Chapter 4
The door shut behind Mr. and Mrs. Collins with a clatter and a cloud of snow-dusted wind.
Elizabeth watched through the parlor window as they made their careful way up the lane, Charlotte steadying herself with one gloved hand on her husband’s arm.
The parson’s voice wafted back to her on the wind, echoing in the cold until the door latch clicked properly into place.
Peace. At last.
Elizabeth turned from the window and wrapped her shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders.
“I could come,” she had said earlier that morning, when Charlotte made mention of their calls to several of Lady Catherine’s most venerable neighbors. “I do not mind the cold.”
But Mr. Collins had immediately turned crimson. “Certainly not! I must insist, Cousin Elizabeth, that you remain here. We shall not risk another scene like the one at Rosings. It would be most improper were you again mistaken for my wife.”
Elizabeth had blinked. “I did not imagine Lady Catherine found it improper at all. She seemed quite in favor of the notion, as I recall.”
Charlotte gave her friend a reproving look as Mr. Collins blustered something about appearances and reputations and the dignity of the cloth.
“Of course, sir,” Elizabeth said repentantly.
And that had been the end of it.
Now, she only shook her head and gave a dry little laugh.
Married to him, she thought, giving an exaggerated shudder as she passed the mirror in the hall. No. I was certainly right to refuse.
The parsonage seemed unusually quiet. No barking orders from Mr. Collins, or calm reasoning from Charlotte.
Elizabeth padded down the narrow hallway toward the cozy back room the new Mrs. Collins had claimed for herself—the little parlor with the view of the garden and the well-worn armchair by the hearth.
The fire was already lit. Charlotte had ordered it so that morning, anticipating her return with red cheeks and frozen fingers. It crackled merrily in the grate, casting long shadows against the polished table and half-unpacked crate of books.
Elizabeth let herself sink into the armchair and closed her eyes.
For a moment, she imagined herself back at Longbourn.
The Gardiner children would be tying ribbons to the stair banister, arguing over the best location for the paper stars. Lydia would be laughing somewhere near the front hall, hanging mistletoe over every doorway she could reach, just in case any officers be inclined to call.
Elizabeth flushed slightly as one officer’s image came to mind. Lieutenant Wickham… would he attempt to catch me under one?
Eyes still closed, she allowed herself the luxury of imagining the scene: a sly, playful smile and a scandalously chaste kiss on the cheek, his lips brushing against her skin.
Her stomach fluttered a little at the thought.
If only old Mr. Darcy had never had a son, she thought idly, then Mr. Wickham could marry as he pleased.
He could have his inheritance. He could—
Her smile faded.
Jane.
Her thoughts, like smoke, always curled back to Jane. To the pale, tired eyes that had refused to sparkle even with Christmas so near. To the heart that had been, perhaps, quietly broken—thanks to the man who haunted Elizabeth even now in Kent.
Mr. Darcy.
Her fists clenched in the folds of her shawl.
He had done it. Had separated them. Had torn something lovely and full of promise for the sake of his own prejudices. How many lives had he altered with a few well-placed words? How many hearts had he dismissed in pursuit of his own comfort?
She gave a bitter sigh and opened her eyes.
And blinked.
A knock—gentle, but firm—sounded from the front of the house. A moment later, the maid’s hesitant voice: “Miss Bennet? You have a caller.”
She frowned. “I have a caller? Who is it?”
“Mr. Darcy.”
∞∞∞
Darcy stood in the front entryway, hat in his hands. Now that he was here, he was suddenly anxious. Realizing he was twisting the brim and destroying its shape, Darcy took a deep breath and forced his hands to still.
“If you will follow me, sir.”
He followed the maid down the narrow corridor and into a small sitting room.
“Mr. Darcy, miss,” the girl whispered.
“Thank you, Hannah.”
Elizabeth nodded at the girl, who bobbed a curtsy and disappeared through the door, which she left ajar.
Darcy debated leaving it open but decided it would be best to have privacy for the conversation.
It would not do for a servant to listen at the door, then run to Lady Catherine with the news of his proposal before he had even returned to Rosings.
No, she had best hear the happy news from me directly.
He focused his attention on Elizabeth, who had risen to her feet upon his entrance. “Mr. Darcy,” she said in a cool voice, “this is certainly a surprise.”
The tone startled him slightly, and he faltered. “I… I hope I do not intrude.”
