Chapter 26
After securing Mr. Bennet’s consent to court Elizabeth, Darcy excused himself from Longbourn to allow the Bennet family to finish their breakfast in peace. Upon returning to Netherfield, he immediately went to his room and began a letter to Georgiana.
It ought to have been a simple letter. He had written to his sister from inns, barracks, estate offices, tenant cottages, and once with his hand still cramped from helping drag a cart from a ditch.
Words to Georgiana had never been difficult.
He could tell her of sheep, weather, repairs, books, horses, Mrs. Reynolds’s opinions, and the progress of the south wing with perfect ease.
This letter took him nearly an hour to begin.
At last, he dipped his pen, drew the paper nearer, and wrote:
My dearest Georgiana,
I have news of a personal nature, and though nothing is yet settled beyond the permission to proceed, I would not have you hear it from any other hand. I have requested and received Mr. Bennet’s permission to court his second daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
He paused there, looking at the words.
They seemed too plain for what they contained.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
The name alone altered the room around him.
He saw her on Oakham Mount, cold-cheeked and guarded, refusing him with more kindness than he deserved, then offering him hope in the same breath.
He saw her beside him on the path to Longbourn, laughing because Mr. Collins would now need to leave her alone.
He saw her in the breakfast room, biting her lip against laughter at the sight of her family’s astonishment while Darcy stood like a man awaiting judgment before a tribunal of Bennets, one clergyman, and half-eaten eggs.
He had been happy since.
Not at peace, precisely; he did not think loving Elizabeth would ever permit him the dull peace he had once mistaken for contentment.
But settled. Freed from the worst kind of uncertainty.
No longer forced to measure every glance, deny every hope, and pretend that duty required him to wound himself and her in equal measure.
He wrote on.
You may remember my mention of a young lady connected to a discovery in London two years ago, though I was careful then not to include any particulars.
Miss Elizabeth is that young lady. She is clever, lively, compassionate, courageous, and very much unlike the ladies you have seen praised merely for being quiet and accomplished.
I think you would like her. More than that, I hope you will come to love her, if matters progress as I pray they may.
He hesitated over the last sentence, then left it. Georgiana deserved honesty.
He assured her there was no engagement, that Miss Elizabeth had very properly requested a courtship rather than accepting a proposal made with too much haste, and that he was determined to earn her trust. He did not mention how near he had come to ruining everything by pride and fear.
Georgiana would hear enough of his faults from him one day, but not in a letter that would make her anxious at Matlock House.
When he finished, he felt lighter.
The letter to Colonel Fitzwilliam was shorter and less sentimental, though not by much.
Richard would see through any attempt at studied indifference.
Darcy informed him that he was courting Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn in Hertfordshire, that she possessed more wit than was safe for any man’s vanity, and that if Richard made one joke about Roman treasure, Darcy would deny all knowledge of the correspondence.
He added, after a moment’s thought, that he would welcome his cousin’s prayers, though not his teasing, and knew perfectly well he would receive both.
The letter to Lord and Lady Matlock required greater care.
His uncle knew more than most. His aunt knew enough to suspect a great deal.
Darcy wrote with respect, gratitude, and plainness, explaining that he had requested permission to court Miss Elizabeth Bennet, that the arrangement remained private beyond the lady herself and her uncle, and that he hoped, with time, to make the lady as certain of him as he already was of her.
He thanked them, too, for their care of Georgiana and for every quiet protection they had extended over the years, including those connected to Gracechurch Street.
When the letters were sealed, Darcy sat back and allowed himself one deep breath.
There. It was real enough to write.
The following week proved one of the happiest of his life.
Happiness, Darcy discovered, was not always a grand thing.
Sometimes it was the simple absence of torment.
He no longer had to look away from Elizabeth in churchyards, drawing rooms, or lanes.
He no longer had to pretend indifference while every part of him strained toward her.
He could call at Longbourn with Bingley, speak to her beneath the watchful pleasure of Mrs. Bennet and the quieter amusement of Mr. Bennet, walk with her when propriety allowed, and send her a book without manufacturing an excuse that would satisfy even his own pride.
