Chapter 18: Elizabeth

She had never dressed this quickly in her life.

Rather, she had never been forced to dress this quickly.

"Mama, stop! The pins are digging directly into my skull!" Elizabeth cried, jerking her head away from her mother's hurried hands.

"Here, let me," Jane said, taking the brush from her mother and smoothing Elizabeth's hair.

"Quickly, quickly!" Mrs. Bennet said. "He is waiting in the hall!"

"Yes, but he isn't going anywhere. We're all trapped here by the snow," Jane said reasonably.

"Your sister certainly wasn't! And look where it got her," Mrs. Bennet cried, shaking out a borrowed dress. It was a golden color and looked dreadfully expensive.

"Where did you get that?" Elizabeth asked.

"Caroline," Jane said. She leaned down and whispered into Elizabeth's ear. "I was there when she picked it out. And you were right, my dear: she was most reluctant to lend you anything, and she made quite sure to pick the color she thought would look the worst with your complexion."

Elizabeth took a deep breath and let her mother and sister help dress her. The gown was a bit loose, and three inches too long, but it would do.

"Well, Caroline was wrong," Jane said. "You look lovely in gold, Lizzy."

Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands. "No, Jane. She looks beautiful."

"Mama!" Elizabeth said, turning to face her. "That might be the first time I can remember you telling me I look nice."

Mrs. Bennet rubbed her temples and looked Heavenward for a moment. "Lord help me, with these daughters. Of course you're pretty, Lizzy! You take after me, after all. But I can only spare so much attention for each of you girls. I had to get Jane married off first, and now I can concentrate on you. Don't look at me like that—you'll get a line between your eyes if you scowl for too long."

"Wait, Jane—have you and Mr. Bingley reached an understanding?" Elizabeth turned and grabbed her sister's hands. "When? Tell me everything!"

Jane laughed, her blue eyes filling with tears. "I didn't want to bother you at present. But yes. Yes. I was so distraught when you were brought back, and Mr. Bingley—my Bingley—was so kind to me. He spoke with Papa, and then he asked me last night. Lizzy, I am the happiest of women!" She glanced toward the closed bedroom door. "The only thing that would make me even more joyful, is if you have also found a man whom you greatly admire."

"Pff, enough of this chatter!" Mrs. Bennet. "I'll tell you what there is to admire: ten thousand a year! Now pinch your cheeks and go for a walk. Jane, follow them—but at a distance!"

Elizabeth hugged Jane tightly and whispered, "Tell me everything tonight. Oh dearest Jane, I am so happy for you!"

And then her mother was pushing them toward the bedroom door, and then they were out in the hallway, and there was Mr. Darcy. He stood in front of a window, the bright winter sunlight hitting his eyes and turning them a jeweled blue so clear and brilliant that Lizzy had trouble breathing for a moment.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said softly, staring at her as if they were alone. Then he recollected himself and bowed to the women behind her. "Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but her mother rushed forward, taking Lizzy's hand and leading her up to Mr. Darcy.

"Mr. Darcy, you know how I dote on all my daughters! I am loathe to have Lizzy up and about after her outdoor adventures, but the apothecary and her father insist she is well enough and that exercise will do her good. I am afraid she is still weak, however. Will you lend her your arm, so that she might not fall?"

"It would be my honor," Mr. Darcy said, only a trace of a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

Elizabeth could feel herself flushing, but she put her hand on his arm and glanced back just once. Her mother was holding Jane's arm, and firmly instructing her—rather loudly—to trail behind the couple, and Jane suddenly felt cold and had to rush back to find a shawl, well, that was to be expected. It was winter, after all.

"Shall we walk?" Mr. Darcy said.

"Please," Elizabeth said.

They fell into step, moving down the hall toward the grand staircase that led to the lower level.

Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy from the corner of her eye. As always, he was impeccably dressed, though his clothes were not ostentatious. His face was calm, and he glanced down at her every few steps but said nothing.

It was only after they had gone down the grand staircase, into the East Wing, and were passing through a display of marble busts—all of which seemed almost more animated than her walking partner—that Elizabeth began to worry. Was something wrong? Why did he not speak?

They moved through the busts and into a bright room, with white columns and an ornate, painted ceiling. From the middle of the ceiling hung a large, glass chandelier that shimmered and caught the light, both from the windows and from the many mirrors hung on the walls.

"Oh my," Elizabeth said, turning to admire the intricate paintings—men and women held hands, danced, and frolicked in pastoral scenes above her head. "What work went into this room."

"Yes," Mr. Darcy said, curtly.

