Chapter Twenty-Two
Darcy had not run any considerable distance since leaving Cambridge. This became frustratingly clear approximately halfway up the hill beyond the lodging house.
At the time he had set off, the undertaking had appeared almost reasonable. The carriage had only just departed and a sporting gentleman in possession of sufficient determination might surely overtake a vehicle that had to pause often in the swell of town traffic.
Unfortunately, determination proved considerably more abundant than breath.
By the time he reached the crest of the hill his cravat had come loose, sweat was trickling between his shoulder blades and he was sure he must appear as a madman.
Indeed, the horrified glances he got as he navigated pedestrians like a man running from a wild beast, solidified the matter.
But he could see it. The Bennet family coach had slowed in a snarl of traffic and he reached it and hammered on the door, with little thought for what might follow. The coachman shouted, "Move off sir!" with a frustrated bellow, but he hammered again, until Mr Bennet’s face appeared at the window.
Darcy gulped in air as he struggled to find the words, any words to explain his actions.
"Young man," Mr Bennet said firmly with less laconic mildness than usual. "You have accosted my coach and my family, and you have exactly five seconds to explain yourself."
"Papa!" came Elizabeth’s voice from within the carriage.
Mr Bennet did not take his eyes from Darcy.
"I have heard the interjection from the audience," he said. "The five seconds continue to elapse."
Darcy attempted a reply and discovered that running uphill had not improved his powers of expression.
The coach door opened and Mr Bennet climbed down and shut it carefully behind him. The movement ought to have concealed the occupants from view. Unfortunately, Mrs Bennet immediately pushed it open and all of its occupants peered out, rendering the effort entirely useless.
Darcy caught sight of Elizabeth beyond her mother's shoulder. That alone was enough to make the whole absurd undertaking seem justified.
"Now then," said Mr Bennet, folding his arms. "You have pursued my carriage through Dorset. I think we may safely conclude that whatever you have to say cannot be entrusted to the ordinary post. Proceed."
Darcy was painfully aware of Mrs Bennet listening with delighted attention and the wide eyes of both Bennet daughters.
Now Elizabeth must indeed think him a madman, and his dash through Lyme was for naught.
He attempted to square his shoulders and assume a considered expression, as if he and Mr Bennet were having a sensible conversation in a sensible place.
"I wished to ask your permission."
Mr Bennet sighed. "I was afraid it would be something of the sort."
"To write to Miss Elizabeth."
For a moment Mr Bennet simply looked at him. Then he glanced towards the carriage.
"Lizzy," he called over his shoulder. "This young man wishes to write letters."
"I gathered as much, Papa." She smiled at Darcy with what he hoped was affection, but may just as well have been bemusement.
"I wanted a witness. Nobody at Longbourn will believe this story."
Mrs Bennet laughed. "I shall."
"You believe everything, my dear."
Darcy, despite himself, felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
Unfortunately Mr Bennet noticed. "Do not look encouraged, sir. We have not yet reached the encouraging portion of the conversation."
His expression became more thoughtful. "The difficulty is that the answer ought properly to be no. You are not engaged. Indeed, as I understand it, you have already proposed once and received an answer which should have settled the matter."
"Yes."
"And yet here you are."
"Yes."
Mr Bennet looked him up and down, taking in the disordered cravat, the flushed face and the general appearance of a gentleman who had abandoned dignity several hundred yards ago.
"You do not appear to be a man much discouraged by obstacles."
A silence followed.
The traffic jam that had trapped the carriage was slowly untangling itself. Drivers shouted. Wheels creaked. A farmer attempted to reverse a cart and there were several shouts of encouragement alongside more forthright and less well-meaning advice.
Nobody in the Bennet carriage paid the slightest attention.
At length Mr Bennet said, "If I refuse, will you simply write anyway?"
Darcy hesitated and Mr Bennet raised an eyebrow.
"I should prefer not to."
"An admirable answer. Although not an entirely encouraging one."
There were chuckles from the inside of the carriage.
"You understand," he said, "that fathers are not generally expected to assist gentlemen who have designs upon their daughters."
"I understand."
"Particularly when those gentlemen have spent the last week alarming them."
Darcy accepted the rebuke. "Yes."
Mr Bennet sighed. "The trouble is that I no longer know whether preventing you is worth the effort."
