Chapter 28 #2
She read the lines once, then lowered her gaze to read them again, for the words had gone unaccountably blurred. “It is beautiful,” she said.
“You are kind, but I am aware that the metre limps in the second line and finding a rhyme for entreat left me rather limited.” He shrugged inelegantly. “It was my first attempt at verse. I thought it wise to learn how it was received before attempting a second.”
Her first Valentine. Elizabeth held it to her chest before folding it and tucking it into her sleeve. She would keep it forever and never even tease him about it. “I am very pleased with it, Mr. Darcy.”
He had now told her all she had wished to hear. He had not loved her because of the rumours about Mr. Aldridge. He had loved her before London, before his mother’s matchmaking, before Miss Finch, before he had even understood that he did. The knowledge nestled somewhere deep within her.
“We have both been very foolish,” she said.
He released a breath. “Yes.”
Beyond the open door the crush roared on, and Elizabeth sat across from Mr. Darcy while the whole of their acquaintance rearranged itself in her mind.
She remembered the large party at Darcy House, when Captain Lyle had left her no easy way past him and Mr. Darcy had appeared at her side, just as he had tonight.
At the time, she had thought he was merely walking to the card room and had seen her distress.
Now she believed that Mr. Darcy had noticed her absence and come to find her.
She remembered his appearances in the park, the colonel’s strange pace in the park, the tea prepared exactly as she liked it, him saying My sister will be sorry to lose you.
She remembered his lovely apologies, his remark about the bluebells, and, finally, her aunt’s parlour, where he had abandoned his customary formality and simply told her that he loved her.
He had never known what to say in her presence, and she had mistaken that confusion for pride or dislike. It was rather hard on him and not especially flattering to her own perceptive abilities.
“Oh,” said Elizabeth at last, in a voice she did not recognise.
Her words came tumbling out all at once.
“I could not tell whether you loved me or had simply decided upon me. Your mother had been deciding such matters all winter, and I thought perhaps you were doing it for her, but that did not make sense because I thought she wished you to marry Miss Finch. When you left, you would not look at me, and I was grateful for that, because I was weeping and did not want you to see it. It took me far too long to puzzle it out, but then you were not there to say it to.”
She hesitated, then thought she might as well lay everything bare. “You stayed away because you had promised not to trouble me again. It was a very honourable promise, and I have never disliked honour quite so much.”
“You were weeping?” he asked, aghast.
Was that all he had heard? “Yes.”
His fingers tightened around hers. “Had I known—”
“Would you have stayed?”
“I would have remained until you ordered me out of the house.”
“That might have taken some time. I was in no condition to give orders.”
His face did not soften. If anything, the pain in it deepened. “I thought I had hurt you past bearing.”
“You had,” Elizabeth said. “But not for the reason you assumed.”
He laughed, brief and low. Then he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
“I have thought a great deal about it,” Elizabeth said, feeling suddenly so light she was nearly giddy, “and I never actually refused you. We seem to have left that part unfinished.”
“I will not ask you again tonight.”
Her smile faltered.
“I should like to court you first,” he continued. “Properly, this time.”
To be courted openly by Mr. Darcy was something she had stopped allowing herself to imagine. “I should like that,” she said at last. Her voice trembled a little, for the rush of joy the words created could not be entirely contained.
He looked down at their joined hands. “There is one more thing I ought to tell you. Then you may decide whether I have been sufficiently honest.”
She lifted her brows. “That is not a reassuring beginning.”
“I knew you would be here tonight.”
“How?”
“Your uncle told me.”
“Mr. Darcy, my uncle does not generally send gentlemen notices of his social engagements.”
“No. And he was not especially encouraging.”
Mr. Darcy explained that he had written to her uncle a week past. He had not asked for assistance, an interview, or even news of her. He had told her uncle only that he had offered for her, that he had done so badly, and that the fault was entirely his.
“I believe he intended to leave the matter to you.”
Elizabeth’s laugh was tinged with exasperation. “That is very like him. It is also extremely provoking.”
“He wrote back to thank me for my honesty. He then informed me that I was not to approach you at his house, in the street, or anywhere else unless you invited it.”
“That is also very like him.”
“I gave him my word.”
“Then what were you doing here?”
“He also happened to mention that he would be in attendance at Lady Wexcombe’s gathering with his wife and nieces.”
“I did tell my aunt I wished I could see you again,” she admitted. “I fear my uncle would not have allowed it otherwise.”
“Your uncle is the best of men,” Mr. Darcy told her. “And I was grateful for the information. I came intending to see you from a distance. If you happened to see me, well . . .”
“And then?”
His answer was perfectly dry and perfectly him. “I saw you, separated from your party and appearing quite grey. At that point, my assurance to your uncle seemed less important than preventing you from falling to the floor.”
Elizabeth looked down at their hands. Her uncle had required Mr. Darcy to stay away, and he had obeyed until she needed him. Then he had told her the truth instead of allowing her to believe their meeting was mere chance. A man determined to manage her would not have done that.
“There is one more difficulty,” he said.
“Another?” she asked, feeling playful. “You have been hard at work.”
“I have a great deal of time to make up for. I was in love with you in October, though it took me some time to realise it. I have wasted every month since. I wish you to know that I intend to call very often.”
“And this is the difficulty? My goodness, Mr. Darcy, how often do you mean to call?”
“You will be weary of me by Easter and send me back to Derbyshire.”
“I shall not.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I know it perfectly well. I have just spent a fortnight without you, and I found it very disagreeable.”
“Then we concur,” he said. “I am to court you, and you are not to be rid of me.”
She smiled widely. “Very well then. You may call until my uncle regrets ever permitting it.”
“He may already regret telling me where he would be tonight.”
Elizabeth felt her eyes fill, but she blinked the tears back. “Then you have made an excellent beginning.”
Mr. Darcy regarded her with such close attention that she was obliged to look away. One tear escaped despite her efforts, but before she could brush it aside, he drew out his handkerchief and caught it gently in the cloth.
His hand lingered for the briefest moment. Elizabeth could feel his breath upon her cheek, and her own breath grew short, not from the heat but from how very close they were.
Then he rose and held out his hand. When she placed hers in it, his fingers closed tenderly around her own, and he helped her to her feet with such care that her throat tightened all over again.
He glanced towards the hall, then back at her, and offered his arm. “May we begin now?”
Elizabeth placed her hand on his arm and gazed up at him. “We have already begun, Mr. Darcy.”
He looked down at her hand, then at her, and made no attempt at all to govern his expression.
“But yes,” she added. “Now suits me very well indeed.”
Mr. Darcy led her back into the crowd in search of her family. People made way for him at once, just as they had before, and Elizabeth decided that four hundred people were not nearly so oppressive when the man she had chosen had also chosen her.