Have No Fun （Third Person） #2
The colonel stared at her for a moment and allowed that she had the matter calculated much better than he did, and that she was correct.
“It seems a hopeless business.”
He could not quite interpret her expression then, as she stared at him so intensely, he could not have broken eye contact had she struck him in the head with her workbox again.
“Number four—should you manage to find this mythical woman… Richard… she will never love you the way I do. She will never feel what you have been through. She will never experience the things I have experienced with you. No other woman will ever be able to have you solve both of our matrimonial problems in one fell swoop.”
She did not break eye contact, but waited for the dawning comprehension that gradually filtered through him, through his brain and straight into his heart before his face lit up like the sunrise.
She had been afraid to say the last… so afraid…
so timid… so… so… so… so in love. In a move only a soldier would understand, she had bet her entire life and heart on one gallant charge.
She knew he loved her, but he would never have the courage to make a move, and he would be honour bound to oppose any rational move she made.
It was all or nothing, and when she saw it was to be all in his eyes, her face lit up to match his.
The next moment found them springing towards each other like two great clashing armies, and the next found her arms around his shoulders and his around her waist as he spun her around the room like a ragdoll.
Eventually, he stopped, putting her down without relinquishing a thousandth of an inch of separation between them, and kissed her as if his life depended on it.
Perhaps his life did depend on it. Perhaps hers did as well.
Their hearts certainly depended on it, and it was but a moment before the colonel let out a yell such as he had given in the biggest battles of his life, which brought everyone in Rosings running in panic, only to be given the wonderful news.
Eventually, as congratulations slowed and he surrendered his intended to a warm embrace from Salina, and another more dignified but just as heartfelt one from his Aunt Catherine, he remembered a bit of protocol that had been missed.
He knelt before her and asked, “Miss Charlotte Lucas. You gave me back my life, despite my best efforts. Now I wish to return it to you. Will you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?”
Her answer involved a vigorous nod and more than a few tears.
Some little time later, his aunt handed him a note.
~~~
Richard,
If you are reading this, it means you are engaged to Miss Lucas, and coincidentally that Lady Catherine owes me a crown. I imagine she probably had to propose to bring you to the point, or perhaps I need to procure for her yet another new workbox, but either way I am incredibly happy for you.
Do not get too attached to Pemberley, and pay particular attention to the accounts at Rosings.
Give your intended everything you have, as you will never meet another like her should you live a thousand years.
Darcy
~~~
The last sounds of Beethoven’s Pathétique gradually faded away, and Elizabeth Bennet finally returned to herself.
The day’s session had been particularly uplifting, the music raising her seemingly to the very heavens.
She thought she might very well die quite happily, but as always, she had to return to earth sooner or later.
As she finally became aware of her surroundings, she drew in a gasping breath, realising she was not alone.
She called out, louder than usual, “Who is there? Please identify yourself.”
An unexpected chuckle sounded, and the even more unexpected words, “I am staring at you, Elizabeth.”
“Mr Darcy!” she squeaked.
“Correct. I am incredibly happy to see you.”
“But… but… but… what are you doing here? I hardly expected to run into you on this small island. How improbable! What are the odds?”
“Slim, but perhaps fate has lent us a hand.”
“I am all astonishment.”
“As am I. I am also curious.”
Elizabeth furrowed her brow in perplexity, which the man found to be quite enchanting, and waited for his question.
“How did you always know I was staring at you before, when you do not now?”
“You are surprised a blind woman cannot identify you?”
“That is not surprising at all. It has been well over a year and a half. I always wondered how you did it before.”
“Oh that… may I assume you have a new valet?”
“I do… and I had quite decided to kill this one on the trip over, but perhaps I shall spare him now.”
Elizabeth laughed in good humour. The man had always affected her, but he said the oddest things.
“I could not identify you because your new man prefers a different boot polish.”
“Boot polish?”
“Yes sir. Before, you had quite a distinct smell. That is how I always knew you. It is just a parlour trick, only useful when you are downwind.”
He chuckled, a soft laugh she joined. She had nearly forgotten what a pleasure it had once been to laugh with him.
Their mirth finally subsided, and he asked, “And the staring?”
