Chapter 9
Nine
Upon catching Jane peeking out of their aunt’s parlour window for the third time in a quarter of an hour, Elizabeth bit her lip to stifle a knowing smile. “I am sure Mr Bingley will be calling soon, dearest. It is Valentine’s Day, after all.”
Jane arched back from the window as if it had physically rebuffed her, a light blush tinting her cheeks. “I was merely observing the weather.”
“No need to dissemble with me. You were watching for Mr Bingley.”
Jane retreated to the chair nearest Elizabeth and pulled out her sewing basket. As she sorted through the contents, she replied, “I do not know what you mean.”
Elizabeth set her book of poetry aside and stilled her sister’s aimless search with a hand to her forearm. “It is not my intention to tease you, only reassure. Mr Bingley will visit within the hour, mark my words, and come bearing gifts.”
“Do not think me so mercenary as to expect a gift!”
“I think no such thing. I speak of my own expectations. As violently in love with you as he is, Mr Bingley will not neglect to spoil you on the most romantic day of the year.”
“His mere presence would be enough for me.”
Elizabeth squeezed Jane’s arm, sympathy tightening her expression. “He will come. I promise you he will.” And if he does not, he will have me to answer to. Social niceties will not save him from my wrath.
Blessedly, for his own sake, Mr Bingley arrived twenty minutes later bearing an enormous bouquet of hothouse flowers and a card trimmed with an abundance of lace, exactly as Elizabeth had predicted.
What she had not foreseen was the simultaneous appearance of Mr Darcy, who entered on his friend’s heels.
What on earth could he be doing here? I know Mr Bingley depends upon him a great deal, but surely wooing Jane is a solitary endeavour.
She was distracted from her idle confusion by Mr Bingley, who made directly for Jane and lowered himself to one knee.
He presented his gifts to her with flowery adulation of her beauty before launching into a faltering recitation of Shakespeare’s eighteenth sonnet.
Jane, with her hands pressed to her brightly flaming cheeks, was visibly overcome by the gesture.
By the way she fluttered her lashes, Elizabeth thought she might be close to joyful tears.
The clearing of a throat recalled Elizabeth to Mr Darcy’s presence.
She tore her attention away from where her sister’s lover was prostrating himself to find the other gentleman standing before her and holding out a tightly folded square of paper.
There was a simple red heart emblazoned on the front of it where the edges met as if opening the packet would be akin to peeking inside said heart.
Across it was scribed her full name—Miss Elizabeth Bennet—in a tidy, masculine hand.
Bewildered, Elizabeth trailed her gaze upwards to Mr Darcy’s face, which was as stoic and unreadable as ever. The only difference, as far as she could discern, was that his ears had turned deeply crimson.
After nearly a minute in which they merely stared at one another in mutual wonderment, Mr Darcy cleared his throat a second time and said, “Will you do me the honour of reading this valentine?”
“Me?” Elizabeth blurted. A second later, she flinched at the obviousness of the query. Of course he meant me. My name is on the bloody valentine.
Some of the colour in Mr Darcy’s ears spread to the highest slopes of his cheekbones. “Yes.”
In service of ending this painful moment, Elizabeth reached out and accepted the valentine from Mr Darcy’s proffering fingers. He withdrew as if burnt—disgusted?—and clasped his hands behind his back.
What in the world could he have written to her? Valentine’s Day was a day for lovers, not enemies—although, she supposed, they were no longer enemies after she had declared a truce. Was this a friendly missive in furtherance of their armistice?
With this expectation in mind, Elizabeth pried open the heart with fumbling fingers. Inside, she found a poem, neatly transcribed in the same writing as her name on the front.
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
— WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Elizabeth’s brow slowly furrowed as her eyes descended the page, becoming more confused with each line.
It appeared to be a love poem, but why would Mr Darcy have gifted it to her, of all women?
Just because he had reversed his opposition to Mr Bingley’s attachment to Jane did not mean that he had also changed his stance on her beauty.
He had made his apathy on that point eminently clear in the harshest possible terms on the night they had met.
Raising her gaze, she found Mr Darcy still standing before her, as rigid and immobile as a marble statue. He must have been waiting for her response, but Elizabeth was bereft of one. What was she to say to something she could barely comprehend?
Mr Darcy glanced to Mr Bingley and Jane, who had retreated to a sofa across the room, before clearing his throat a third time—obviously a nervous habit—and fracturing the awkward silence between them. “I am sure you are wondering why I would give you a valentine, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth nodded, incapable of much else.
