Chapter 10 A Night of Restlessness and Resolve #2
Caroline intercepted him on the staircase. She wore an expression of false brightness, but her eyes were too sharp.
“Mr. Darcy! There you are. I have been hoping for a word.”
Darcy suppressed a sigh. “Miss Bingley.”
“I trust you are well? You seemed rather... distracted at breakfast.” She fell into step beside him, her tone light but probing. “I hope the evening's entertainments did not overtire you.”
“Not at all.”
“How fortunate. I confess I found certain elements of the company rather exhausting.” She paused, clearly waiting for him to agree.
He did not.
Caroline pressed on, undeterred. “Miss Eliza was quite animated, was she not? So many opinions. So much... energy.”
“Miss Elizabeth conducted herself admirably.”
“Did she?” Caroline's laugh held an edge. “I suppose one might call it that. Though I noticed she spent a great deal of time in conversation with Mr. Wickham. They seemed rather intimate.”
Darcy's jaw tightened. “I would not describe their conversation as intimate.”
“No? He was most attentive to her. Solicitous, even.” Caroline's eyes glittered with malice poorly disguised as concern. “I do hope his behavior did not trouble you. He did seem to attach himself to her quite shamelessly.”
“Mr. Wickham's behavior is of no concern to me.”
“Is it not?” Caroline tilted her head, studying him.
“How very... detached of you. Did he not grow up near Pemberley? He said as much. I was concerned there might be animosity between you, though Charles has spoken of no such thing. But in either case, I should hate to see you inconvenienced by such an imprudent young woman.”
Darcy stopped walking. He had not spoken of it to Bingley because, as close as he and Bingley were, he had been reluctant to expose Georgiana’s secret.
He had also not wanted Wickham to know how much power he still held over Darcy.
Detachment was power. Or at least that was what he had assumed.
Now, he wondered if detachment had only been another form of running away.
“Miss Elizabeth is spirited, yes,” Caroline continued, “but hardly suited to—”
Darcy did not like Caroline’s insinuations, and his rising fury was such he could not hold his opinions to himself any longer. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy said, his voice cutting through her words like a blade, “is a lady of great intelligence and character. I will hear nothing against her.”
Caroline froze, her eyes going wide..
Darcy met her gaze steadily. He had tolerated her schemes, her manipulations, her endless attempts to position herself as his future wife. He would not tolerate this.
“I—” Caroline stammered. “I meant no—”
“Good day, Miss Bingley.”
He stepped around her and continued up the stairs. It was, perhaps, the clearest declaration he had ever made in her presence. He did not regret it.
The afternoon brought Bingley to his door, practically vibrating with nervous energy.
“Darcy! You must come with me. I cannot wait any longer—I must see her—I must speak to Miss Bennet today.”
Darcy looked up from the book he had been failing to read. “You intend to call at Longbourn?”
“This very hour. Say you will accompany me. I cannot face it alone.”
“Bingley, you have called at Longbourn a dozen times without requiring support.”
“This is different.” Bingley ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in wild tufts. “This time I mean to—that is—if the opportunity presents itself—” He stopped, took a breath, and met Darcy's eyes with surprising steadiness. “I will ask for Miss Bennet’s hand.”
Darcy's heart clenched.
Going to Longbourn meant seeing Miss Elizabeth. Meant facing her before he had properly prepared his words, before he had rehearsed what to say about Wickham, before he had steeled himself against the force of her presence.
But he could not refuse Bingley. Not when his friend stood before him with hope and terror warring in his expression, asking for support in the most important moment of his life.
“Very well,” Darcy said. “I will come.”
Bingley's face split into a relieved grin. “Excellent! We leave immediately.”
They rode through the frosty fields in companionable silence, the horses' breath fogging in the cold air. The countryside glittered with winter's harsh beauty—bare trees etched against a pale sky, frost-covered hedgerows, the distant spire of Meryton's church catching the weak December sun.
As they traveled, Bingley asked the question Darcy had been expecting.
“Do you truly approve? Of my intentions toward Miss Bennet?”
Darcy considered his answer carefully. A month ago, he would have counseled caution. Would have pointed out the deficiencies of the Bennet family, the dangers of an unequal match, the importance of considering all factors before committing one's heart.
Now, watching his friend's earnest hope, remembering Jane Bennet's gentle grace and obvious devotion, he found he had no reservations left to voice.
“Bingley,” he said, “I believe you could not make a better choice.”
Bingley beamed as though Darcy had handed him the sun.
They arrived at Longbourn to find the household in its usual state of cheerful chaos.
Mrs. Bennet greeted them with enthusiasm that bordered on hysteria, ushering them into the sitting room with a stream of observations about the weather, the roads, the excellence of their coats, and the certainty that they must be famished after their ride.
