Chapter Fourteen The Prophecy #3
“That may be counted among your wiser decisions.” Darcy permitted himself no retreat now that the truth had begun.
“What I feel for you cannot be reduced to gratitude, hunger, or the promise contained in your blood. I desired your company before I understood why the bowl followed you. I feared for you before Wickham recognised you. I refused the first form of the prophecy because I would sooner remain what I am than purchase humanity through your condemnation. The warmth I experience in your presence has only one possible interpretation, though the word has been absent from my life for so long that I scarcely know how to speak it.”
Behind them, the musicians reached a lively passage, and the dancers changed partners in a sweep of colour which concealed the five figures standing closely motionless. Darcy allowed his hand to fall open at his side.
“I love you, Miss Elizabeth. I love you ardently, entirely, and without any expectation that you must return it. That is why I cannot take your offer as proof that you wish to become my wife. Compassion may produce a noble sacrifice, but it cannot produce a happy marriage.”
The bowl began to vibrate, and Fletcher tightened his hold. “If you would permit me an observation, sir, the vessel appears dissatisfied with the conclusion.”
“The vessel has no experience of marriage.”
“Nor, strictly speaking, have you,” the valet pointed out reasonably.
Miss Bingley turned her face aside, but not quickly enough to conceal the sudden curve of her mouth. Miss Elizabeth’s expression softened before she restored it to a severity which Darcy suspected required effort.
“Your argument would be persuasive if it did not depend on the belief that I feel nothing for you.”
“I do not believe you feel nothing.”
“You merely believe that whatever I feel is insufficient, temporary, or too confused to be trusted.”
“I believe that you deserve the opportunity to determine it without the weight of my humanity on the scale,” he said.
“Then hear my determination.” She unfolded her fan, studied its painted surface for a moment, and closed it once more.
“I have lived only one-and-twenty years, which places me at a considerable disadvantage in any contest of experience. During those years, however, I have never encountered anyone resembling you. I cannot claim the freedom to speak of ardent love in the middle of a ball, particularly before your valet and a lady who already considers my manners deficient.”
“My opinion of your manners has ceased to be the chief difficulty,” Miss Bingley observed, though her voice held less bitterness than Darcy expected.
Miss Elizabeth acknowledged the concession by inclining her head.
“I can speak of regard. I can speak of respect, though you test it whenever you presume to settle my mind for me. I can speak of trust and of affection, because the thought of your destruction frightened me long before I knew that you might become human. I can also state, without impropriety, that I have no wish to imagine my life without your interference in it.”
Darcy’s face altered. He had smiled before, when courtesy demanded the gesture or Bingley’s absurdities defeated restraint, but this sensation broke across features long trained into severity and left him defenceless. Miss Elizabeth stared at the result, and her own composure gave way.
“There,” she murmured. “You see how much more agreeable you become when you stop deciding what is best for everyone.”
“I fear the improvement may not survive frequent use,” he said, still smiling broadly.
“I will consider it a challenge, Mr Darcy.”
Hope no longer invited him to imagine happiness.
She stood before him and offered it freely, with clear eyes and a sharper understanding of the cost than he had had when he first surrendered his mortal life.
Yet one question remained, and he would not allow prophecy, gratitude or the proximity of an impatient bowl to speak it for him.
Darcy stepped closer and extended his hand. She placed hers in it without hesitation. Her warmth passed through their gloves, living and certain, while his heart gave one slow, painful beat.
“Elizabeth Bennet, will you marry me, not to fulfil an ancient promise, nor to restore what I lost, but because I love you and wish to share whatever life remains to me with you? If the binding fails, if I remain as I am, and daylight is forever closed to me, will you still become my wife?”
Her fingers closed around his.
“Yes.” She met his gaze without laughter, though happiness trembled at the corners of her mouth. “I will.”
The punch bowl erupted in silver light.
Fletcher nearly dropped it. Radiance spilled through the gaps between his hands, flashed on the buttons of his coat, and illuminated Miss Bingley’s astonished face. He drew it closer, fighting to contain a glow which had become bright enough to attract notice from the nearest dancers.
“Control yourself,” Miss Bingley hissed at the bowl. “There are two hundred and eighty people in this room, and half of them have daughters.”
