Chapter Text
The days that came before Elizabeth’s outing with Darcy passed unaccountably slow. She went about her routine trying to act as she had done previously, but found herself falling into a day dreaming state, wishing time would pass faster. Perhaps she could not be blamed; her only entertainment was ladies’ work and ladies’ talk, and barely any of that. The drawing room was as confining as ever.
Darcy, meanwhile, did nothing that evidenced that they had spoken. She realized he acted the gentleman, and what was more, that he often took her in special consideration, but the social platitudes bored her; she wanted him as her friend, not as a polite if distant host, no matter how charming the latter one was.
She found herself irritating in her disquiet, and wondered at everybody else’s forbearance. But the worst thing for her was not knowing when the outing would be. Darcy had promised to arrange it, but he had not fixed a date, claiming he would decide the moment it seemed they could go unnoticed, or nearly so.
A letter from her father came in the intervening days, jolting her from her other concerns and making her think, again, of him. It filled her with an old, restless anger, that she could not convince herself her father deserved. She was perturbed beyond all possible comfort, her feeling varying from duty to hate and back again—but no, she could not hate him.
He was careless; he was egoistic; he expected that she would love him because he had made her, a modern Prometheus—but most of all, he did not understand. That much was clear from his letter.
Dear E., it begun, how happy I would be to be able to say to you ‘I am glad you are come back, my child.’
And then Elizabeth had to contain herself, least she ripped it in a thousand pieces. When she had just returned to London, perhaps then, such a missive might have been better received by her.
She had no desire to return now; even the confusion, the wretched anticipation that Darcy threw her into, was infinitely preferable to returning to Longbourn and under her father’s power.
She was perhaps as powerless here as there, but there was only one place where she trusted the master to respect her and that was not her childhood home.
So she kept the letter in the bottom of her trunk, out of sight, and waited for Darcy to give her a sign, any sign. How she wished she could go on her own, to be able, in a moment’s notice, to decide that sport was the most agreeable way to spend the afternoon…
Mrs. Annesley’s voice called her, startling her and making her turn away from the window.
“Did you tire of working, Miss Bennet? The day is very beautiful, perhaps…”
“Do not worry about me,” she answered as soon as she could with an even voice, walking back to her seat and picking up her work. “My mind tends to dwell on the outdoors, it is true, but I should work for a little longer still. For what are we aunts, if not for providing our nephews with as many little socks as they can use in a lifetime?”
She thought she had been successful in hiding the bitterness in her voice. The other aunt in the room, Miss Bingley, did not answer, but kept her eyes upon her stitches.
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Annesley with a smile, “it is happy work, is it not?”
Elizabeth readily assented, but she could not avoid returning to her work with less than a smile.
There was silence then; a dullness, to which Elizabeth could not accustom herself, filled the room.
“My brother plans to spend all his day outdoors, Mrs. Annesley,” said Miss Darcy at last, softly, and Elizabeth had to restrain herself to avoid raising her head. “He suggested we returned Mrs. Langworth’s visit.”
“Your brother is all solicitude, concerning himself with our plans,” said Mrs. Annesley, not unkindly, but Elizabeth could perceive she was really annoyed.
“He is,” concurred Miss Darcy, without a trace of irony, and seeing Elizabeth smile, continued in a fit of uncharacteristic boldness, “He is so very considerate with everybody. I wish you thought so too, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth could not but be amused as well as moved by it; she simply said, “Why do you think I do not?”
Miss Darcy blushed and lowered her eyes again. She appeared to hesitate, and when she spoke, it was with even less voice than before. “I—I do not want you to think he is always as he is with you. He does not mean to intimidate.”
“And I am not easily intimidated, so you have no cause for concern, Miss Darcy,” said Elizabeth.
She lowered her eyes, feeling Mrs. Annesley’s curious gaze upon herself, and dared not to reassure Miss Darcy further, lest the kind lady suspect something untoward. Not a moment later, Elizabeth began to fear she had, after all.
“Would you not like to come with us, Miss Bennet? Mrs. Langworth is a very pleasant woman, and a principal lady in the neighbourhood.”
Elizabeth did not know how to demur, or even if she should. Darcy had arranged for them to go; did he want her to leave with them? She tended to think he would have said something if he did, but even as she thought herself decided, she doubted.
Only the fact that she had to answer made her speak. “I am sorry, Mrs. Annesley, I should stay in case my sister needs me.”
It was a weak excuse, she knew, as Jane and Bingley rarely left each other’s sides, and never required anyone else’s attention. Mrs. Annesley looked at her steadily for a moment and Elizabeth could only lower her eyes, feeling her colour rise.
Miss Darcy and Mrs. Annesley left soon after, and Elizabeth retired as well, citing the oppressive heat as her excuse. She could not stay with Miss Bingley; in her presence she felt a strange mixture of guilt and pity, and that disgust with her character that had never left her. She could not like herself when in her company, could not avoid thinking she had hurt more people than the ones she had control over, even as she justified herself.
She had flirted, even by the meanest of definitions of the word, and she had enjoyed the confusion she had caused. At the time she had considered it harmless fun, but had she been a man, any man, would it not have been ignoble to awaken hopes she did not mean to fulfil?
Had she been a man perhaps her own responsibility for Miss Bingley’s present state would have pushed her to make amends, to answer to her family. But the fact was that she was a woman, and there was nothing and no one to make her accountable for her behaviour. Not even her conscience could—as there was no manner, no way she could return to Miss Bingley the suitor that had never existed.
When Darcy finally came looking for her, he was hurried and animated. The knock on her door startled her, and she opened it in high colour, already guessing who would be on the other side.
“Come, we have to leave quickly if we want this to work.”
“What to work?”
