Chapter Twelve #2
The colonel made a droll face. “You are already likely to get a knighthood for your role in bringing those ruffians to justice—must you try for a sainthood besides?”
“That is a kind offer—I ought to attempt some the same myself, before my family returns,” Elizabeth said ruefully. “But I should infinitely prefer self-indulgence on such a fine holiday.”
“I wish to take a walk while it is so fine outside,” Mr. Darcy said. “Would you show me the garden, Miss Bennet?”
“Certainly.” Elizabeth felt a rush of heat deep inside her; she might have left the table and gone to the garden directly, though it would have been uncommonly rude.
Colonel Fitzwilliam brightened. “A walk in the garden! Indeed, that sounds lovely! I am sure I should like to stretch my legs. Do you not agree, Gigi?’’
“Yes, indeed,” Georgiana said, watching her cousin’s playful tone. Mr. Darcy grimaced.
“The garden is not especially large, nor particularly remarkable at this time of year,” Elizabeth mused. “If you are in want of some true exercise, perhaps Captain Denny might give you a walking tour of Meryton. The village is so very quaint.”
“What a fine idea, if Mrs. Annesley is willing to accompany you all,” Mr. Darcy agreed, his look pleading with the kind lady to leave him and Elizabeth alone.
“I would think twice, if I were you, Miss Bennet, about sending away such strong and willing laborers when there is much that needs doing, but I shall enjoy taking in the sights of new environs,” Mrs. Annesley replied primly, giving Elizabeth a sly wink.
It was nearly an hour before Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy actually had the pleasure of waving off their companions, watching them disappear in the direction of the village.
The conversation at breakfast had been lively and pleasant, despite the subtle teasing at their expense; now that they were alone together, a frisson of anticipation hung in the air between them as Elizabeth donned her warmest outerwear and led Mr. Darcy to the back garden.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, gradually acclimating themselves to the unspoken accord they had come to the precipice of when they had last spoken privately.
He had kissed her, and yet so much had happened that she had not thought of it until that night, in the brief moments between her head hitting the pillow and her mind drifting into exhausted slumber.
She had drifted off with the feel of him on her lips, and woken up thinking of little else.
Elizabeth tightened her grip on Mr. Darcy’s arm, and he looked down at her with a tender smile.
She released her grasp on him just enough to slide her hand into his.
His smile grew into a broad grin as he interlaced their fingers.
She gave a breathy laugh into the prevailing silence, wondering how they were to get on at all.
He parted his lips as if to speak, let out a strange murmur, and gestured to a bench at the back of the garden.
They shifted themselves until they were seated very close on the old stone bench, and their hands soon found their way back together, but still they said nothing.
But Elizabeth was certain she had not misunderstood his intentions—not this time.
No, at long last she comprehended him perfectly.
And after all that he had done for her, Elizabeth decided she ought to help him come to the point.
“Yesterday, when we were speaking in my father’s book room, you were saying… .”
He smiled gratefully at her. “Yes—thank you—I believe we reached a certain understanding. As I said, the circumstances being most peculiar, though I hope your parents will understand my actions, when justified by the entire ordeal….” His smile ebbed away; the poor man looked mortified by his own verbal floundering.
Elizabeth bit back a laugh, supposing it must be flattering indeed that she drove him to such nervous nonsense—though surely they must overcome their awkwardness if they were to get on at all.
“Yes, though I believe we are in agreement that what has passed between us these past few days transcends mere necessity.”
“Yes,” he agreed, clenching his jaw as if to restrain any further indecorous rambling.
“And then, just before we were interrupted, you said….” Elizabeth leaned closer as she looked up at him, his eyes conveying what mere words could not.
She withdrew her hand from his to reach up and clutch at the lapels of his coat, and then she tugged him closer.
Her hands moved up to his face and then curled around his neck as she kissed him.
Her lips brushed gently, searchingly against his, and she privately hoped she was doing a proper job of kissing him.
His mouth moved against her own for a mere moment before he drew back just enough to speak.