A flush of bashfulness overtook her. “That was just playing the odds. My sisters asserted you stared at me most of the time.”
That one started him laughing again, and she joined, though with more shyness.
“I am astonished to greet you here.”
“As am I.”
Elizabeth started wringing her hands, and stared toward shoes she could not see—an instinctive mannerism.
“Did you get my letter? I apologise if it made you uncomfortable, but it had to be said.”
“Miss Bennet… I had the supreme pleasure of receiving your letter. I have it here.”
“I… well.”
“Do not be uncomfortable. The letter was wonderful, and I hold it in high regard.”
“Thank you.”
Awkwardness returned, and Darcy walked a few steps closer. His boots sounded clearly, and she had already memorised the new polish so he would not catch her unawares again.
“Speaking of letters, did Anne receive Lady Catherine’s cyphered message?”
“She did. I… I must thank you with all my heart for what you did for my sister. That was extraordinary.”
“It was not, but I most heartily offer my welcome.”
“I shall be the judge.”
Both were now even more shy and awkward.
Elizabeth knew they were alone, or at least trusted that Mr Darcy ensured they were.
Mr Hopkinson had planted himself outside the parlour when she started playing, and as always, she knew herself well protected.
Only Mr Darcy would have been allowed in; she now recollected the door closing just before she called out, though it had scarcely registered.
“I must ask, why are you here? Are you to see Anne?”
“I am not. I must admit to a desire to see her, but I have extensive correspondence from her and Mr Read, as well as your recommendation. I am not in the least concerned with Anne’s situation.”
“Why are you here?”
“I am courting.”
Startled, Elizabeth stumbled in her speech before she could reply, her voice trembling more than she preferred. Only then did she realise how disappointed she would be when he married.
“May I ask who? Is it someone I know?”
“You, of course!”
“Me?” she said with an alarmed squeak.
“Yes, you! I know I have only recently managed to re-enter your good graces, but I intend to press my advantage while I can. I intend to make you fall in love with me.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. You are the love of my life, and I can only hope you will feel the same one day.”
“But… but… but… I am… I am—”
“What objections do you plan to give, Elizabeth? Blind… Poor… No connections… Small dowry… Shrill mother… Indolent father… None were ever important, and the first is the only one that even exists anymore.”
“All of those and more. You are a great man—an important one. I do not aspire—”
Her confusion was great indeed, her feelings thrown into a tumult. His knees hit the floor directly before her stool, and his hands took hers. Apparently, Mr Read had mentioned more to the man than his business, or perhaps all good men did such things.
“Elizabeth, may I show you something?”
“Show me? You just…”
“You know what I mean. One moment.”
Bereavement struck when one of his hands left hers, but a moment later her fingers closed on paper, and he released her other hand.
“Use your hands. Examine the page and tell me what you feel.”
Perplexed, Elizabeth did as she was bid. The paper was of good quality. She felt it carefully, unfolded it, and ran her hands over the entire surface.
“This is practically a rag. I am surprised it does not fall apart in my hands. Pray, what is it, and why do you carry it with you?”
He chuckled—a very endearing sound—and replied.
“That is your letter, Elizabeth.”
His use of her given name did not pass unnoticed, nor that he had removed the letter from her hand with such care, folded it, and returned it to his pocket.
The paper’s crinkling and the jangle of his watchchain betrayed the manoeuvre while she attempted to discern his meaning, for it was far too extraordinary to be true.
“You can see the paper will be dust soon. I need to hear it from your lips. You told me outright that you hold me in some esteem. That is good, but not enough. I wish to earn your love, and I will do anything to achieve it. Will you allow me the chance to show you my love and earn yours?”
Realising the truth, she noticed the man taking her hands again, as gentle as he would a newborn babe.
His hands were large, practically engulfing hers.
They were harder than her own, revealing a man who did not leave all the work to servants and farmers.
These were the hands of a man who worked the land from time to time…
a man who understood and protected his own…
a man worthy of someone better… but her heart screamed at the insinuation.
Still, she hesitated.
Pensively, the man said, “I must tell you about Bingley’s Oak Tree,” then did just that.
She smiled at the story.