Chapter Twenty-Seven
The days following the engagement saw a whirl of visitors descend upon Longbourn.
Every neighbour within ten miles appeared to consider themselves entitled to offer congratulations, or opinions upon wedding breakfasts.
Lace and gowns were discussed at exhausting length.
Mrs Bennet received it all with quiet joy, whilst Jane endured the attention with her usual sweetness and good humour.
Mr Bingley was a constant visitor. Elizabeth suspected he would willingly have taken up permanent residence in the drawing room had propriety permitted it.
She had never seen two people so entirely content in one another's company.
Even silence seemed sufficient for them.
They sat together, walked together and looked at one another with such evident affection that nobody could doubt their happiness for a moment.
Elizabeth could not have been happier for her sister. She tried, however, to silence a small voice which had become increasingly difficult to ignore. Mr Bingley was here. Darcy was not.
The distinction ought not to have mattered so much.
Indeed, she was rather ashamed to discover how much it mattered.
For several days she had found herself listening for the sound of horses in the drive, only to feel a ridiculous disappointment when they belonged to somebody else.
Every morning's post brought a fresh opportunity for hope and, lately, for disappointment too.
The letters had stopped.
Not for long. Ten days perhaps. Two weeks at most. Yet after becoming accustomed to seeing his hand so regularly, the silence seemed to possess a significance she could neither justify nor dismiss.
Had something delayed him? Had something changed? Or had she merely been foolish enough to build expectations where none had ever been intended?
The admission was mortifying. Not because she regretted it, but because it left her feeling absurdly vulnerable. There had been a time when she would have considered it impossible to become so attached to any man in so short a period. Now she found reminders of him everywhere.
A remark from Mr Bennet would call to mind a passage from one of his letters.
A walk through the woods would remind her of some description she had sent him weeks before.
Even Jane's happiness, which ought to have occupied her thoughts entirely, carried her back to him, for every proof of Mr Bingley's constancy served only to remind her of his friend.
???
One afternoon, finding the house once again consumed by discussions of wedding gowns and guest lists, Elizabeth escaped.
The day was mild and still. A pale sun rested over the fields and the familiar paths beyond Longbourn seemed particularly inviting.
She had walked them so often that she knew every turn almost by heart.
Indeed, she had described several of them to Darcy in her letters and more than once had found herself wondering whether he could picture them accurately from her account.
The thought brought with it a familiar ache. She was still reflecting upon it when she rounded a bend in the path and saw a gentleman some distance ahead.
At first she paid him little attention. The lane was rarely deserted, but she had no expectation of meeting anybody she knew.
Then the gentleman lifted his head and Elizabeth stopped walking.
She had imagined this meeting so often during the previous fortnight that, for one absurd moment, she wondered whether she had imagined it now.
The path was familiar and the afternoon ordinary.
There was no reason why Darcy should suddenly appear in the middle of Hertfordshire merely because she had spent half her days wishing for it.
But the Darcy of her imagination did not look at her with such unmistakable feeling. It was he.
The certainty settled over her at once and with it came a relief so profound that she was almost ashamed of it.
During the long silence which had followed his last letter, she had attempted every reasonable argument.
She had reminded herself that men had business.
That correspondence occasionally faltered.
She had even persuaded herself, for brief intervals, that his absence mattered very little.
The sight of him destroyed all such pretences. He was here and nothing else seemed of consequence.
Suddenly she was running towards him, her bonnet trailing down her back as she propelled herself along the dirt lane and threw herself into his arms. She landed against his chest with a reassuring thud and he pulled her to him and held her so tightly that it seemed he would never let her go.
"Elizabeth, my Elizabeth," he whispered into her hair as she clung to him and rested her face against his chest.
For several moments neither spoke. The reality of him was overwhelming after so many weeks of absence and uncertainty.
She could hear the rapid beating of his heart beneath her cheek.
One of his hands was pressed firmly against her back, the other buried in her loosened hair, as though he feared she might disappear if he relaxed his hold for even a moment.
At length she drew back just far enough to look up at him. The sight that met her gaze was enough to steal what little composure remained.
Darcy looked entirely undone. There was no trace of reserve about him. No dignity or careful self-command. He looked happier than she had ever seen him and so openly relieved that Elizabeth felt her own eyes sting afresh.
"You took a very long time to come to Hertfordshire," she said softly.
A laugh escaped him. "I am sorry, my love."
"I was beginning to think you had forgotten me."
The expression that crossed his face made her immediately regret the words.
"Forgotten you?" He looked genuinely horrified.
"Elizabeth, there were days when I could scarcely think of anything else."
The answer was so earnest that she could not help smiling.
"That is fortunate."
His gaze travelled over her face as though reassuring himself she was truly there.
"I have spent half the journey imagining this conversation and none of my imaginings prepared me particularly well."
"You surprise me. You usually appear prepared for everything."
