Chapter 3
Darcy
She had accepted.
During the journey to Rosings, I repeated this truth to myself with the obstinacy of a man afraid to wake from a dream. Elizabeth Bennet had agreed to become my wife.
I knew she did not yet love me. She had told me so with a frankness any other woman might have judged imprudent. Yet she had spoken of esteem, of possible trust, of an affection that might grow. I knew her integrity well enough to know she would not have spoken those words without believing them.
That was enough.
I had desired her with a violence that had at first offended my pride.
I had sought her faults and found only more reasons to watch her.
Her vivacity provoked me. Her laughter reached places within me I had thought long closed.
Even her unfavorable opinion mattered more to me than the admiration of women from whom I wanted nothing.
That evening, she had given me a chance to become worthy of her.
Fitzwilliam was in the Rosings library when a servant announced me. He looked up from his book and studied me.
“You look like a man who has just won a battle or declared one.”
“I am engaged.”
The book nearly slipped from his hands.
“To whom?”
I gave him a look that made him laugh.
“Forgive me. Your answer seems obvious, but your eagerness was not. Miss Bennet?”
“Yes.”
He rose at once and shook my hand with a warmth that touched me.
“I congratulate you. Sincerely. She is admirable.”
“I know.”
“Now there’s a declaration of enthusiasm worthy of you.”
I looked toward the fire.
“She does not wish the engagement announced before her father has given his consent.”
“Reasonable.”
“My aunt will not see it that way.”
Fitzwilliam grimaced.
“My aunt rarely finds anything reasonable unless she decided it herself. Do you intend to tell her this evening?”
“No.”
“You are becoming adventurous.”
I let him have his irony. Nothing, not even Lady Catherine’s anger, could touch the calm happiness settling within me.
Yet one phrase of Elizabeth’s kept returning: My family is facing a difficulty.
She had refused my help before even knowing I loved her. Her pride pleased me as much as it worried me. I would have to wait for her to confide in me. I had promised to respect her limits, and I intended to keep my word.
“Do you know her well?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“Well enough to wish to spend my life knowing her better.”
He looked at me with unfeigned surprise.
“God be praised, Darcy. So you are capable of poetry.”
“Tell no one.”
He laughed again, then grew more serious.
“She will make you happy, if you allow her to remain herself.”
“I would not want her otherwise.”
This answer was true. She had given me her conditions as other women offer promises. I wanted neither feigned docility nor blind admiration. I wanted her bright eyes when she prepared a retort, her judgment even when it condemned me, her courage to say what others left unsaid.
I also wanted her mouth.
The thought struck me with a force that made me turn away. When I had held her hand, I had needed every ounce of will not to draw her against me. She would be my wife. I would have the right, one day, to discover the softness of her lips, the warmth of her skin, the body hidden beneath her dresses.
But she did not love me.
I would take nothing she did not give freely.
“You are very silent for a happy man,” Fitzwilliam observed.
“I am learning to be one.”
The next morning, I left Rosings before breakfast. I knew where Elizabeth liked to walk. I had the decency not to pretend our meeting was fortuitous.
She appeared at the turn of the path, dressed in a light gown and a brown pelisse. The wind had loosened a lock of hair near her temple. My first impulse was to brush it back. I kept my hands behind my back.
“You’re up early,” she said.
“You gave me reason to hope for this meeting.”
“I didn’t realize Mr. Darcy’s hope was so obedient to the clock.”
“It has waited several months. It feels it has suffered enough.”
Her eyes widened, then she smiled. This smile, softer than her usual ones, confirmed I hadn’t dreamed the night before.
We walked.
“Have you regretted your answer?” I asked.
She turned her head sharply toward me.
“You don’t waste any time.”
“I spent the night fearing you might wake up and find another reason to disapprove of me.”
“Only one?”
“I’m trying to stay optimistic.”
She laughed, and I felt a tension ease in my chest.
“No,” she said at last. “I haven’t regretted it. I’ve only thought a great deal.”
“May I ask what about?”
“About Pemberley. About your sister. About how two people who have often quarreled can learn to live under the same roof without driving the servants to despair.”
“They’ll be generously paid.”
She gave me a mischievous look.
“That’s a very Darcy solution.”
“You’ll be free to propose something better.”
We reached a muddy stretch. I offered her my hand. She accepted after a brief hesitation. This time, her bare fingers rested in mine—she had removed her gloves to tie her bonnet ribbons more securely.
The contact made me lose my train of thought.
Her skin was cool. Her hand was smaller than mine, but her grip was firm. I helped her across the rut and held her a moment too long when her foot slipped.
She ended up close to me, close enough that I could feel her breath. Her eyes dropped to my mouth. I didn’t move.
She stepped back first.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
My voice was hoarse.
We resumed our walk, paying exaggerated attention to the landscape.
“You wanted to write to my father,” she said.
“I’ll do so today, if you give me his address and your permission to formally request his consent.”
“Write to him. I’ll send my own letter.”
“Do you wish me to mention… the difficulty you spoke of?”
She stiffened.
“No. I don’t yet know all that he’s willing to reveal.”
I bowed.
“I won’t speak of it.”
Her gaze sought mine, as if my lack of questions surprised her.
“You’re not curious?”
“Terribly.”
“And yet you ask nothing.”
“You told me you could say no more. I don’t wish our engagement to turn all your boundaries into permissions.”
She remained silent. I feared I had spoken too solemnly. Then she placed her hand on my arm again to step over a root, though she had no need of my help.
This tiny gesture filled me with disproportionate joy.
When we rejoined the road to the parsonage, we spotted Fitzwilliam in the distance. He raised his hat and came to meet us.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, “I find my cousin didn’t leave me time to offer my congratulations before monopolizing your morning.”
Elizabeth blushed.
“It seems Mr. Darcy fears competition.”
“With good reason. I’m infinitely more amiable.”
“But less wealthy,” she replied.
Fitzwilliam placed a hand over his heart.
“You strike precisely where the truth hurts.”
I smiled in spite of myself. Elizabeth looked at me, and I thought I saw a new warmth in her eyes.
I didn’t yet know that before this walk ended, my cousin would destroy the illusion on which all my happiness rested.