Chapter 34

The Drawing Room

Elizabeth, who had been trying, and failing, to read a book for some minutes, stood up in relief and anticipation as her father, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Darcy entered the room. Lady Appleby, who was sitting happily by the fire, put her book down and regarded the men with interest.

"Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam have found a man who might well suit Lydia," Mr. Bennet announced. "Captain Russell will call on us tomorrow."

Jane and Elizabeth exchanged glances, and Elizabeth said, "He is an officer in the militia?"

"In the Regulars," Richard corrected, his eyes fixed on Jane, who was smiling adoringly at him.

"Bennet, come over here, and we will discuss the details of Lydia's wedding, assuming it comes to pass," Lady Appleby ordered, her eyes twinkling.

Bennet did so obediently enough, and Darcy promptly walked toward Elizabeth in one corner of the room, and Richard toward Jane in another.

Darcy came to a halt before the lady he loved and felt his heart leap within him. He gazed at her, drinking her appearance in. Her dark hair was piled in a simple bun on the back of her head, curls hanging winsomely around her ears. Ornamental pins peeked from the chestnut coiffure, sparkling a little in the light. Her dress was blue, simple and tasteful and exquisitely made, flattering to her charming figure and with hints of lace peeking at throat and sleeves. A pearl necklace sat at her throat, drawing the eye to her creamy skin.

Her face was a little pale, no doubt from the stress of the last few days – his Elizabeth, he thought rather breathlessly, need not cover her face with cosmetics. She looked a bit tired, a bit sad, but her eyes – those beautiful eyes – were as bright and alive as ever. He felt, gazing into them, that he could be lost in their shining chocolate depths forever.

Realizing he was staring, he blinked and glanced around. She had been reading when they had entered, he remembered, and the book still lay on the small table beside her chair, the spine turned towards him. Gilt engraving proclaimed it a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets; yes, his love would be reading those.

Elizabeth watched as Mr. Darcy stared at her in silence for a minute before glancing at her book. He looked very fine today, with a single unruly lock of hair falling over his forehead, an attractive counter point to his thoughtful dark eyes and aristocratic brow. His cravat was neatly and simply tied, and his tawny coat well-brushed. His boots did not shine as the dandies' did, but bore a respectable polish; overall he cut quite a fine figure.

"Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth said, recovering first. "Will you not please sit down?"

He pulled his attention away from his love long enough to sink down onto an elegant Sheraton chair nearby, while Elizabeth took her own place in the chair's twin next to it.

The two gazed at one another for a long moment, and then Elizabeth said, softly but fervently, "Mr. Darcy, please allow me to thank you, most sincerely, for your kind offices toward my poor sister. You have been so generous, so honorable, in managing Mr. Wickham; our reputations would have been ruined without you. I cannot imagine why you have been so gracious to us, when you owe us nothing..."

"I love you," Darcy blurted out, and then, at the astonishment on her face, repeated fervently, "I love you. I adore you. When I think of how it was my fault that Wickham was able to deceive Miss Lydia, well – I would do anything for you, anything at all, to bring you peace and joy and safety and security."

Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush, and she lifted her eyes to gaze directly into his.

"You love me?" she asked in wonder.

"I do, with all my heart."

For a few seconds, she felt like she was floating, and she was suddenly aware that she was beaming as tears rose into her eyes, but these tears were, unlike those of the previous nights, ones of absolute joy.

"I love you too, Mr. Darcy, so very much, but oh … I truly had no idea that my feelings were returned in any way. I thought you disliked me! You did dislike me! How can you love me?"

Darcy felt equally lightheaded, but he managed to say, "My dear Elizabeth, when I first met you at the Meryton assembly, I was in a terrible, prideful mood, and I uttered my infamous insult. By the time we had met three times in company, I was drawn to your fine eyes and your wit. By the time you had marched three miles to Netherfield through mud and wind to help your sister, I was entranced. By the time you returned to Longbourn a few days later, I was hopelessly and inescapably in love, though I did not acknowledge it."

"I had no idea, none at all," Elizabeth returned, and then her eyes widened in confusion. "Why did you leave for London if you truly loved me?"

"It is quite simple; I am a fool," Darcy said, looking down on the delicately patterned rug with shame written large across his countenance. "I thought that I owed it to my name to marry a woman with excellent connections. I only recognized the folly of my view when I discovered that you disliked me and that I adored you. I thought I had lost you forever."