Darcy endured it with what patience he could muster. His attention was fixed on the doorway, waiting for Miss Elizabeth to appear.
She did not.
Bingley requested a private word with Jane, and Mrs. Bennet—displaying a tactical awareness Darcy had not credited her with—immediately cleared the room of younger sisters, leaving Bingley and Jane alone on the pretense of fetching tea.
Darcy found himself stranded in the front parlor with Mrs. Bennet, who attempted to engage him in conversation about carriage horses and Christmas puddings. He responded with monosyllables, his ears straining for any sound from the hallway.
And then he heard her voice.
Soft, musical, coming from somewhere deeper in the house. His pulse jumped.
Footsteps approached. The door opened.
Miss Elizabeth entered just as Bingley and Jane rejoined the gathering, their expressions radiant with barely contained joy. They had not made any announcement—not yet—but their happiness was evident to anyone with eyes.
Darcy barely noticed.
His attention was fixed entirely on Miss Elizabeth.
She wore a simple morning dress, her hair pinned loosely, her cheeks flushed from whatever task had occupied her. She looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful. But today there was something different in her expression—a warmth, an openness, that made his breath catch.
She saw him and smiled.
Darcy rose automatically, the movement so instinctive he did not realize he had done it until he was already standing.
“Mr. Darcy.” Her voice was warm. Warmer than any previous moment between them. “I did not expect to see you today.”
“Bingley wished to call. I—” He stopped, painfully aware of how inadequate his words were. “I am glad to see you well.”
“And I you.” She moved closer, lowering her voice so that only he could hear. “I wished to thank you. For your kindness last night. To Lydia, and to—” She paused, color rising in her cheeks. “To me. In the alcove.”
Darcy's heart pounded. “It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing.” Her eyes held his, earnest and searching. “You have been... I confess I do not entirely understand you, Mr. Darcy. But I find I wish to.”
The words did as much as a pugilist’s jab to steal the breath from his lungs. She wished to understand him. She was open to him in a way she had not been before.
This was his moment.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice rough with everything he was trying to contain, “there is something I wish to tell you. Something important.”
She looked surprised but not unwelcoming. “Yes?”
He took a breath, marshaling his thoughts, preparing to speak the words he had rehearsed all morning—
“LYDIA! LYDIA, WHERE ARE YOU? FETCH THE RIBBONS AT ONCE!”
Mrs. Bennet burst into the room, her cap askew, her expression frantic.
“We are to have guests this evening—a small gathering—and nothing is prepared! Jane, you must help with the arrangements. Lizzy, remind Hill the good silver needs polishing. Where is that wretched girl? LYDIA!”
The moment shattered.
Miss Elizabeth stepped back, her expression apologetic. “I am sorry—I must—”
“Of course.” Darcy forced the words through a throat gone tight with frustration. “Your mother requires you.”
“Perhaps we might speak later? At the gathering tonight?”
“I would like that. Very much.”
She held his gaze for one more moment—a soft, encouraging look that anchored something deep in his chest. Then she was gone, swept away by her mother's demands, leaving Darcy standing alone with his unspoken words and his pounding heart.
Bingley strode into the room immediately thereafter, grinning widely. “She said yes.”
Darcy blinked, pulling himself back to the present. “Miss Bennet accepted you?”
“She did! I spoke to Mr. Bennet first. He was rather dry about it, made some remark about hoping I understood what I was getting into taking on the Bennets as relations, but he gave his blessing. And then I found Jane alone in the morning room, and I asked her, and she—” Bingley's voice cracked with emotion.
“She said yes, Darcy. She said she had hoped I would ask.”
“I am glad for you, Bingley. Truly.”
“I was terrified, you know. Absolutely terrified.
The whole walk to Mr. Bennet's study, I was convinced he would refuse me. And then when I finally had Jane alone, I could barely get the words out. My hands were shaking. I think I may have babbled something about the weather before I managed to actually propose.” He laughed, giddy and disbelieving.
“But she said yes. She hoped I would ask. Darcy, I am the happiest man in England!”
Despite everything—the interrupted moment, the words still burning on his tongue—Darcy felt himself smile. “I believe you are.”
“You will stand with me? At the wedding?”
“Of course.”
Bingley embraced him with enthusiasm that would have been embarrassing under any other circumstances. Darcy endured it, his thoughts already racing ahead.
Tonight. There would be a gathering tonight. Miss Elizabeth had invited him to speak with her. Had looked at him with warmth, with welcome, with something that might have been hope.
Darcy would not waste the opportunity. He had seen the change in Miss Elizabeth. Her openness. Her willingness to listen. Her shifting perception of Wickham.
She was ready to hear the truth.
And he was ready to tell it.