Chapter 18
Elizabeth
The official announcement of our engagement transformed Longbourn into a house under siege.
Neighbors came to congratulate, to question, and to see for themselves that Mr. Darcy had truly chosen a Bennet.
My mother received each visit with the modesty of a victorious queen.
She repeated Pemberley's income so often that I began to fear she might wear the figure down through sheer repetition.
The gossip in Meryton did not disappear immediately.
It changed form, however. The document signed by my father and Darcy's man of business clearly established that the debt would be repaid with interest and that the agreement did not depend on my marriage.
My father, who detested making his affairs public, consented to show the clauses to Colonel Forster.
The colonel then spoke with calculated discretion to those most likely to spread the truth.
Wickham left the regiment a few days later. His gambling debts, having grown too visible, had finally cost him the sympathy of several officers. I felt no satisfaction at his fall. Only relief to know he was far from Georgiana.
Lady Catherine wrote to us.
Her letter, addressed to Darcy, filled four pages with indignation. She announced that she would never receive a wife chosen from such an unsuitable family, that his mother's shade must be shuddering at Pemberley, and that Anne had been betrayed.
Darcy handed me the letter without comment.
“Would you like me to read it?” I asked.
“Everything concerning our marriage concerns you.”
I scanned the pages.
“Your aunt possesses remarkable energy.”
“She rarely employs it for the benefit of those around her.”
“Will you answer her?”
“Yes. I will tell her that I regret her decision, that Pemberley will welcome you as its mistress, and that no insult toward you will be tolerated in my house.”
“Do not break with her on my account.”
“It is not for you alone. I should have long ago put an end to her habit of treating Georgiana and Anne as children with no will of their own.”
I thought of Anne, silent at Rosings. Lady Catherine claimed she had been betrayed, but no one had asked whether she desired this marriage.
“Invite your cousin to Pemberley,” I said.
Darcy looked at me.
“My aunt will come with her.”
“Then invite Anne alone.”
A slow smile crossed his face.
“You are not yet married and already you are plotting against Lady Catherine.”
“I prefer to call it family administration.”
“You will be formidable.”
“You have been warned.”
Our wedding was set for three weeks after Jane and Mr. Bingley's. My father judged it proper not to further hasten a decision that had already seen too many changes. Darcy accepted, though he regarded the calendar with visible hostility.
The days became a succession of preparations, visits, and conversations that rendered our future marriage both public and strangely intimate.
We discussed the contract. Darcy wanted to guarantee me a substantial personal income, a house should I become a widow, and a sum for my mother if my father died before repaying his debt.
“You are too generous,” I said.
“I am prudent.”
“By anticipating your death before our marriage even takes place?”
“By ensuring that no one can ever make you believe your security depends on your obedience.”
That silenced me.
We also spoke of Pemberley, of Georgiana, of my family's visits, of the possibility of Kitty staying with us away from Lydia's influence. We spoke less easily of the wedding night.
It was I who broached the subject.
We were walking one afternoon through the small wood where the storm had once caught us. The pavilion stood a few steps away, dry this time beneath a clear sky.
“Fitzwilliam.”
He stopped. I used his first name only when we were alone, and each time he reacted as though I had caressed him.
“Yes?”
“I must ask you a question.”
“You look as though you are preparing for an interrogation.”
“I don't know how to phrase it elegantly.”
His expression grew attentive.
“Then don't seek elegance.”
I looked at the path.
“Have you… much experience?”
He stayed silent long enough that I regretted speaking.
“You want to know if I've had mistresses.”
The frankness of the word made me blush.
“Yes.”
“No.”
I looked up.
“Never?”
“I've known women before you, but no lasting relationships and none I could call a mistress. Since I've known you, no one.”
An absurd jealousy shot through me despite his answer.
“These women…”
“Didn't matter to me the way you do.”
“That's not exactly what I was going to ask.”
“Yet it's what you wanted to know.”
I shot him an irritated look.
“You're getting too good at reading me.”
“I'm practicing.”
He took my hand.
“And you?” he asked. “What do you fear?”
I could joke, deflect, pretend I feared nothing. I thought of his promise never to make my safety the price of my obedience.
“Not knowing what I should do. Being hurt. Disappointing you because you think I'm bolder than I might actually be.”
His face grew serious.
“You'll have nothing to prove. We'll go as slowly as you wish. If you want me to stop, you'll say so, and I will stop.”
“Even after the marriage?”
“Especially after the marriage. Consent given before an altar does not replace the consent you will give me in our chamber.”
I felt my eyes fill with tears and grew annoyed with myself.
“You have a very improper way of making a woman emotional.”
He brushed away a tear with his thumb.
“I can speak of something else.”
“No.”
I placed my hand on his chest. His heart was beating fast beneath my glove.
“And you? What do you fear?”
“Hurting you. Losing control. Seeing in your eyes that you regret choosing me.”
“That's a great many fears for a man who shows so few.”
“You have taught me honesty.”
I rose on tiptoe and kissed him.
At first he responded gently. Then his hand slipped behind my neck, his other arm closed around my waist, and the kiss deepened. We entered the pavilion almost without meaning to.
This time, my dress was dry. The warmth came entirely from him.
Darcy pressed me against the wall, then went still.
“Tell me if you wish me to stop.”
“I will.”
His mouth trailed along my cheek to my neck. The touch of his lips on my bare skin sent a sensation so vivid through me that my fingers gripped his shoulders. He kissed the place where my pulse beat, then the curve above my fichu.
“Fitzwilliam.”
He raised his head.
“Too much?”
“No.”
I took his hand and placed it on my waist, higher than he had allowed himself before. His eyes sought mine.
“Elizabeth…”
“I want to know.”
“What?”
“What I will feel when you touch me.”
His breath broke.
He slid his fingers over my bodice, slowly, without concealing what he was asking. I nodded. His palm covered my breast through the fabric.
The caress was gentle, almost motionless, and yet my entire body responded to it. I arched despite myself. His thumb brushed the hardened peak beneath my dress. A moan escaped me.
Darcy closed his eyes.
“If you make that sound again,” he murmured, “I won't be able to pretend we're being reasonable.”
“We haven't been reasonable since Hunsford.”
He kissed me with a hunger that swept me away. His hand continued to caress me through the fabric, while my body pressed against his with a boldness I would never have imagined. I felt his hardness against me. He pulled back abruptly.
“We must leave.”
“You always have such a sense of timing.”
“I'm trying to preserve what remains of my virtue.”
“And mine?”
“Yours strikes me as dangerously inventive.”
I adjusted my fichu, breathless.
He kissed my forehead.
“Three weeks,” he said.
“Two weeks and five days.”
His eyes lit up.
“You’re counting.”
“Only to help your arithmetic.”
We left the pavilion separately and made our way back to the main path with far from perfect dignity.
That evening, lying in bed, I thought of his hand on my body and the promise of what would come after the wedding.
I was no longer afraid of marrying him.
I was only afraid of the time still standing between us.