Chapter Fifteen The Art of Pouring Tea and Swallowing Pride #2
"I do not despise you. But I must beg your forgiveness.
I was blind, Mr Darcy. I was so wilfully blind.
I prided myself on my discernment, on my ability to read the character of others, and I failed.
I allowed Mr Wickham's charming manners to flatter my vanity, and I took his word as the only truth without a shred of evidence.
I championed a villain, and in doing so, I aimed my anger at a man who was merely protecting his family. I was prejudiced, sir. I apologise."
Darcy looked at her, stunned. He had clearly called expecting to fight for his life, and instead, Elizabeth had thrown open the gates and surrendered the armoury.
"You have nothing to apologise for," he replied quickly, his voice rough with emotion.
He leaned forward as well, bridging the gap over the tea service.
"You acted on the intelligence you had. How could you have known Wickham's true nature when I deliberately concealed it from the world?
My silence allowed his venom to spread. If anyone is to blame, it is I, for allowing my pride to dictate my actions. "
"We were both foolish," Elizabeth conceded, a small, rueful smile on her lips. "But I was cruel to throw his poverty in your face."
"And I," Darcy countered, a self-reproaching grimace twisting his handsome features, "insulted you within an hour of our acquaintance. I believe 'tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me' were the exact words."
Elizabeth gasped, her eyes widening in shock. She had not expected him to bring up the Meryton assembly. A laugh burst from her lips. "Good heavens, Mr Darcy! You remember that?"
"I remember every single time I have made a complete blockhead of myself in your presence," he admitted, running a hand through his hair, destroying its neat perfection.
"And that was undoubtedly my finest performance.
I was tired, I was miserable, and I was so determined to dislike the whole county of Hertfordshire that I insulted the most beautiful, captivating woman in the room just to prove a point to Bingley.
It was the statement of a monumental idiot. "
Elizabeth tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with affectionate mirth. "Well. Since we are trading in honesty today, I will confess that, yes, you were an idiot. But it was a very long time ago, and my vanity has successfully recovered from the blow. I forgive you the insult, sir."
Darcy smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Thank you. Though I fear my other offence requires far more than a simple apology to be forgiven."
The levity faded, replaced by the more fragile subject of Jane.
Elizabeth's expression softened. "You speak of my sister."
"I do." Darcy's gaze dropped to his hands for a moment before returning to her. "I told you why I separated them. I told you of my assumptions regarding her affections. I know that understanding my motives does not excuse the pain I caused her, or the grief it caused you."
"It was wrong, Mr Darcy." Elizabeth would not lie to him, not now. "Jane's heart was broken. But... I also understand now that you did not do it out of malice. You did it to protect your friend. And I know, because you told me, that you have attempted to rectify the error."
Darcy reached into the inner breast pocket of his coat. His fingers trembled as he withdrew a folded sheet of paper, sealed with a broken blob of green wax. He held it out to her.
"I have done more than attempt it, Miss Elizabeth. This arrived by express from London late last night."
Elizabeth stared at the letter, her heart giving a violent lurch. She reached out with a shaking hand and took it from him.
She unfolded the paper, her eyes skimming the lines quickly. As she read the words I asked her to marry me! She said yes!, a sound escaped her—a half-sob, half-laugh of pure joy. Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring the ink. She read the lines again to be certain it was not a trick of the light.
"They are engaged," Elizabeth whispered, pressing a hand over her mouth. "Jane is to be married. He went to her."
"He did." Darcy watched her face as though her happiness were a warmth he could absorb. "Bingley is the happiest man in England, according to his rather... effusive prose."
Elizabeth looked up from the letter, a tear slipping down her cheek, which she did not bother to wipe away. "I should get a letter from Jane soon," she managed, her voice shaking with joy. "Though the normal post from London is so dreadfully slow compared to a rider on an express."
"Yes, I assume she will likely write to you soon," Darcy agreed, his voice dropping an octave, becoming softer, more intimate. "But I could not wait for the post to reach Kent. I had to bring the news to you myself."
Elizabeth stared at him, the letter resting forgotten in her lap.
The man sitting before her had orchestrated the restoration of her beloved sister's happiness.
He had swallowed his pride, confessed his sins, and laid his honour at her feet.
The prejudice she had carried for months was not merely broken; it was ground into dust and swept away by a tidal wave of affection.
"I do not know how to thank you," she breathed, her eyes shining. "You have given my sister back her heart."
"You need not thank me for repairing a wall I tore down." Darcy leaned forward once more, his forearms resting on his knees. "But there is something more. I did not call merely to deliver Bingley's letter."
Elizabeth could not speak. She could only gaze into his dark eyes, reading the blazing emotion within them.
"In the grove, I told you I required no answer," Darcy began, his words carrying the weight of a vow.
"I said it because I was a coward. I was afraid to face your rejection, and I believed I had caused you too much pain ever to hope for your regard.
But last night... you smiled at me, and that single smile gave me reason to hope. "
He shifted, moving from the sofa, and before Elizabeth could fully process his intent, Darcy descended to one knee on the floral carpet in a gesture of total surrender.
Elizabeth gasped, her hands flying to her throat. He was too large for the room, too magnificent for the setting, and he was kneeling at her feet as though she were a queen on a throne.
"Miss Elizabeth," Darcy said, his soul bared in his eyes.
"I have fought against my judgement, my family's expectations, and my own cursed pride.
But it is useless. I cannot conquer it. I do not wish to conquer it.
My affections and wishes are unchanged since the day I realised I could not imagine a life without the brilliance of your mind and the warmth of your smile. "
Elizabeth's heart was beating so fiercely that she thought it might jump out of her chest and dance a reel.
"You have bewitched me," Darcy murmured, his voice cracking with the force of his devotion. "Body and soul. I love you. I love you most ardently. Please, do me the honour of accepting my hand. Say that you will marry me and make me the happiest, luckiest blockhead in all of Britain."
The silence in the parlour was no longer fraught; it was golden. It was the silence of a puzzle finally clicking into its rightful place.
A radiant smile broke across Elizabeth's face, chasing away the last of her tears.
"Well, if you are volunteering to be a happy blockhead, Mr Darcy, it seems only fair that I join you in the endeavour."
Darcy stared at her, scarcely daring to believe his own ears. "Elizabeth?" he whispered, his eyes searching hers for confirmation.
"Yes," Elizabeth said softly, the single word carrying the weight of her heart. She reached out, her hands finding his where they rested on his knee. "Yes, Fitzwilliam. I will marry you."
Darcy let out a relieved gasp. He captured her hands in his, bringing them to his lips and pressing fervent, burning kisses to her knuckles, his eyes suspiciously bright.
He rose, pulling her gently up with him. Elizabeth stood, the letter fluttering to the floor. Darcy wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush on his chest. Elizabeth looped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder and breathing in the scent of him.
It was a scandalous embrace for the middle of the morning in a clergyman's parlour. It was improper. Lady Catherine would have required smelling salts, and Mr Collins would have drafted a twenty-page sermon regarding the proximity of their bodies.
But as Darcy buried his face in her hair, holding her as though he would never let her go, Elizabeth Bennet could not bring herself to care about the rules of propriety.
She could only mentally thank every single turnip and potato in the root cellar that had wanted to be rotated at that precise moment.