Mrs Bennet leaned from the window. "It is not, Mr Bennet. I have seen the way they look upon each other. There is no point in denying what is obvious."
"Mama!" chided Elizabeth.
Mr Bennet ignored her comment. "Thank you, my dear," he said, reaching back to pat her hand. He shook his head before returning his attention to Darcy. "Very well. You may write."
Relief arrived so suddenly that Darcy felt almost light-headed. Mr Bennet immediately raised a hand. "There are conditions."
"Of course."
"Your letters will be addressed to Longbourn, care of myself."
"Certainly."
"I reserve the right to inspect any correspondence passing through my hands whenever I choose."
"Papa," said Elizabeth.
"My dear, a man who runs after a moving carriage has forfeited any expectation of privacy."
"That seems a very specific principle."
"It is a situation I had not previously considered."
Even Darcy found himself smiling.
Mr Bennet noticed. "I dislike it when you look pleased."
"I beg your pardon."
The older man nodded. "You may write. I make no promises beyond that. My daughter remains entirely free to think you a fool."
"She already does."
Elizabeth's eyes met his.
"Not entirely," she said quietly, her eyes not quite meeting his. His heart hammered in his chest. Was this hope?
Then Mr Bennet looked between them both and appeared profoundly dissatisfied with what he found. "Good Lord."
Mrs Bennet looked delighted.
The coachman called down that the road was clear and Mr Bennet stepped back towards the carriage. "There. The matter is settled."
"Settled?" said Mrs Bennet. "It appears only to have begun. How wonderful."
"That," said Mr Bennet, climbing back inside, "is precisely what concerns me."
The door closed and the carriage began to move. As it rolled past him, Elizabeth leaned briefly towards the open window. "Mr Darcy."
"Yes?"
A smile touched her face. "If you are writing under Papa's supervision, I recommend unusually neat handwriting."
Then she was gone.
Darcy stood in the road watching the carriage disappear around the bend. He was a fool in love and it felt wonderful.
???
As the carriage rolled slowly through Lyme, Elizabeth found herself looking back.
Mr Darcy remained where they had left him.
Even at a distance she could see that his appearance had suffered from the expedition.
His cravat was a disaster and his hair was completely awry.
He had stripped off his coat and in his shirt sleeves he looked strikingly vulnerable.
He was also frustratingly, impossibly handsome and a small part of her wished to throw herself out of a moving carriage and into his arms.
The road curved between the houses and he vanished from sight. She was aware that the other occupants of the carriage were looking at her expectantly so she now turned her determined gaze out of the window.
He would write. Was that a good thing? Her feelings for him, the moments they had shared, the magnetism—for that was the only word that sufficiently described it—that existed between them: was it real?
Or some sort of temporary madness? After all, it must be madness that would cause a man to attempt to catch a moving coach on foot.
Then a simple thought hit her. She would not see him for breakfast tomorrow, and that made her feel unaccountably sad.
A few weeks earlier she had considered herself an excellent judge of his character.
The confidence now seemed rather premature.
Every time she attempted to fit him back into the neat shape she had first assigned him, some fresh recollection refused to cooperate.
His pride remained undeniable, but so did his capacity for utter nonsense.
He could be stubborn to the point of exasperation, yet he had apologised with a sincerity that still surprised her whenever she remembered it.
Even his reserve, which had once appeared cold, now seemed less a want of feeling than an excess of it.
The change in her opinion had occurred so gradually that she could hardly identify the moment it began. She only knew that she no longer anticipated his company with irritation and that his absence had left her feeling unexpectedly altered. The real difficulty lay in the proposal.
Elizabeth had spent several hours reminding herself of its absurdity and with considerable justification.
No woman of sense ought to be won over merely because a gentleman declared it must be so.
Yet when she recalled the scene now, what struck her most forcibly was not the confidence of his expectations but the confidence of his feeling.
It was a dangerous thing to be loved by a man who felt everything so deeply.
Was it love then? That he felt—that she felt? Elizabeth frowned at the passing hills.
His face swam into her mind, earnest and open and full of an emotion that she had not thought she could name. But it must be, mustn’t it?
She had known him scarcely a month. No sensible person could become attached in so short a time.
Unfortunately, the argument seemed rather less convincing than it once had.