She reached out a gloved hand to take his own, and he looked up, awed at the sympathetic expression on that lovely face. "I fear that I was a fool myself, Mr. Darcy. I harbored such antipathy towards you because you hurt my pride the day we first met…"

"I was incredibly rude," Darcy interrupted. "I cannot imagine how I, who pretended to be a gentleman, could say such a thing about any lady, not to mention you, the most beautiful of women."

Elizabeth chuckled and looked at Jane, who was deep in conversation with her fiancé, and turned back to say, "I am not as handsome as Jane, but … oh, pray do not speak yet, sir. I have more to confess; I was idiot enough to listen to George Wickham when he gossiped about you and claimed that you had denied him a church living in Derbyshire. Given his immorality, he obviously should not be a clergyman. I was such a dolt to accept his charming speeches at face value!"

"He is very charming," Darcy agreed, looking disgusted. "My own father could never see his faults, as Wickham was always on his best behavior in my father's presence. But I knew him for what he was, and while I would have given him the living in honor of my father's desire, I was enormously thankful when Wickham accepted three thousand pounds to give up all rights to it."

Elizabeth gasped. "Three thousand pounds?"

"Quite, and he spent it all within two years. He has always been a spendthrift and all too willing to take advantage of others."

"I am sorry," his companion said, her eyes now filled with tears. "Oh, I … I championed him and spoke poorly of you to my family and friends. I do apologize and hope that you will forgive me."

"Think nothing more of it. I am confident you said nothing that I did not deserve. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son, and for many years an only child, I was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves and my father particularly was all that was benevolent and amiable, allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you? When Bingley and I came here some weeks ago, I still could not believe that you genuinely disliked me, though my friend assured me that it was so. The scales fell from my eyes that day, that not only had I won your enmity by my manners, but that I was passionately in love. I came to the horrifying conclusion that I had no hope, none at all, in winning your hand. It was a dreadful realization, but also a most salutatory one. I concluded that the best thing I could do was to reform my character. Even if I had lost you forever, I would still strive to be a better man."

A soft touch on his hand caused him to lift his head, and he observed his darling Elizabeth, her expression solemn.

"I am honored, so very honored, by your words, and delighted as well but sir, are you … I was led to believe ... I understood that you are engaged to your cousin, Miss de Bourgh of Rosings?"

"I am not," Darcy said, shaking his head with violence. "I am not. My aunt is desirous of the match because my cousin is heiress of Rosings, but I assure you, no, we are not engaged, we have never been engaged, and regardless of what happens, I will never marry Anne. I care for her as a cousin, but we are not well matched."

She was smiling now, her bright eyes sparkling. "Dear sir, I do think there is something you have not asked me?"

He glanced briefly over to the other occupants of the room and was relieved to see Jane and Richard deeply in conversation, and Mr. Bennet and Lady Appleby faced toward the fire and away from the couples, as if on purpose. To an extent he was buying time to consider what she had asked. Could she truly be prompting him to … to … ask for her hand? His courage, driven ahead by his heart bursting within, prompted him to speak. In fact, he could not resist … he did not wish to resist.

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he said, reaching out his hands to take her gloved ones in his own. "Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

She gulped away the lump in her throat as her greatest wish suddenly was coming true. Could this be just a dream? But no, it was not; it was a dream come to life. She whispered, "Yes, Mr. Darcy. Yes, I will."

/

"Colonel Fitzwilliam," Jane murmured, "I cannot tell you how very grateful we are to you and Mr. Darcy for…"

Richard reached forward and took Jane's hands in his own, which caused the lady to halt in her speech and stare up at him in wonder.

"Pray do not thank me, Miss Bennet," he said passionately. "Pray do not. None of this was your fault – Darcy is correct; we should have done something about Mr. Wickham long ago."

"Mr. Wickham was godson to the elder Mr. Darcy," Jane said sadly. "I have no doubt that it was difficult throwing him into jail for debt given the reality of those ties."

"Truthfully, it was not difficult in the least," Richard said, his jaw clenched in fury. "He … well, you know what he did to my little cousin, and his behavior toward your sister was horrific. Moreover, he has long been a rake and a scoundrel, accustomed to cheating those around him and leaving debts wherever he lived. I know some in the upper classes are accustomed to living in debt, but I truly do not think it right at all."

