Chapter Sixteen #2
The grove appeared ahead, that circle of ancient oaks where new leaves filtered the morning light into shifting patterns. Darcy had chosen this location deliberately. Private enough for intimacy but visible enough to maintain propriety.
He led Elizabeth beneath the trees. Dappled sunlight falling between the leafy branches caught in her dark hair, picking out auburn highlights. She was here. With him. Alone. And he was about to make the most important request of his life.
Darcy stopped walking and turned to face her, his heart hammering against his ribs. Elizabeth stopped as well, looking up at him with pleasant expectation.
His carefully rehearsed words scattered like leaves in wind. Darcy opened his mouth and found that every eloquent phrase he had constructed had abandoned him.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, then stopped because his voice had emerged rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Miss Elizabeth, I have brought you here this morning because there is something I must tell you. Something I should have told you before now.”
Elizabeth’s eyes remained fixed on his face, her expression attentive but giving away nothing.
“I have admired you for longer than I care to admit,” he said, and the words came haltingly.
“Your wit, your intelligence, your refusal to be intimidated by rank or consequence. You challenge me in ways I did not know I needed to be challenged. Make me question assumptions I have held without examination. I find myself thinking of you at the most inopportune moments, unable to focus because my thoughts have drifted to something you said or the way you looked when you said it.”
He was rambling, Darcy realised with embarrassment. But Elizabeth continued to watch him with that same attentive expression.
“What I am trying to say,” Darcy continued, forcing himself to meet her eyes directly, “is that you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. I cannot imagine my future without you in it, cannot contemplate returning to the life I had before I knew you. You have become essential to my happiness.”
His hand moved to his pocket, withdrawing the small velvet box that contained his mother’s ring. The morning light caught the gold band and made the small ruby glow. Darcy held it out toward Elizabeth, his hand trembling slightly.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said, and his voice dropped lower, intimate. “Would you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?”
The silence that followed felt endless. Darcy’s heart hammered against his ribs, each beat painful. He had made himself completely vulnerable, and now his entire future hung on her response.
Elizabeth’s face transformed, her expression shifting into a smile so bright it made Darcy’s breath catch. But there was something in that smile, something almost triumphant, that did not quite match the tenderness he might have hoped for.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, and her voice carried eager certainty. “Yes, I will marry you, Mr. Darcy.”
The words were exactly what he had hoped to hear.
Yet something about the delivery made Darcy pause even as relief flooded through him.
She had accepted immediately, without hesitation or surprise, without the questions or teasing that characterised her usual manner.
Just simple, immediate agreement delivered with that bright smile that did not quite reach her eyes in the way he expected.
Darcy told himself he was being foolish. She had accepted him. What did it matter if her response lacked the complexity he associated with Elizabeth’s character? Perhaps she was simply overwhelmed by the moment.
He reached for her hand, intending to slip the ring onto her finger, and Elizabeth extended her hand readily.
Her fingers settled into his palm with easy compliance, but there was something mechanical about the gesture.
He pushed the thought aside and focused on sliding the gold band onto her finger.
“It fits perfectly,” Elizabeth observed, holding her hand up to examine the ring. “How lovely.”
The words were appropriate, Darcy supposed, but they carried none of the emotion he might have expected. She might have been commenting on a new pair of gloves. But perhaps she was simply not given to elaborate displays of feeling.
They began walking back toward the parsonage. Elizabeth Bennet had agreed to marry him. He should be euphoric. And he was happy, certainly, but beneath that happiness ran a current of unease he could not quite identify.
“I hope you will find Pemberley to your liking,” Darcy said.
“The house is quite large, of course, perhaps intimidatingly so at first. But I think you will come to love it. The grounds offer excellent walking, miles of paths through woods and along the river. And the library contains one of the finest private collections in Derbyshire.”
“I am certain it will be everything charming,” Elizabeth replied, her tone carrying enthusiasm that somehow felt detached. “I look forward to seeing it.”
Darcy glanced down at her, searching her face for some sign of the curiosity he knew Elizabeth possessed. She always asked questions, always wanted to know specific details. Yet now she offered only vague approval.
“My sister will be overjoyed,” Darcy continued. “Georgiana has been most eager to meet you. I think she has been lonely for female companionship her own age.”
“Oh, we shall get along splendidly,” Elizabeth said, again with that bright enthusiasm that seemed to lack depth. “It will be delightful to have a sister.”
The phrasing struck Darcy as odd. Elizabeth already had sisters, four of them. Why would she speak as though gaining Georgiana would be her first experience of sisterhood? But perhaps she simply meant having a sister through marriage.
They had reached the edge of the parsonage garden. Darcy slowed their pace, reluctant to end this private time together despite his growing confusion. She had accepted him. That was what mattered. Everything else could be sorted out in time.
