Chapter Fourteen #7
Poor, stoic man! Mary longed to offer him an embrace, for all that he had bravely suffered.
The music behind them had ceased, and the dancers all stood about the room—Marianne was arguing against all their entreaties to play again—Rushworth citing he should wish an exchange of partners—his mother pressing another lady to play so that Marianne might dance—Marianne insisting she would do neither—amidst the chaos, Mary longed to escape before she was remembered and similarly entreated.
By some unspoken mutual agreement, she and the colonel had only to exchange a look, and they were on their feet in unison, eager to quit the room by a less noticeable exit.
Mary stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, cherishing the tender hope that she may experience some reprise of their previous encounter.
She took his hand, her fingers entwining with his; after such a conversation as they had shared, it seemed an easy, natural gesture, as did his arms brushing against her shoulders as they walked.
“The letter you received—I hope you have had some news of Eliza.”
“I have,” he said gravely. “It was not from the most reliable source, but an acquaintance wrote to me this afternoon—though John Dashwood might have done me considerable aid by recollecting it upon my arrival—well.” He let out a sharp exhale and shook his head.
“At any rate, this fellow reports that Eliza was seen just last night in Devonshire, but was gone by morning. Had I known sooner, I might have been meeting with him even now, but by morning once I have heard his information, she might have gone anywhere!”
“Oh, Daniel.” Mary stopped and laid her head against his chest, her free hand clasping his shoulder. “You poor man. I know you would have ridden through the night to find her if you could! But I will not give up hoping for your success—you will find her.”
He let out a shaky exhale and wrapped his arms about her.
“Oh, Mary.” His voice trembled, and he laid his head atop hers as they embraced.
“You are too good—I cannot say what a wreck I should be at present without such a kind and generous friend.” He placed a gentle kiss atop her head as he drew away from her.
“Indeed, I ought not to have suggested that I should desire to be elsewhere, when I came back only to see you—I had to see you again.”
“But of course you must wish to be elsewhere—I can hardly blame you for it! I am only happy that I can give you some succor—how petty my own problems must seem! But I have come to enjoy our conversations so much—I really quite rely on them.”
He kissed her hand again, and they resumed their walk upstairs and into the guest wing.
“Do not trivialize your own concerns on my account—you are right to worry for your brother—should he experience one tenth of what I have, I should be heartily sorry for him. But I might speak with Sir Thomas about it—I might acquaint him with some warning of what might befall a lady forced against her wishes into an unhappy marriage.”
Mary felt a thrill of emotion—sympathy and gratitude and perhaps the first stirrings of love—such things as she had only ever imagined feeling for a man before.
Unable to restrain herself, she threw her arms about his neck at once, and kissed him full on the mouth.
He reciprocated without hesitation, taking her so much into his arms that her feet actually left the ground, and he carried her in this passionate embrace into a small alcove, where he pressed her against the wall and devoured her.
When at last he drew away, his breathing ragged, he gently whispered her name. “Mary, Mary. Can you be real?”
She laughed. “Indeed, entirely so.”
“But how can you think so well of an old man who has failed in his greatest duty?”
“Do not say old! Your silver hairs are entirely distinguished, and your countenance just what I like,” she said boldly, arching her back against the wall to press herself toward him. “Mmm, and you are so warm.”
He laughed, looking down at her in joyful disbelief. “Mary….”
“No, wait—you must not say you have failed, Daniel. You will not give up, and I believe you will find her. All that you have expressed to me has made me very sure of what sort of man you are, and I know you will bring everything right—I have not the slightest doubt of it.”
Tears glistened in his eyes, in the flickering light of the wall sconces, and he kissed her again, this time only brushing his lips against hers. “I feel honor bound to you already—I have compromised you—and yet, my duty calls me first to Eliza.”
Mary smiled at him. She had never met such a worthy man, never known a man could be so truly good.
Her heart was really in some danger, but she could do naught but give in to it.
“I have felt bound to you since the moment I set eyes upon you; after all that has passed between us, I cannot give up on some chance for more to grow. I will wait, Daniel. It is not in my nature to feel so much so soon, or to make any pretty promises, but I am sure I shall wait for you. Come back to me when you have found Eliza, and then, you dear man, you shall court me properly once we have celebrated her recovery, her health and happiness. Until then you must give me leave to compromise you as much as I like, when next I see you.”
“You are a remarkable creature,” he breathed. “I will return to you.”