Chapter 1 #2
When the inn came into view, Darcy deliberately shortened his stride, obliging Elizabeth to slow with him.
His heart quickened. “You said you might be willing to see what might lie between us,” he began, uncertain and careful.
When her hand tightened upon his arm, his resolve steadied even as his vulnerability sharpened.
“If Bingley were to return to Netherfield, and I joined him there, would you permit me to court you? I should wish to do so while you remain in Lambton, but if you?—”
He broke off when Elizabeth stopped altogether and withdrew her hand from his arm. The sudden absence of her touch left him oddly bereft, and he turned to her at once, searching her face, concern plainly written in his expression.
“You still wish to court me?” she asked, before his unease could deepen. “After all that I said to you at Hunsford? After the terrible and unjust accusations I made against you?”
Elizabeth’s eyes sought the ground, but still, Darcy’s smile did not falter; instead, it softened as he looked at her with all the affection he could not yet trust himself to speak.
“Elizabeth,” he said quietly, hoping his eyes might say what his tongue could not be trusted to express, “I knew I loved you in April. Long before that, if I am honest with myself. Still, I was wounded by what you said—and angry, for a time—but it was not long before I understood how little I had done to deserve your affection. I still cannot believe myself worthy of you, but if there is the slightest possibility that I might become so, I am determined to try. Can you tell me whether I have even the smallest hope of winning you?”
When she lifted her face to look at him, her smile was luminous and unguarded. “I should say you have a considerable chance, Mr Darcy,” she said, the teasing in her tone softened by the unmistakable affection.
His breath caught in his throat, and his hand lifted almost of its own accord. It rose to within mere inches of her face before he became acutely aware of their situation—standing openly in the street—and he hesitated. “Elizabeth,” he murmured, “are you agreeing to a courtship?”
“I believe a courtship would be chiefly for my family’s sake,” she replied.
Elizabeth winced slightly before continuing, “They do not think very well of you at present. Admittedly, they know only the gentleman you were in Hertfordshire, and whatever chance you might have had of making a favourable impression was lost the moment you insulted me at that first assembly. I told no one of your letter except Jane, and even to her I did not disclose everything it contained. The militia departed shortly after my return, and we saw no reason to reveal what I knew of Mr Wickham before he left.”
“But you do not require a courtship?” he asked, the words bursting forth far more breathlessly than he intended.
He knew there had been more in her answer—something about her family’s opinion, Hertfordshire, the assembly, Wickham—but none of those other matters could secure his attention at this moment.
His mind had caught upon only part of what she had said and would not release it.
If the courtship was chiefly for her family’s sake, then it meant that she herself required no such delay.
She was not asking to be persuaded. She was only asking that he be accepted.
His heart was beating so violently that he feared she must surely perceive it, and he forced himself to remain still, lest hope betray him into presumption.
Once again, she looked at him with a smile so open it nearly stole his breath.
“I do not, sir,” she said softly. “Since April, I have come to understand how mistaken I was about you. And while I cannot wholly regret my refusal then—for we should not have suited one another at that time—I do wish I had known this Mr Darcy all those months ago.”
For a moment, Darcy could neither speak nor move.
The weight he had carried since April—the regret, the self-reproach, the tentative hope that he might yet prove himself better than he had been—seemed to loosen all at once.
His hand, still half-raised, trembled before he let it fall, and when he at last met her eyes again, there was nothing guarded in his expression.
“Marry me, Elizabeth,” Darcy whispered.
The words came too quickly, too plainly, and for an instant he wished he might call them back and dress them in all the eloquence his first proposal had so sorely lacked.
Yet the way she looked at him drove every carefully chosen phrase from his mind.
He could think of nothing but her, and the answer upon which his whole happiness seemed to depend.
He knew he must look foolish, standing there with his lips parted and no further words forthcoming; but when he faltered, she answered him.
“I will, Mr Darcy,” she replied, her own voice soft and a little hesitant.
He wondered at that hesitancy for only a moment, for he had no capacity just then for anything beyond the astonishing truth that she had accepted him.
“I love you, Elizabeth,” he murmured.
Then, with tenderness and devotion, he restored her hand to his arm, guiding her towards the inn and her relations. They walked slowly, speaking in low voices to make plans about what would come next.