The light pulsed once, then subsided, leaving the inscription bright around the rim and Fletcher with such profound satisfaction that Darcy suspected his valet had been wishing for this moment more than Darcy had.
“Sir.” Fletcher glanced at the card room. “Mr Bennet is still at play.”
Darcy had faced armies, elders, and starving creatures stripped of every remnant of reason. None had inspired the apprehension produced by the sight of Miss Elizabeth’s father arranging his cards opposite Sir William Lucas.
She followed his eyes. “You wished for certainty. You now have it.”
“I have your consent. Your father may prove less generous.”
“He is unlikely to kill you. Literally.”
“That possibility offered greater comfort before this evening.”
Miss Bingley stepped aside and created a narrow path to the card room. Her composure had returned, polished over whatever private disappointment she intended to endure without witnesses.
“You should go before Mrs Bennet notices that you have been holding Miss Elizabeth’s hand for several minutes. If she reaches the correct conclusion without assistance, the announcement will be made before Mr Bennet is consulted.”
Darcy glanced down. He was still holding Miss Elizabeth’s hand, and relinquishing it had become impossible.
“Fletcher, conceal the bowl.”
“I shall attempt it, sir. Its cooperation has never been a condition on which I depend.”
Darcy guided Miss Elizabeth away. Their pace was faster than the crowded ballroom permitted, and several guests interrupted their conversations as they passed.
Mrs Bennet turned from Lady Lucas, saw Darcy leading her daughter to the card room and abandoned the subject of shattered glass mid-sentence.
By the time Darcy and Miss Elizabeth reached the doorway, privacy had already become a lost cause.
Mr Bennet was seated at the card table, his cards arranged neatly before him, while Sir William explained the strategic brilliance of a play which had evidently lost him the hand.
Mr Bennet lifted his eyes first to his daughter, then to Darcy, and finally to the hands they had neglected to separate.
Darcy stopped before him.
“Mr Bennet, I require a private conversation with you.”
Behind them, the music continued, but the voices began to diminish as Hertfordshire discovered a more compelling form of entertainment.
Mr Bennet glanced at the gathering which had begun to form behind Darcy and Miss Elizabeth.
Mrs Bennet was already advancing from the ballroom, Lady Lucas close behind her, while several dancers had abandoned every pretence of interest in the music.
Sir William lowered his cards, discovered that he was holding them with their faces exposed and placed them on the table as though this had been his intention.
“I fear privacy is no longer among the advantages available to you.” Mr Bennet gathered his cards into a neat pile and rested both hands on them. “You may speak quietly, however. Hertfordshire considers reduced volume a personal challenge, but it may delay general comprehension by a few seconds.”
Darcy had intended to approach her father with dignity, preparation, and some reasonable account of his prospects.
Instead, he stood before a card table holding the hand of the gentleman’s favourite daughter while half the county arranged itself to witness his fate.
He had negotiated treaties under more favourable conditions.
“Your daughter has done me the great honour of accepting an offer of marriage.” His fingers tightened around hers. “I have come to request your blessing.”
Sir William rose so abruptly that his chair scraped the floor. Mrs Bennet stopped and seized Lady Lucas by the arm, while the conversations died so completely that Darcy could hear the cards shifting under Mr Bennet’s hands.
Mr Bennet did not examine him. His eyes rested on Miss Elizabeth.
“Has she?”
“She has,” Miss Elizabeth said, moving nearer to her father without releasing Darcy. “Although Mr Darcy required considerable persuasion before he could be induced to make the offer.”
A murmur travelled through the listeners.
Darcy recognised Bingley’s voice among them, expressing astonishment that any man might require encouragement to propose to a Bennet lady, followed by Hurst’s assurance that Darcy had never performed a simple action when a prolonged internal crisis was available.
Mr Bennet studied his daughter’s face. “You are certain, Lizzy?”
“Entirely, Papa.”
“You wish to marry him, rather than merely triumph over his objections?”
“The triumph is agreeable, but it is not my principal motive.”
“That is fortunate. Victory is a poor foundation for matrimony, though many marriages have been established on less.”
Darcy felt her thumb move against his glove. The small pressure steadied him more effectively than all the discipline he had acquired over the centuries.