Seventh Dance
Every person in the room except Lady Catherine, knew what was really being asked. A third set could mean but one thing, and the room fell eerily silent awaiting her reply.
The question astonished Elizabeth, yet her immediate answer surprised her more.
Somehow, by some preternatural sequence of events, the two had gone from enemies, to acquaintances, to friends, to lovers in less than three hours.
Yet that was not the greatest surprise. Truly remarkable was her thorough comfort with the decision.
There was no doubt, no worry, no nagging uncertainty; she harboured no troublesome feeling that she did anything except what was right, just, and natural.
Their choices had been made simultaneously, in that shared moment in the middle of the crowded assembly hall when nobody else in the world existed.
It was not destiny. With a different reaction to the slight that began the evening, she might have missed her chance for months or years, or perhaps they would never have come together at all. But come together they had, and the bond was strong as iron!
Everyone near the newly acknowledged couple needed no words to ascertain her answer.
It showed in her face, a look of heartfelt delight that lit the entire room with its intensity.
The gentleman’s corresponding expression was similarly unambiguous, and the attendants' reaction spread from their centre like wildfire.
When Elizabeth regained the power of speech, she smiled even more broadly at the gentleman. “I shall be delighted to dance with you, Fitzwilliam.”
Darcy held out his arm; Elizabeth placed her hand upon it—where it naturally belonged—and raised her voice. “Sir William, if you please!”
The master of ceremonies clapped his hands jovially. “Capital! Capital!” he cried, and signalled the musicians.
There was a mad scramble among the men to find partners for what promised to be the most memorable dance in Meryton in years.
Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam remained entirely unaware of this, or of whether Lady Catherine had relented, or how Anne or Georgiana took it, or what the colonel or Mr Bingley thought, or how John Lucas’s beating of Mr Wickham progressed.
They had eyes and ears only for each other as they lined up for their third set.
As the music started, they began in silence, but a silence vastly different from the first dance. This was the silence of two who knew nothing need be said when all was understood.
The companionable silence lasted as long as Elizabeth’s impertinence could stand, until she decided love and levity must truly be handmaidens. “Fitzwilliam, perhaps we should have some conversation. A very little will do.”
Her intended let out a raucous laugh, which a few hours earlier would have caused derision, but now brought him claps on the back from complete strangers; he did not mind in the least.
At length, Darcy drew her momentarily from the set that they might have a little conversation.
“Elizabeth, I must confess a weakness. I cannot think on more than one conversation at a time, and my mind is entirely consumed with the one we will have on the morrow. I will propose marriage only once in my life, and it must be done right. A proposal must speak of honour, duty, and family, but mostly it must speak of love. Love for your spouse. Love for your children. Love for your estate and your dependents. All must be spoken. All must be discussed, but most importantly, all must be felt—for have not the slightest doubt, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
He smiled. “You are the love of my life; you have my heartfelt gratitude for saving me from myself, and my unyielding love until my dying breath.”