"I could never be prepared for loving you."
The words were spoken quietly, but they lingered between them.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes for a moment.
There was something inexpressibly affecting in seeing him thus.
The proud, reserved gentleman who had first entered her acquaintance seemed very far away.
In his place stood a man who had abandoned dignity and caution with a determination she found both touching and irresistible.
When she looked up again, she discovered that he was watching her with a smile.
"What is it?"
"I was wondering whether Mrs Makepeace would consider this a satisfactory outcome."
Elizabeth laughed. "She would probably take credit for it."
"Undoubtedly."
"I imagine she has already decided she was chiefly responsible."
"I received a letter only yesterday in which she informed me that young people rarely know what is good for them and that providence therefore relies heavily upon older women of sense and understanding."
The absurdity of it sent Elizabeth into fresh laughter. "That sounds exactly like her."
"She also expressed the opinion that I ought never again to attempt any grand romantic gestures involving excessive running."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Did she? I quite enjoyed the running."
"She described my pursuit of your father's carriage as 'encouraging in sentiment but weak in execution.'"
For a moment neither could speak for laughing.
"I shall miss her."
Darcy's expression softened. "So shall I," he said. "Because I shall always think of her home, of Lyme as the place where I met you."
The tenderness of the remark robbed her of any playful answer.
For a little while they stood in silence and considered each other. There was no awkwardness, no uncertainty, just each other. And Elizabeth felt something in her soul settle.
At last Darcy drew a breath. "There is one thing I should like to do properly."
Elizabeth smiled. "Oh?"
"When I asked you in Lyme, I was not at my best."
"No?"
"No. I was blinded by duty and not at all willing to admit how in love I have been with you since you almost knocked me unconscious in Mrs Makepeace’s parlour."
"It was quite endearing in hindsight."
"But I should like another opportunity nevertheless."
Something in his voice made her heart begin to beat rather faster.
Darcy released her hand and stepped back slightly. "Elizabeth Bennet," he began, "I have loved you for longer than I properly understood. You have altered every expectation I possessed for my life and improved every future I can imagine."
His gaze never left hers. "When I am with you, I am happier than I deserve to be. When I am away from you, I find myself measuring time by wondering how soon I may see you again."
Elizabeth's eyes were suspiciously bright now.
"I love your wit. I love your courage. I love your kindness, though you conceal it beneath sarcasm often enough. I love the way you challenge me, the way you make me laugh and the way you have made me wish to become a better man simply by deserving your good opinion."
His voice softened. "And if I live to be a hundred, I do not believe I shall ever cease being grateful that you stepped into a parlour in Lyme Regis and changed my life."
The tears which had threatened finally escaped.
Darcy looked rather alarmed by them. "Have I done this badly?"
Elizabeth laughed through them. "Very badly."
"Ah."
"I shall have to marry you out of pity."
His relief was so immediate that she almost laughed again.
"Then I shall count myself fortunate."
A smile lingered between them.
Then, after a brief hesitation, he said quietly, "There is one further favour I should like to ask."
"You have become remarkably demanding."
"I know."
"What is it?"
"Would you call me Fitzwilliam?"
For one moment Elizabeth could only look at him. The request was so simple and yet so intimate that it touched her more deeply than she could say.
"Fitzwilliam," she said softly.
The effect upon him was immediate. She had never seen such naked happiness on any human face.
"My dear Fitzwilliam," she continued, taking a step towards him, "if you have quite finished proposing to me, I should like to accept."
His laugh was half joy, half disbelief.
"Then allow me to ask properly."
He took both her hands in his.
"Elizabeth, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"
There was only one answer she had ever truly intended to give. "Yes, my dearest, dearest love. I should be delighted to become Mrs Darcy."
For a moment they simply looked at one another.
Then Darcy raised a hand and gently brushed away the tears from her cheek. The touch was so tender that it made her heart ache.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"That was not the answer I was hoping for."
Her smile widened.
"I love you too, Fitzwilliam."
He kissed her then, with a gentleness that felt as if it contained every unspoken feeling.
One hand rose to cradle her face, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek as though he still found it difficult to believe she was truly there.
The kiss itself was gentle, touched with wonder rather than urgency, and Elizabeth felt her eyes close as the last of her uncertainty slipped quietly away.
How strange it was, she thought, that a man who had once seemed so formidable should have become the safest place in the world.
She felt him smile against her lips and could not help smiling in return. The sensation appeared to undo what little composure remained to either of them and the embrace became deeper and more urgent.
When at last they drew apart, it was only far enough to look at one another. Darcy rested his forehead lightly against hers, his hand still lingering at her cheek, and for several moments neither spoke.
Then, as though words still seemed wholly inadequate to the occasion, he bent his head once more and pressed a kiss to her brow, feather-light and infinitely tender. It was the kiss of a man who had finally come home.