Chapter Twenty-Seven #3
He had known his preference was becoming apparent.
Bingley certainly knew it, his sisters suspected it, and half the neighbourhood had likely formed opinions of its own after three dances at the assembly and his repeated visits to Longbourn.
Yet hearing Elizabeth acknowledge his attentions herself, without embarrassment sufficient to make her deny or dismiss them, affected him far more strongly than any observation made by another could have done.
“Whether Mama truly believes those attentions signify what she wishes them to signify, or merely found them a convenient means of directing Mr. Collins elsewhere, I cannot say,” Elizabeth continued.
“In either case, I am grateful for the result. Mary is less so. She has already announced that she means to refuse him should he offer for her.”
Darcy scarcely attended to the final observation.
Upon the strength of your attentions to me.
He had come to Oakham Mount that morning because he wanted to see Elizabeth.
He had spent much of the walk considering whether the time had come to make his intentions plain, and had arrived no nearer a decision by the time he reached the summit.
Now Elizabeth herself had placed the matter between them with an ease which made further hesitation feel very much like cowardice.
“Your mother is not mistaken,” he said.
Elizabeth stilled, the amusement leaving her expression as colour rose swiftly into her cheeks. “Not mistaken in what?”
“In believing my attentions particular.”
Her surprise was immediate, and Darcy's heart beat harder at the sight of it. He had faced her now, however, and there could be no advantage in retreating behind ambiguity.
Nor did he wish to.
“I have been conscious for some time that my conduct towards you must eventually require greater plainness than I have yet shown.” Darcy held her gaze.
“I admire you, miss Elizabeth. Very much. I have sought your company because I wished for it, and if my preference has become apparent to others, I cannot pretend to regret it.”
Colour entered her cheeks.
Darcy knew better than to interpret it. He possessed enough knowledge of Elizabeth's private thoughts already without claiming a right to those she had not chosen to give him.
“I should like permission to pay my addresses to you openly,” he continued. “I would, of course, speak to your father, but I would not do so before knowing that such attentions would be agreeable to you.”
Elizabeth did not answer immediately.
Darcy waited, though every second of her silence seemed considerably longer than it could possibly have been.
He had reason to hope. More reason, indeed, than an honourable man ought to possess.
Her last letter had told him that she anticipated seeing him, remembered their conversations afterwards, and wondered about his opinions when he was absent.
But those words had not been given to him.
He would not use them now.
“You wish to court me,” she said at last.
“I do.”
Her eyes remained upon his, and Darcy resisted the temptation to search her expression for an answer she had not yet spoken.
“And you wish me to answer you now?”
“No.” The answer came easily, for on this point he had no uncertainty. “I would rather have an answer freely considered than one given because I had surprised you into it. Take whatever time you require.”
“That is very considerate of you, Mr. Darcy.”
“I am not certain consideration deserves much credit when it agrees so entirely with self-interest. I should very much prefer your answer to be one you do not later regret.”
Her mouth curved. “That is a very serious observation for a Saturday morning.”
“I find the subject a serious one.”
“Yes,” she said more quietly. “I believe you do.”
Elizabeth turned again towards the valley, and Darcy made himself do the same.
Waiting was difficult, but pressing her would have been intolerable.
Whatever knowledge her letters had afforded him, whatever hopes he had permitted himself because of them, this answer must belong entirely to Elizabeth.
“I shall think upon it,” she said at last. “And I promise I shall give you a proper answer when I have done so.”
Relief came first, swift enough that Darcy had to guard against displaying too much of it. She had not accepted him, but neither had she refused, and nothing in her manner suggested that the prospect of his courtship distressed her.
“That is all I ask.”
The smile she gave him then was warm enough to make patience seem, for the moment, entirely possible.
They remained upon Oakham Mount for some time afterwards, their conversation gradually returning to less consequential matters.
Yet Darcy could not pretend anything between them was quite as it had been before.
He had finally given open expression to an attachment he had carried in secrecy for far longer than Elizabeth could possibly know, and she had promised him an answer.
It ought to have left him entirely satisfied.
Instead, as he sat beside her beneath the clear autumn sky, Darcy found himself conscious of the bitter irony beneath his happiness. He had asked Elizabeth to consider him with perfect freedom, while possessing knowledge of her feelings she had never freely given him.
For the first time, the advantage her letters had afforded him felt less like hope and more like a debt that would one day have to be paid.