It was extraordinary, how much comfort could be found in permission.
The courtship had not solved every difficulty.
Mr. Collins remained at Longbourn for several days, though his hopes had been crushed beneath the weight of Darcy’s presence and Mrs. Bennet’s immediate redirection.
Darcy endured his bows, compliments, and repeated references to Lady Catherine with more patience than he would have believed himself capable of a fortnight earlier.
Elizabeth’s eyes would meet his across the room whenever Mr. Collins offered some particularly magnificent absurdity, and that was enough to make endurance almost pleasant.
Almost.
Bingley, meanwhile, continued his own quieter courtship of Jane, though he had not yet named it so.
Darcy watched his friend with affection and some amusement.
Bingley had never been so industrious. He found reasons to call at Longbourn, reasons to send fruit, reasons to inquire after Jane’s continued recovery, reasons to consult Elizabeth about Netherfield’s tenants when Jane happened to be in the room, and once a reason to deliver a book Mary had only mentioned in passing, which surprised everyone, including Mary.
Darcy thought better of him for it.
At Netherfield, Miss Bingley bore the altered circumstances badly but not loudly.
She smiled too much, played too often, praised Georgiana with renewed fervor, and spoke of London whenever Elizabeth was mentioned.
Darcy answered her civilly and gave her no encouragement.
Mrs. Hurst watched with sleepy interest and appeared, upon the whole, less surprised than her sister.
Hurst cared only that dinner remained punctual.
Every morning, Darcy woke with the same astonishing recollection: he was courting Elizabeth.
Every evening, he went to bed thinking of something she had said.
Once, during a walk with her and Jane along the lane near Longbourn, Elizabeth spoke of her young Gardiner cousins with such warmth that Darcy found himself silent for several minutes afterward, overcome again by the realization that he had nearly sacrificed all this—her affection, her laughter, the future that now shimmered before him—for the cold comfort of prudence without love.
Another day, she asked him about Georgiana, and the interest in her face was so sincere that he spoke more freely than he had intended.
He told her of Georgiana’s shyness, her music, her kindness, her tendency to blame herself for burdens no child should carry.
Elizabeth listened without interruption.
“She sounds lonely,” she said at last.
Darcy looked away. “She has been.”
“Then I hope I may be her friend.”
He could not answer immediately.
Elizabeth did not press him. She only slipped her gloved hand a little more securely around his arm, and he covered it briefly with his own before remembering where they were.
It was enough.
Then, one afternoon, a carriage came up the drive at Netherfield.
Darcy stood near the window in the breakfast room, where Bingley had insisted upon showing him some account from the steward that could easily have waited until evening. The vehicle was unfamiliar, though the crest upon the panel made Darcy straighten at once.
Matlock.
He turned toward Bingley. “Did you expect visitors?”
Bingley’s expression became far too innocent. “Visitors? Perhaps.”
“Bingley.”
His friend grinned outright. “Do you like the surprise?”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “What surprise?”
“The one currently arriving in my drive.” Bingley could no longer contain himself.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam wrote to me. Well, first he wrote to ask whether I was respectable enough to shelter your sister, which I thought a little severe, as he has known me for years. Then Miss Darcy added a note of such sweetness that even Caroline would have melted had I shown it to her, which I did not. They requested to come here rather than wait in town, because Miss Darcy wished very much to meet Miss Elizabeth.”
Darcy stared at him.
For a moment, words failed.
Bingley’s smile softened. “You are not angry?”
Angry?
Darcy turned back toward the window as the carriage came to a halt. A footman let down the steps. Richard emerged first, moving with a trace of stiffness that still lingered from his wound but with all his usual irreverent energy. Then he turned and handed Georgiana down.
She stood upon the gravel, tall for her age but still young, wrapped in a dark pelisse, her bonnet ribbons stirring in the wind. Her face was pale with uncertainty as she looked toward the house.
Darcy was already moving.
He reached the hall before the servant had fully opened the door and crossed the steps without hat or gloves. Richard looked up, took one look at his face, and wisely said nothing.
Georgiana’s eyes widened. “Brother.”
Darcy stopped before her, suddenly aware that she was nervous.