CHAPTER 49 #3
Darcy looked across the room.
Elizabeth stood with Jane and Kitty. The sunlight from the window touched the ivory of her gown and the dark of her curls beneath the bonnet; the ring flashed once when she moved her hand.
She was smiling at something Kitty had said, not broadly, but with warmth unguarded enough that he felt the sight in his chest.
“I have discovered,” he said, “that she makes room for happiness by refusing disorder the first claim upon her.”
Mr. Bennet was silent for a moment.
Then he said, quieter, “A better answer than mine.”
Darcy turned. Mr. Bennet’s face had regained some of its usual ease, but not all of it.
“I do not know that any answer is final,” said Darcy.
“No. That is the inconvenience of daughters. They grow up and remember.”
Darcy did not absolve him. It was not his place, and perhaps not his wish.
Mr. Bennet looked toward Elizabeth. “Take care of her, sir.”
“I mean to deserve the charge.”
Mr. Bennet nodded, and for once said nothing witty to protect himself from the consequence of having spoken plainly.
The carriage was announced before Mrs. Bennet could become entirely one with grief.
This, too, had been arranged.
Farewells began and were immediately governed.
Jane held Elizabeth longest, but not too long.
Mary wished her happiness with solemn feeling and then added that the service had been admirably free of excess music.
Kitty kissed Elizabeth’s cheek and said the gown was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, then blushed as if beauty had been an improper confession.
Lydia declared that she had behaved extremely well and hoped all present had noticed.
“I noticed,” said Elizabeth.
“Did Mr. Darcy?”
“I did,” said Darcy gravely.
Lydia looked gratified. “Then I shall continue.”
“Do not exhaust yourself,” said Mary.
Mrs. Bennet embraced Elizabeth with feeling enough for three departures and time enough for one.
“My dear Lizzy,” she cried, “only think of your going away directly after your wedding breakfast! I am sure I never heard of such a thing. A mother has so few comforts. You must write, of course. I shall be very anxious to know whether the house is respectable, and whether the rooms are properly aired, and whether Mr. Darcy’s uncle’s servants know what they are about. ”
“I shall write, Mama.”
“And you must remember that I have been very much tried.”
“I shall remember it from Surrey.”
Mr. Bennet coughed.
Mrs. Bennet was too moved to understand the remark and too hurried to improve upon it. The footman had opened the carriage door.
Darcy handed Elizabeth in.
For one absurd second, habit offered him the opposite seat. Marriage corrected habit. He sat beside her.
The carriage door closed.
The house, the flowers, the guests, the voices, the rules, Mrs. Bennet’s handkerchief, Richard’s grin, his uncle’s steady eyes, Bingley’s happiness, Jane’s tears — all of it remained outside.
Elizabeth looked at him sideways.
“That was very decisive.”
“Was it?”
“The seat, Mr. Darcy.”
He glanced at the opposite bench as if it had made an unreasonable suggestion. “I have spent several months obliged to prefer your company with restraint. I am now allowed to prefer it openly, and I intend to make very good use of the privilege.”
Her smile came slowly. “A privilege already abused, I think. We have not yet left London.”
“Then I have begun promptly.”
The carriage turned out of Portman Square.
For several minutes neither of them spoke. The silence was not empty. It was occupied by astonishment, by relief, by the motion of the carriage, by the small distance between her shoulder and his sleeve, by the new fact of her hand resting near his on the seat.
Yesterday, he would have required a reason to touch it.
Today, the reason wore his ring.
He took her hand.
She let him.
The carriage had not yet cleared the last of London when Elizabeth drew off her glove.
Darcy watched the movement with an attention he had no intention of defending.
The ring sat newly upon her finger, the gold still strange against her hand.
In the church it had been only a flash of diamond and green; here, in the moving light from the carriage window, the emeralds showed their colour properly.
Elizabeth turned her hand once.
“You chose emeralds.”
“I did.”
“They are beautiful.”
“I hoped you would think so.”
She looked up at him, and whatever she saw there softened her amusement.
“You were not certain?”
“I was certain of wishing to please you. The rest was less secure.”
She looked back at the ring. Her thumb touched the band lightly, as if learning it.
“You have pleased me very much.”
The words were simply said. They did him unreasonable damage.
He took her hand more carefully.
“There is something inside it.”
“Inside?”
“Yes.”
She tried to turn the ring, then laughed under her breath. “I cannot see it.”
“No.”
“Will you tell me?”
His thumb rested against the band. “Your name.”
She went still.
“Elizabeth?” she asked.
“Elizabeth.”
Her fingers closed around his.
“Not Mrs. Darcy,” he said. “Not instead.”
She looked at him then, and for once he could not improve silence by speaking.
“No,” she said softly. “Not instead.”
London noise thinned by degrees: fewer wheels, fewer cries, more hoofbeat, more open air. A line of trees stood just touched with green; hedges showed the first brave disorder of spring. Elizabeth remained silent long enough that Darcy began to wonder whether he had said too much.
Then she leaned her head back against the carriage squabs and smiled at the roof.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I am considering whether to be moved, amused, or offended that you know me so well.”
“All three may be attempted. We have several hours.”
She laughed then, softly, and turned her hand in his so their fingers lay more naturally together.
“I bought you something also.”
“Did you?”
“Not a ring.”
“I had observed that office was occupied.”
She reached with her free hand for the small reticule beside her and drew out a wrapped parcel. It was neatly tied and small enough to fit in her palm.
“I meant to give it to you once we had left the breakfast,” she said. “Before anyone could ask whether it was for them.”