"Indeed it is not," Jane agreed with a shake of her head. "The shopkeepers and milliners and dressmakers often have very little reserve to fall back on. They genuinely suffer when their customers do not pay what they owe."

"I entirely agree," Richard said, "but enough about Wickham. I know the last days have been difficult ones, and if you do not wish to speak of a prospective future for us, I beg you to say the word, but I love and adore you, and I wish to be your husband, but if now is…"

"Yes, Colonel," Jane interrupted and tightened her fingers on his. "Yes."

"Yes?" he repeated, grinning madly.

"Yes, I would very much like to be your wife, if you ask me, that is."

He was, suddenly, dizzyingly, uncertain what to do. Should he stand? Kneel? No, not kneel, surely, that would be odd. But should he sit…?

She was waiting expectantly, and he realized he was being a dimwit.

"Miss Jane Bennet, I love and I adore you. I would be greatly honored if you would become my wife."

"Colonel Fitzwilliam … dear Richard. There is nothing I want more."

/

Mrs. Houston's House

Scarborough

Yorkshire

Charles Bingley glared at the white soup in his plain porcelain bowl and rapidly spooned up another mouthful. He was not sure how much longer he could keep from screaming given Caroline's ceaseless whining. Their aunt, Mrs. Houston, sat at the end of the table, impervious to the tension between her nephew and niece. Charles bitterly envied her unflappable calm; he did not think anything could set his mind into such placidity.

Another spoonful. Sunshine shone across the bone-white porcelain, the curtains pushed back from the windows to let in light and air. He glared at his bowl, his sister's voice grating across his nerves.

"You cannot leave me, Charles!" Caroline Bingley complained. "You dragged me here into the back end of nowhere. How am I to find a good husband when there are no eligible gentlemen hereabouts?"

Bingley turned a hopeful eye on his aunt, who leisurely took a bite of buttered bread, chewed it, and swallowed before saying, "My dear nephew, as much as I have greatly enjoyed your company, and Caroline's too, it is true that there are no eligible men here for my lovely niece. I think it is time to escort her back to Town."

"I cannot!" Bingley snapped, tempted to tear out his hair. "Did you not hear that Caroline brought scandal upon us all by publicly insulting Miss Elizabeth Bennet?"

Caroline and Mrs. Houston exchanged long suffering looks, and Caroline said, "I am certain that is all forgotten about by now; either that, or the more discerning members of the haut ton have realized that Miss Eliza Bennet is merely the grasping niece of a merchant. In spite of her wealth, she has no beauty and few accomplishments. I daresay many of my friends will be grateful that I pointed out that she is nothing more than an imposter!"

Bingley took a deep breath, wiped off his mouth, and stood up abruptly. "My apologies, but I remembered that I must, erm, I have a letter … erm..."

Rapid steps carried him from the dining room, through the hallway, out the door, down the front steps and into the street. He was halfway to the corner before he became aware of leaving the house, his boots almost leaving footprints in the cobbles with the force of his footfalls. He dodged a carriage and paused, taking a deep breath of ocean-scented air.

Slowly his anger and irritation calmed, and he began walking again; not quite purposeless but no longer in the same rush in which he had left the house. The street was crowded with boys and carriages and older ladies with their companions and maids and older gentlemen alone or in small groups. The houses on this side of town were small and squat; nicely maintained, with flowers before them and neat curtains in the windows, but not indicative of any great wealth.

Charles paused at the corner and glanced back at his aunt's house. It was time, he thought, to return to London. He would have to take Caroline back with him, of course. Neither propriety nor his own conscience would permit him to do otherwise. Indeed, the very thought of his mother's reaction to such a decision was enough to make him quail. Of course she was long dead, but he still tried to live his according to the principles he had learned from her, and she had made it very clear that she wanted him to care for his sisters appropriately.

He would simply have to hope that the talk about Caroline's drunken outburst had died down. Some several weeks had passed; London society almost certainly had new juicy tidbits to chew over. Yes, he could return to Town and to Jane, and he would bring his harridan of a younger sister with him, and with any luck, he could move back in with Darcy and leave Louisa to look after Caroline.