She remained standing. Her hands were loosely clasped before her, and though her expression was polite, it held no warmth.
He tried not to let that unsettle him. She was guarded. Of course she was. A gentleman did not show up unannounced to a lady’s drawing room in hopes of declaring himself without producing some measure of confusion.
“I had hoped for a moment to speak with you privately,” he said, gesturing faintly toward the chair across from hers. “May I?”
Her eyes widened. “Of course.”
He sat. She did the same. The fire crackled between them, and for a long moment, neither spoke.
Then he began.
“I find it difficult to know where to start.” He glanced down, then back to her. “Perhaps it would be best to be direct.”
Her gaze did not falter.
“I have come,” he said, “to ask you to be my wife.”
He paused—not for effect, but because the words themselves held weight enough to steal his breath.
“I cannot pretend this decision was made without difficulty. I struggled—sincerely—against the many disadvantages of such a match. Your family's situation… your relations… even your mother’s behavior at times…” He trailed off, then pressed forward with resolve.
“But despite every rational objection, I find myself unable to conquer my feelings. I love you.”
Elizabeth did not move.
Interpreting her silence as shock, he leaned closer, encouraged.
“I am not blind to the disparity in our situations, Miss Bennet. My connections, my income, my obligations—they all speak against such a union. Were I to consult only reason, I would not be here. But I cannot be silent any longer. I cannot fight it.”
He gave her the barest smile. “Against my judgment, my family’s expectations, and every possible consideration of propriety—my heart has chosen you.”
Something flickered in her expression, but it wasn’t the joy he expected to see.
Still, he pressed on. “I cannot forget you. I do not want to forget you. I have watched you—at Netherfield, and here—and I cannot help but admire your honesty, your wit, your conviction. You are unlike anyone I have ever known.”
Her fingers tightened slightly over the arm of the chair.
“I am aware,” he added quickly, “that your connections may be considered a disadvantage. But I no longer care.” He stood and crossed the space between them, taking her hand in his. “Miss Bennet, I offer you my heart. Marry me.”
Another silence followed.
Darcy waited.
Elizabeth drew a breath, then said, “I am sorry, Mr. Darcy. But I cannot accept.” Her voice was calm. Quiet. And colder than the frost outside.
Wait… what?
∞∞∞
Even as she said it, Elizabeth scarcely believed the words had come from her own lips.
Her heart was racing. Her hands, damp and cold, gripped the fabric of her gown where it pooled in her lap. She had not expected this—not this. She had expected perhaps another stilted conversation, a silent stare, another moment in which he observed her like some curious insect beneath glass.
But this?
He had proposed.
He had walked into this room and asked her to marry him, in the same tone one might offer a lady the last of the fish course. Earnest, yes—but laden with conditions. An apology and an insult, offered side by side like wine and vinegar.
He was still standing before her, stunned, as if he had been struck.
“I—I beg your pardon?”
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “No.”
“No?” he echoed, like a man who had tripped and could not quite comprehend the ground was no longer beneath him.
Her shock was beginning to bleed into something else now—something hot and rising in her chest. How dare he stand there and look injured?
Had he expected her to thank him? To fall to her knees in gratitude for being chosen—by a man who could scarcely keep the disgust from his voice even as he asked for her hand?
“No,” she said again, more firmly this time. “I do not accept.”
Darcy drew back half a pace, like a man finding himself unexpectedly in a duel.
“You astonish me,” he said at last.
She laughed—short, sharp, bitter. “I assure you, the feeling is mutual.”
He flushed and frowned at her. “I do not understand.”
“It is a simple enough word, Mr. Darcy; a mere two letters of the alphabet, and only one syllable. Although, I understand from a reliable source that you prefer words of four syllables, so perhaps I shall tell you that I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request.”
When he did not respond, Elizabeth stood. She was unable to remain seated while he loomed above her, still too tall and too self-possessed for a man who had just proposed as if she ought to be grateful for the humiliation. Her sudden movement force him to take a few steps back.
“May I ask… why?” His voice was strangled, but she could not bring herself to feel any sympathy for him.
“I cannot accept a man who makes it plain he sees my family as a disgrace, who considers my connections a burden to be borne. Do you expect me to thank you for overcoming your revulsion in order to offer me your hand?”
He looked genuinely startled. “I meant no insult—”