17. Chapter Seventeen #4
“I shall accept mild disobedience.”
“Then I may furnish you with a tolerable collection.”
They stood beneath the trees while the water moved over stone, and conversation slipped into easier shapes.
He told her of falling from a pony and insisting the pony apologize.
She told him of Lydia cutting her own fringe as a child and blaming Kitty.
He spoke of Georgiana as a baby, solemnly clutching his finger with impossible strength.
Elizabeth described Jane attempting to teach all her sisters embroidery and giving up when Lydia tangled herself in thread.
The morning passed without permission.
Eventually Darcy consulted his watch and made a reluctant sound. “We ought to return.”
“Ought is a dreary word.” Goodness, she sounded like Lydia.
“It is.”
Elizabeth sighed. “But useful.”
“Regrettably.”
They returned to the gig slowly. Before assisting her up, he stopped and took her hand between both of his.
“I do not wish to presume upon what has passed between us today.”
Elizabeth stilled.
His gaze held hers with painful earnestness. “I would speak properly. Soon. With your permission.”
She knew what he meant. The world tilted softly beneath her feet. “Soon,” she repeated.
“If you will allow it.”
Elizabeth wanted to answer with wit. Something light. Something clever enough to shield the trembling joy that threatened to show itself.
She failed. “Yes,” she said.
Darcy lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her glove. The gesture was proper enough. It sent heat rushing through her all the same.
They rode back with fewer descriptions of scenery.
Elizabeth suspected neither of them was capable of attending to hills, farms, or historic points of interest any longer.
Once, as the windows of Pemberley came into view beyond the trees, Darcy glanced toward her with such unguarded happiness that she nearly forgot every concern awaiting them.
Almost. Miss Bingley still existed. If Elizabeth had not been convinced that the lady would make the remainder of the excursion miserable for everyone present, she might almost have wished to see Mr. Darcy put her in her place.
As matters stood, however, he clearly valued Bingley’s company too highly to risk an open quarrel with his sister.
Propriety still existed. Her father’s approval would be required, though at a very inconvenient distance.
As the gig rolled toward Pemberley, Darcy sat beside her, and Elizabeth knew that the great house before them no longer represented his pride, nor her prejudice, nor anything she had once believed.
It was simply where he belonged.
And if she was very fortunate, if courage did not abandon either of them, it might one day be where she belonged too.
When they reached the stable yard, a groom came forward to take the mare. Darcy descended first, then assisted Elizabeth. His hand lingered one second longer than necessary before he released her.
A shout came from the garden path.
“Lizzy!” Lydia emerged with Georgiana and Horace, the dog carrying what appeared to be a shrub.
“That,” Elizabeth said, staring, “is not a stick.”
“No,” Lydia admitted, entirely without repentance. “But he prefers it.”
Georgiana hurried after them, cheeks flushed from exertion. “Horace dug it up before we could prevent him.”
Darcy looked at the ruined plant, then at his sister, then at Lydia. “Which shrub?”
Lydia exchanged a look with Georgiana. “One of the small ones.”
“That does not narrow the field.” Darcy sounded long-suffering and vexed in equal measures.
“A green one.”
Elizabeth felt laughter rise and pressed her hand against her lips.
Darcy’s gaze slid to her. In it lay amusement, resignation, and something private enough to make her cheeks warm again.
Lydia narrowed her eyes.
Elizabeth instantly composed her face.
Too late.
Her sister’s expression became far too interested. “Oh,” Lydia said.
Elizabeth pointed toward the dog. “Horace has committed theft.”
“Yes,” Lydia replied slowly, still studying her face. “He is not the only creature who has been up to something.”
Georgiana looked from Elizabeth to Darcy and then down at Horace with sudden, desperate concentration.
Darcy coughed.
Elizabeth walked toward the house with as much dignity as a woman recently kissed in a gig could manage.
Behind her, Lydia whispered loudly, “Miss Darcy, I believe our plan has advanced.”
Georgiana made a strangled sound.
Darcy, beside Elizabeth now, murmured so none but she could hear, “I begin to fear Miss Lydia’s powers of observation.”
“You should,” Elizabeth answered. “I have feared them for years.” Despite how well Lydia hid her intelligence, occasionally she had caught the family off guard.
He offered her his arm before they reached the steps.
After the smallest hesitation, she took it.
From an upper window, curtains shifted. Elizabeth saw them. So did Darcy. Miss Bingley’s headache, it seemed, had improved enough for surveillance.
Darcy’s arm remained firm beneath Elizabeth’s hand. He did not move away. Neither did she.