A laughter rumbled in his throat as he whispered, “I did say that, did I not? But what I meant to say was….”
And then his arms were around her, pulling Elizabeth so close she was nearly in his lap.
His lips moved rhythmically against hers, guiding her this time, and she responded hungrily, arching herself against him as her fingers tangled themselves into his thick hair.
His hands pulled her closer, one cradling the base of her neck as the other travelled down to her waist, and Elizabeth wished they might never break this blissful contact, never cease such passion.
They broke the kiss only when a sudden shout cut through the frosty air.
Panting, Elizabeth clung to Mr. Darcy as she turned her head, searching.
A flash of color in the distance caught her eye.
On the lane that cut behind the manor, arcing into the winding track that led to Longbourn’s front drive, was the most bizarre carriage Elizabeth had ever seen.
Drawn by a pair of massive black horses with braids and ornaments in their manes, the long wooden carriage had a rounded top set upon a frame and four wheels painted gleaming gold.
The florid equipage had intricately carved panels painted with emerald, violet, cerulean, and crimson designs, giving it the appearance of a strange little house.
There was even a little window with curtains tied back—and that window opened to reveal the face of her father, who was laughing heartily in between bursts of shouting at them.
Elizabeth sprang to her feet, watching the colorful carriage round the bend, disappearing briefly from sight before emerging from behind a copse of evergreens.
She could not make out her father’s words, though the sardonic tone of his voice was unmistakable.
Before she could give in to her impulse and sprint back into the house, Mr. Darcy stood and clasped her hands in his.
“I will speak to your father at once—to request the honor of your hand, if you consent,” he said, his voice hurried.
“I love you, Elizabeth; I have loved you for quite some time, though I have been stubborn in admitting it to myself. When I saw you that day in Meryton—when you fainted into the snow—I felt a piece of my own heart shatter. I had to protect you, and knew at that moment that I could never part from you. When you told me of the dangers you faced, what the Red Bandits were planning, I was at once in awe of your temerity, and determined to stand by your side through every peril. The past three days have been the best of my life—the joy you have brought me, the natural ease of being with you is beyond anything I could have imagined between a man and wife, but I beg you to become mine. Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, be my wife and I shall devote myself entirely to your every comfort.”
Mr. Darcy concluded his lengthy and hastily spoken speech by dropping to one knee before her, looking rather startled by his own eloquence.
Tears welled in Elizabeth’s eyes as she gazed down at him.
“I love you, too. I was so terribly blind to your goodness, but in the last few days I have come to believe you are the finest gentleman I have ever known. I would be honored to become your wife, Mr. Darcy.”
He stood and embraced her; they did not speak, for at such a moment words could not suffice in expressing what they felt.
Elizabeth could hear his heart beating, even through his thick woolen coat, and she pressed her face against the warmth of his chest. Everything felt right in the world, every misunderstanding of the past was a distant and diverting memory now, a jest that would shock and amuse anyone who could see the absolute perfection of their union.
As she drew away at last, Elizabeth drank in the sight of her handsome betrothed.
He appeared just as he ever was, though his countenance had softened considerably as he regarded her with unrestrained affection.
And yet she saw him more fully now, every fine quality in him that she had long refused to consider possible, and such true nobility of character as she could never imagined; her perception of him was now so altered, she felt as if she were seeing him for the first time. And he was hers, as she was his.
“Come with me, sir, else I am sure I should kiss you again, and we should not leave the garden ere nightfall,” she said, blushing as she owned to her overpowering attraction. But she had always thought him handsome—it was this, coupled with his initial offense, that had once enraged her.
Mr. Darcy took her hand. “I believe I must speak to your father together, Elizabeth—and you have leave to call me Fitzwilliam, or Will, if you prefer it—for certainly your father will grant us permission to be wed at once—I shall obtain a special license, and….”
Elizabeth laughed as they hastened into the house. “There is that Darcy pride—oh, yes, Fitzwilliam suits you very well,” Elizabeth teased. “But I do like the sound of it.”
He brought her hand to his lips. “I should like to hear you say it again.”