Chapter 3
At that moment, the door opened and Charlotte stepped in. Her eyes grew round. She gasped and dropped a small curtsey. “Mr Darcy! Elizabeth!”
Despite Charlotte's previous assertions that Mr Darcy might have tender feelings for Elizabeth, she knew her friend must be stunned to find them so late at night, alone in the parlour, and frankly, very nervous.
Charlotte's position in the parsonage and the region was not completely secure.
Her husband was certainly not the cleverest of men, nor Lady Catherine the most benevolent of patrons.
How would they react to this meeting? Elizabeth had complete faith in Mr Darcy that he would not allow his actions to cause her friend harm, but Charlotte would be understandably nervous.
Charlotte would demand explanations from Elizabeth in the very near future, but for the moment, they must get Mr Darcy out of the parsonage.
He bowed. “Mrs Collins, pray pardon my unannounced and intemperate intrusion into your home.”
Elizabeth moved to drop a proper curtsey now that the rules of propriety were reinstated, but was surprised to find that not only did she have one hand on William’s arm, but she was also covering that hand with her other one.
William was also covering both her hands with his own, so extracting her fingers to do a proper curtsey proved more difficult than expected.
Elizabeth had read all the novels of the day, even the ones her father did not approve of, from the classics to the modern.
She expected love to be something powerful, something earth-shattering, something you could easily see or taste or smell.
William loved her. It was written in every line of his being as plain as day now that she knew what to look for, but he had suffered miserably over it for some time.
For him it was not a subtle thing; it was very painful and overpowering—so much so that she was not at all convinced he would ever completely recover.
He seemed in considerably worse condition than Jane was, and that was bad enough.
She wondered if she would ever feel that intense burning feeling, but then also began to wonder if that was what love was really about.
No strong, overpowering, debilitating emotions seized her with her hands on his arm, but it was natural—completely natural.
It felt like the place her hand should be, as if it had always been there, and always would be.
She also noticed her bereavement when she finally extricated her hands from his person to greet Charlotte.
With that realisation, she understood she actually did feel something powerful for the man.
In fact, she always had, right from their first moments!
Perhaps her extreme dislike was simply the other side of the same coin.
Perhaps everything had gone wrong because in the very beginning she had thought him the most handsome man she had ever seen, and his slight in that very first instance had simply turned her already strong passion in the other direction towards hate.
She had the epiphany that there was no middle ground with Fitzwilliam Darcy—everything was all or nothing.
That realisation did not bring as much disquiet as she might have thought, and in fact, it brought a sly smile to her lips, and she continued.
“Charlotte, pray, allow me to introduce my intended, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. He has proposed, I have accepted, and we are to be married in two months' time.”
Charlotte's gasp was, of course, expected. An even more startling noise from William was disconcerting, but also joyful. He gasped in surprise, but his voice held no censure—only joy. A moment’s reflection led her to recall that she had not actually accepted his hand; even though the last word on the matter sounded much like a very unambiguous and unladylike rejection, she had not actually managed to decline either.
She made the decision at the very moment when all became clear to her while trying to curtsey—how odd.
However, like Lady Catherine, she was not to be gainsaid.
She had made her choice and would not relinquish her claim without a fight.
Glancing at William, she knew there would be no fight.
He showed only confusion and profound happiness.
She had only realised within the last few seconds that she well and truly did love him, without reservation, in all his particulars, with all his rough edges, and all would truly be well.
She had not destroyed his love with her talk of circles—she had strengthened it, and in the process discovered her own.
To think—it must have been there all along.
She turned to face him, and reached her hands around his neck.
She could not resist playing with his hair, which had been driving her mad for some time—when had that started?
He had little choice except to grasp her waist with his hands—something he had dreamed about for months—and that she found particularly comforting—and everything was as it should be.
They fit together, as if it was always meant to be.
Looking directly into his eyes, Elizabeth said, “Fitzwilliam Darcy—you are an honourable man. You are a great and yet humble man. You have faults in abundance, but when made aware of them you do your best to resolve them. You help others in your acquaintance learn from you and become better people. You love, honour, respect, and protect your sister and all your loved ones with a fierce passion and without limits. If you commit a wrong, you do your best to make it right, regardless of the cost. You are knowledgeable, well-read, and an extremely witty conversationalist. You are absolutely, incontrovertibly, and irrevocably in love with the one person in the world that can truly make you happy. I am afraid sir, that this places you in only one possible circle—with me.”