Chapter 17
Seventeen
Darcy swept Elizabeth from her aunt’s parlour with the alacrity of impatience, pausing only to allow her to don her pelisse and bonnet before they escaped into the small garden at the back of the house.
Only once he had successfully got her to himself did he realise that he did not quite know how to broach the subject of his misdeeds.
His cousin’s admonitions to throw himself at Elizabeth’s feet echoed in his head, but he was at a loss for how to begin.
Ought he to literally prostrate himself upon the ground?
Or was Fitzwilliam’s suggestion to ‘get his knees a little dusty’ more figurative?
Clandestine glances at Elizabeth did not help him decide.
She was pale, her expression blank, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes.
In its place, dark circles had formed underneath as if she had not been sleeping well.
She did not seem like a lady prone to fainting in the usual course of things, but would rending his garments in anguished repentance cause her to swoon?
Would anything less be demonstration enough of his profound remorse?
Before he could decide on the precise method to humble himself, Elizabeth spoke. “I think this is far enough from the house to prevent being overheard.”
They were at the far end of the garden which, while not greatly distant from the house in a general scope, should at least provide them a safe haven of privacy.
They were in the thick of the shrubbery, the greenery dotted here and there with hopeful buds on the verge of blooming, close to the back wall.
Elizabeth led him to a stone bench that was thoughtfully placed for anyone who wished to surround themselves with verdure and forget they were in the city for an hour or two.
Having hummed an inarticulate agreement to her statement, Darcy assisted her to the bench, where he encouraged her to sit.
Feeling that this was as good a place as any to dust up his knees—or soak them in the remains of a morning frost, more like—he drew in a deep breath and all but crumpled before her.
She regarded him with wide eyes and a mouth that drooped open.
“Elizabeth,” he began, collecting both her hands within his own, “I wish to say again how sincerely sorry I am for misleading you before. More than playing a part in dividing Bingley and your sister—which I also acknowledge to be wrong—it is my abuse of your trust that hounds my conscience day and night.”
“Mr Darcy, I—”
He interrupted her with a fevered plea. “No, no, let me finish, please. I do not deserve your grace, but I dearly hope that you might find it in your magnanimous heart to forgive me. Let me prove to you that I can be worthy of your regard. I have made a poor showing of it so far, I know, but I swear to you—”
The press of Elizabeth’s fingers upon his lips brought his self-recrimination to an abrupt halt. “Stop, please. It is my turn to render you an apology.”
Darcy retook possession of her hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Why should you apologise? It was I who lied to you by omission.”
“Perhaps you did,” she acknowledged, idly tracing the curve of his cheekbone with her thumb, “but it was I who made you feel as if you could not be wholly honest with me. I once accused you of having a resentful temper, but it transpires that I am the one who is prone to bearing a grudge. How could you feel comfortable confessing your wrongdoings to someone who holds a single slighting remark over your head for months on end?”
He could not allow Elizabeth to take so much blame upon her shoulders, so he was quick to make her excuses.
“In fairness, it was a public insult meant to wound you. I was in a dark mood and unfairly took it out against you, a girl who had done me no harm and whose name I scarcely knew. It was unpardonable.”
She shook her head and huffed a small laugh.
“It was not your finest moment, no, but it is also not cause to assume the worst of you from thenceforth.
A single faux pas, even one said with malice, ought not to be enough to condemn a man forever.
And yet, that is exactly how I saw you until you brought Mr Bingley back to Jane.
“I could not comprehend, at first, why you would do such a thing,” Elizabeth continued, her tone musing and her gaze turned inwards.
“Then, after the delivery of your valentine, and subsequently coming to know you better, I understood that goodness is simply your way. You corrected a fault because it bothered your conscience to let it stand.”
“And because I had been made to know my own hypocrisy in the business.” He grimaced. “Had I not been made aware that you were also in town, that Miss Bingley had tricked me as well as her brother, I might never have acted.”
“Perhaps, but even that speaks well to your character. Many would have rationalised away their misstep, or simply dismissed it, but not you.” She again stroked his cheek, her expression fond. “Not you.”
Darcy’s ears burned with pleasure at the sweetness of her implied compliment, even as he decried it.
“It does not erase the harm I caused, only mitigates it slightly. Further, I added to my initial sin by covering up my wrongdoing instead of confessing all at the first. I cannot tell you how sorry I am for behaving so.”
“No more sorry than I for causing you to fear my wrath. Even Jane, who hardly allows anyone to own a single flaw, has pointed out to me that I am a rather fearsome creature when I am angry. If you could not be honest with me without anticipating some horrible reprisal, I only have myself to blame.”
Darcy’s objection was vehement on her behalf. “Your anger was natural and just!”
“To a degree,” Elizabeth conceded, “but you had already fixed what you had broken by the time you presented yourself to me as a lover. You were correct in your estimation that I would not have given you another chance if I had known, so choosing to withhold it until I had come to know and love you better was likely the right decision. I admit it.”
Darcy’s heart stilled a moment before jerking back into a stuttering motion. “You…you love me?”
Elizabeth ducked her head, her cheeks rosy. “I do.”
“How…?”
“Because you are eminently loveable, of course.” She said this as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world, her eyes laughing at him and his obtuseness.
“How could I feel otherwise when I see so many signs of your goodness? You might do the wrong thing at times, but always for the right reason. Your heart”—here, she pressed her palm to his chest where said organ beat a harried tempo against it—“guides you in all things. I am incredibly fortunate that such a heart has chosen me to care for.”
Grasping hold of her wrist, Darcy pulled Elizabeth forwards until she toppled off the bench and fell into his lap.
He steadied her by wrapping his free arm round her back and holding her to his chest, their hearts communing with one another in the same rhythm.
“It more than cares for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. If you can bring yourself to forgive my foolishness, I beg you to become my wife.”
“Only if you forgive me my resentful temper in return. I swear to you that it will not come between us again.”
“As I swear that I shall never be untruthful with you again. No matter how difficult, I shall always be honest with you.”
“In that case, yes.” Elizabeth’s mouth spread in a grin even as tears began to cascade down her cheeks. “I should love to be your wife.”
Darcy’s mouth found hers in a kiss that sealed their promises to one another.