He was engaged to Elizabeth Bennet. His Elizabeth. The woman who had captured his heart. That joy should overwhelm any small concerns.
And Darcy was happy. He told himself that firmly as they approached the parsonage.
He was happy. His future was secured with the woman he loved.
The strange quality to her acceptance, the mechanical feel of her responses, the lack of specific questions or characteristic teasing – none of that mattered.
He simply needed to stop looking for problems where none existed.
The dining room had not changed in their absence, though the breakfast dishes had been cleared. Jane remained in her seat, Charlotte beside her, and Fitzwilliam had positioned himself across from them. They all looked up as Darcy and Elizabeth entered.
Elizabeth released Darcy’s arm and moved toward the centre of the room with purposeful strides, her hand extended to display his mother’s ring with deliberate emphasis. The gesture struck Darcy as theatrical, more dramatic than the moment required.
“We are engaged,” Elizabeth announced, her voice bright with an almost aggressive cheerfulness. “Mr. Darcy has done me the honour of proposing, and I have accepted. We are to be married.”
The silence that greeted this declaration felt interminable. Darcy watched the assembled company’s faces cycle through surprise and confusion before settling into more appropriate expressions of congratulation.
Charlotte recovered first, rising with a smile that seemed to require effort. “My dear Lizzy, how wonderful. What happy news indeed. Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to wish you joy.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Collins,” Darcy said, moving to stand beside Elizabeth. “I am very fortunate that Miss Elizabeth has accepted me.”
Fitzwilliam rose as well, crossing to shake Darcy’s hand. “Cousin, I am delighted for you. Miss Elizabeth, I can think of no one who would make Darcy a more suitable wife.”
“And we shall be married in London,” Elizabeth continued as Jane approached to offer an embrace. “By special licence. There is no reason to wait when we might be wed immediately.”
This time the silence lasted longer, heavy with implications.
Darcy felt his own startlement, because this was very much not what he had expected Elizabeth to want.
Charlotte’s carefully maintained smile faltered.
Fitzwilliam’s eyebrows rose. And Jane froze and looked shocked, before speaking with gentle concern.
“Lizzy,” Jane said, and her soft voice somehow cut through the awkwardness with startling clarity. “Surely you must want to be married from Longbourn. Mama will be heartbroken if you do not.”
The observation was delivered with Jane’s characteristic kindness, without accusation. Simply a reminder of fact that anyone who knew Mrs. Bennet would recognise as undeniably true.
Elizabeth turned toward her sister, and something in her expression made Darcy’s chest tighten.
Her smile remained fixed, bright and brittle, but her eyes had gone hard.
“Mama will not care,” Elizabeth said, and her tone carried dismissive certainty.
“She has a daughter who will become Mrs. Darcy. That is all that will matter to her.”
The words hung in the air, true in their assessment of Mrs. Bennet’s priorities but delivered with a cruelty that was entirely unlike Elizabeth. Darcy had heard her speak of her mother with exasperation, certainly, with embarrassment even. But never with this casual dismissal.
Jane’s face reflected the hurt, though she did not protest further. She looked down at her hands rather than meeting her sister’s eyes.
“I am certain your mother will be overjoyed by the news regardless of when and where the ceremony will take place,” Charlotte said, her voice carrying diplomatic smoothness.
It was perfectly judged, Charlotte’s comment, acknowledging the truth while avoiding any suggestion that Elizabeth’s dismissal had been inappropriate. But the effort required to smooth over the awkwardness was itself evidence that something was deeply wrong.
This should be the happiest moment of Darcy’s life. He had proposed to the woman he loved, and she had accepted. Yet he stood in the Collinses’ dining room feeling increasingly like a man who had just made a terrible mistake without understanding exactly what he had done wrong.
Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. “Cousin, I believe I should accompany you back to Rosings. Aunt Catherine will be wondering where we have both disappeared to, and you will want to inform her of your news.”
“Yes,” Darcy agreed, the word emerging more heavily than he intended. “We should return to Rosings.”
He looked down at Elizabeth, at the woman who wore his ring but seemed increasingly unlike the person he had fallen in love with. “May I call on you tomorrow? Perhaps we might walk again and discuss the arrangements.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said, and her smile remained bright and uncomplicated. “I look forward to it, Mr. Darcy. We have so much to plan.”
Darcy executed a bow toward Charlotte and Jane. “Mrs. Collins, thank you for your hospitality. Miss Bennet, a pleasure to see you again.”
Jane inclined her head, but her attention remained fixed on Elizabeth rather than on Darcy. He saw her lips part as though she might say something, some protest or question, but then she closed her mouth and simply watched.
Darcy and Fitzwilliam made their farewells and stepped out into the morning. The door closed behind them, and Darcy found himself standing in the parsonage garden, engaged to be married, feeling significantly more uncertain than he had before he proposed.