughts.”
“He likes you so very much,” Georgiana said. “And you two are such easy friends. And you can make him laugh, though I hardly understand it. You say such daring things to him, that I would die to say, and then he laughs at them.”
Elizabeth smiled at this description. “I am not surprised that you have rather more difficulty in that matter. You have been raised to see him nearly in the nature of a father.”
“Yes, but you make him happier. I have never seen him smile so much. And he was so unhappy at first, about having killed Wickham. And now he is much less so. And you have taken such care of him, and of me, and of everyone. And you are a perfect mother, and you have been what I always imagined a sister would be. And…but I see that I am speaking about why I would be pleased if you married my brother, and not why it would be good for you.”
Elizabeth hugged Georgiana. They both then sat on the sand next to the sleeping George.
“That you are so pleased by the notion is no small incentive.” Elizabeth sighed. “I am frightened.”
“Because you made a mistake. But I can promise you that my brother’s character is perfect. He never makes mistakes.”
Elizabeth laughed. “If I thought that was true, I certainly would not consider marrying him. I have been known to make mistakes. It would hardly do to enter such an unequal match.”
“It is so very romantic,” Georgiana said.
“No, no, no. Do not say that. I hate romance, and I distrust it. I am determined to never make a decision driven by romantic notions again. Not once in my life.” Then Elizabeth sighed and leaned back against her arms. She stared at the blue sky, the wispy clouds, and the cawing sea birds.
“But I suppose then I know what I must do.”
“Oh, no! Don’t refuse poor Fitzwilliam. Not just because I said it was romantic.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I mean to accept him. Because it will not be romantic.”