They both glanced back at Jane, who was studying a bust of an elderly man with more interest than she perhaps had shown in any one thing in her life.

Elizabeth had to laugh, and when she met Mr. Darcy's eyes again, she saw that they were shining with laughter, as well.

"I—I don't know how to thank you," she said in a rush. "You saved my life. I was a silly child, to run away and to endanger myself. Not to mention endangering all the men who helped me—and you." She paused and pressed her hands to her cheeks. "You are being quiet, but kind. I am sure I can never stop telling you how sorry I am, how I regret my actions with every part of my being. I am sure you are angry with me. But please believe me, you will never be as upset with me as I am, with myself. If anything had happened to anyone—"

She paused, staring out the window. She did not dare look at him, not yet. She could not stand to see the censure in his eyes. "I told you I valued honesty, and I am not being truthful. Of course, if anything had happened to Mr. Bingley or his men, I would be devastated." She forced herself to turn and stare into those blue, blue eyes. "But if anything had happened to you, I would not have been able to live with myself."

"Elizabeth," he said, stepping forward. And then, even closer, so that when he reached out gently, his palms cradled her face and he tilted her chin up, ever so slightly, so that she could look up at his beautiful, kind, smiling face. "Lizzy, my Lizzy—may I call you that? Because that is what you are."

Elizabeth blinked back tears. "You are not mad at me? You were so silent, as we walked. I thought perhaps…you did not wish to be friends me with, any longer."

He laughed quietly, a low, masculine sound. "I could never be mad at you. I was silent as we walked because—because that is a habit of mine. One you are helping rid me of. But because you value honesty, I must tell you, darling Elizabeth, that no, I do not wish to be friends with you."

She inhaled quickly and tried to step back, but he moved with her.

"I wish to be much more than that," he said.

"Oh," Elizabeth said. "Oh my."

"You are weak from your ordeal. There is a bench just there, behind you." He led her to a cushioned bench against the wall. He surprised her then, by sitting next to her and holding her hand. She let him, her heart beating in her ears and her dress suddenly too tight against her chest.

Mr. Darcy cradled her hand in his, studying her palm and slowing tracing a circle there, just as he had done before. Elizabeth closed her eyes, overcome by how just that slight pressure, that constant motion—how just his touch, so sure, so sweet—could make her entire body buzz with anticipation, and excitement.

And…love.

And then he looked up at her, his face so close she could almost reach out and touch him.

And so she did.

His face was smooth-shaven, warm, softer than she would have imagined. He closed his eyes at her touch, and let her fingers lightly trace his cheek, and then his chin.

"Lizzy," he whispered, and just as she was about to draw his hand back, he grabbed it and kissed her fingertips. Slowly. Gently.

She could not imagine what it would be like for him to actually kiss her, on her lips. Because just his soft, firm kiss on her hand made her go weak.

"I am weak, but not from my foolish ordeal," she whispered.

He looked up at her. "I used to think that to show emotion was to make myself vulnerable. And that to be vulnerable was to fail: fail my family, fail the expectations placed on me, and to fail as a man. But my Lizzy, you have taught me to feel again. I tried to deny you—God's truth, if we had not been snowbound together, I might have run to the ends of the Earth to escape you. You knocked me from my pedestal; you shook the very foundation of my world. I was frozen—as frozen as that river you tried to cross. And just like that river," he began to laugh, "You have broken my foolish shell apart. You have thawed my heart. I was frozen, in life, in love. And you—you saved me, Elizabeth Bennet. You saved me from a cold existence, and you lit my world on fire."

He stopped speaking, bowing his head and kissing the back of her hand. Slowly, intimately. Elizabeth realized that there were tears on her cheek, and she put her free hand to her heart, which beat and trembled and hurt in the most precious, wonderful way.

"Mr. Darcy—"

"Just Darcy, if you prefer. It's what my very close friends call me."

She laughed through her tears. "I thought you said we were not friends?"

"It is also what I hope my wife shall call me. If you will have me? I am not the most eloquent of men, but I—I love you. And I would cherish you, protect you, worship you, and—and keep you safe during all river crossings for the rest of your life, if you would consent to be my wife."

Elizabeth wanted to close her eyes and hide her tears, but then she would miss what she most wanted to see: the look on Mr. Darcy's face when she said "yes."

And so she said it, once, then twice. Then a third time as his eyes lit up, and that boyish smile spread across his face, and then she said it again right before he kissed her.

And then again, and again—and once more—before they both stopped speaking and communicated in other, more delicious ways.