“Well, I…” He paused, glanced away, seemed to rally himself, and continued, “The truth is, that I ardently admire you. From what you said the other day, I gather that you have long believed the opposite, but I assure you that it is true.”
At last, Elizabeth found her voice. It was wry as she said, “Oh? Then I am now ‘handsome enough to tempt’ you?”
His expression shifted into one of chagrin. “Indeed. It has been months now since I have considered you one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”
Elizabeth was once again rendered speechless.
His admission, if true, overturned every assumption she had ever made regarding his penchant for looking at her.
She had always thought him to be observing her with a critical eye, cataloguing her every blemish, yet here he was confessing to exactly the reverse.
“I know that I made a poor first impression upon you,” he continued when it became apparent that she had reverted to muteness, “but I had hoped to rectify that, beginning with this valentine. I am also aware that you have strong opinions on the efficacy of poetry to nourish affection, but I-I am not the most eloquent man, so I enlisted Mr Wordsworth to speak for me in this instance. I feared that otherwise I would misspeak again and harm my chances.”
“Your chances?” she blurted, still rather confused.
Mr Darcy looked down at his feet, which were shifting his weight back and forth. “To win your affections.”
Although Elizabeth should have expected such a conclusion, she was admittedly flabbergasted to hear Mr Darcy profess an intent to woo her.
It did not seem to be his way to play sly jokes upon unsuspecting acquaintances, but she knew not what to make of him at present.
Could his profession of admiration be in earnest, or was it a mean trick?
“You have no obligation to consider my suit, of course,” he mumbled, his countenance painted a deep scarlet as he continued to gaze steadily at his fidgeting boots, “but I hope that you will find it in your generous heart to forgive me my previous trespasses and allow me the honour of courting you. I know I do not deserve it, but I am hopeful all the same.”
Elizabeth never thought she would live to see the day that Mr Darcy humbled himself—and to her, no less! It might have been satisfying if he did not look so ill at ease. Seeing him thus caused a sharp pang of sympathy in her breast.
Slowly, the truth of Mr Darcy’s professions sank into Elizabeth’s mind, and her incredulity faded.
There was no further doubt that the gentleman was sincere in his sentiments, for she had never seen him so discomposed as he stood there before her fidgeting and flushed.
The way he held himself stiffly told her that he was awaiting a blow, a rejection, but he had still bared his soul to her come what may.
She would be an unfeeling creature, indeed, if she did not pity him in this moment.
But was compassion for him enough basis to accept his overtures?
Perhaps not, but Mr Darcy, as she had recently come to learn, had other merits.
Aside from being undeniably handsome—he was at least as attractive as Mr Wickham, albeit in a contrasting sort of way; a rich darkness to the lieutenant’s golden light—he was also clever.
More than that, if his contention that he had long admired her was correct, he appreciated her own cleverness in return, for he was fond of a debate.
He was principled and did not shy away from doing what was right, as proved by his reconciliation efforts on behalf of Mr Bingley and Jane.
Mr Wickham’s tales of woe were concerning, but Elizabeth was more prepared to believe there was some misunderstanding that had led to the estrangement of the former friends.
The most important question was, could she like Mr Darcy enough to potentially marry him one day?
Yes, her heart whispered, to Elizabeth’s utmost surprise. Somehow, between what he had done for Jane and his awkward professions of regard, she had come to consider him as…well, she could not say exactly what, but she was intrigued enough to find out.
Elizabeth raised her eyes to Mr Darcy, who remained in the same inflexible position she had left him in.
Although his shoulders were straight, she thought they might be quivering under some invisible burden.
She took a deep breath. “I proposed to you that we ought to begin again the last time we met. With that in mind, I invite you to call upon me so that we might make this new beginning, with the understanding that, at present, I do not return your affections. However, you are welcome to try and change my sentiments.”
Mr Darcy blinked at her as if uncomprehending for several moments before lowering himself into the chair Jane had vacated.
He took up her hand, raised it to his mouth, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it, sending a tingle shooting up Elizabeth’s arm.
By Jove, the sensation was so intense that it raised the hairs on her scalp!
But it was his following declaration that suffused a prickle of awareness throughout her entire body. His grey gaze was intensely focused on hers as he said, “You are a woman worthy of being pleased, and I shall devote myself to the task. I thank you for the chance.”