He smiled. “You will see.”
He guided her through hallways she had not used before and they reached a door to the stables without having come across anyone. But then, instead of going out, he pointed to a side door and said, “There, go in there and change.”
“What? Why?”
“Did you plan to go fly-fishing in a dress?” He smirked and looked away, but still said, “I am afraid I can imagine only one way for you to keep it dry.”
She blushed and went in without another word; the problem had not occurred to her. Inside the room, over a chair in a corner, she saw breeches, a linen shirt, a waistcoat… in short, everything a gentleman would need to dress himself for an outing. On the floor there was also a pair of high Hessian boots.
She hesitated only for a moment before shedding her dress and underclothes, and then stood shivering, doubting the wisdom of the plan. She could dress the part—indeed, a part of her looked forward to it—but what if she should be seen?
Would not anyone recognize her as Miss Bennet? Would that not invite talk and, finally, expose her?
Her very hair would betray her, dressed as it was—and if she should wear it loose and tied back, in the old gentlemen’s style, would she not be looked upon oddly by her maid when she returned? Her hand hovered over her pins, and drew back again; she did not dare do it; she could not have reproduced the style on her own for a kingdom.
But the clothes—she had almost forgotten to feel exposed in women’s clothes, but now that the alternative was possible, it called to her. In the end she could only trust Darcy’s good sense. He would not have suggested it if he thought discovery possible.
When she was almost ready she felt dressed for the first time in months, but also… uncanny. She indeed had started to get used to skirts. There was a knock at the door, and she fumbled the cravat once, twice, before she got it as she wanted.
She opened the door to find Darcy pacing. He stopped in front of her, started to say something, and looked away. She bit her lip; why couldn’t he meet her eyes?
“I am ready.”
“Yes… I…” He still did not look at her, but pulled himself together and started walking again before she could formulate a question. He called back at her, “Let us go, the horses are ready.”
She followed, without answering, her insides in a tight knot, and they were soon jumping on top of the horses and going away. There had been no one in the stables, and no one in the grounds just outside of them; Elizabeth suspected that Darcy had arranged it so.
They were away in moments, riding side by side like they used to. The wind was exhilarating against Elizabeth’s face, dissolving her nervousness, and she could not help spurring her horse forward, faster, until she could smirk in Darcy’s general direction as she surpassed him.
They continued in the same manner until she heard him fall back; she imitated him and saw he was reigning in his steed to a more normal pace towards a small hill. Elizabeth spurred hers until she reached his side.
“Is the place we are going to very much out of the way?”
“Are you asking if we are there yet?” He wore a slight smile, but although it did not anger her, it did nothing to calm her fears.
“I was asking if we were under much danger of being discovered,” she said in an even, low voice.
He lost his smile, and she regretted her words for a moment, and then was angry at herself for doing so; it was her reputation, her life, she was endangering, was it not? She had a right to be privy to his plans.
He was silent for such a long time that she considered apologizing, but had not finished formulating the words when he spoke. “I am sorry. You are right; you should know where we are going.” He paused for a moment, and then continued, “It is an embankment of the river; I do not think anyone goes there but me, so it should be safe enough.”
He had the power to make her hate herself for her hasty words, more than any other person of her acquaintance, and that included Jane. “No, I am sorry. I did not doubt you took care that it be safe. I just—I cannot accustom myself to be in the power of others.”
“You never cared for it, it is true,” he said. He was smiling, and just like that all was right with the world again.
When Elizabeth returned his smile their eyes met, and for a moment she did not know what to do. She looked away, her colour rising.
“There will be a ball at the Assembly Hall, next week. I was considering attending, given that my guests are rather fond of dancing.” Darcy’s voice was casual, and he looked straight in front of him, directing his horse carefully over the rising ground.
“That would make Bingley very happy, I am sure,” said Elizabeth, imitating his tone.
He looked quickly at her and away again, smiling. “It would—he is rather too fond of dancing. Though now that it is not proper for him to dance three times a night with his wife, I wonder if he will find it so.”
“I rather think that the good people from Lambton will be lenient, given they are just lately married.”
“I doubt they would be, when it would mean depriving the local unmarried young ladies from their turn at the floor,” he said, looking at her. He was smiling too broadly for neutrality; she laughed.
She looked at him, glad that with both of them in the saddle the difference in height was not as pronounced and she could meet his eyes effortlessly. “You could be a good friend and take up his slack.”
He did not respond, but looked at her steadily, with a slight smile.
“I should have assumed you would not; you never liked the amusement too much,” she said, at last, because he did not appear to be about to speak.
His gaze did not move from her. “Indeed; I do not enjoy the activity unless I am particularly interested in my partner. Bingley can have his dances; I would much rather dance mine.”
Elizabeth could only look away and blush. She did not dare to credit her ears, and then she could not make up her mind. Had she heard what she had heard? Had she understood?
She had not decided yet on what to believe when they arrived at their destination, and she had to take care of tying her horse away from the river. She was so flustered, so out of her right mind, that Darcy had to remind her to choose a place to stand where her shadow would not fall across the surface of the water.
She could not look at him, and every one of his normal, casual words—‘here is the tackle,’ he said, and, ‘I do hope my rods leave me in as good standing as yours left you in Hertfordshire’—were weighted and analysed for a second meaning that was not there.
It could not be, she decided; he had meant nothing by it. She could not have believed it of herself, but the moment she concluded so, she felt a fierce pang of disappointment. What a silly creature she was! All this turmoil, this wretchedness—for an offhand comment from a friend.
But—oh! What a relief it was, to be able to immerse herself in sport, in the simple, barely taxing task of letting the fly—the small Hawthorn-fly, Darcy had said, that he hoped would be effective in the bright day—just disturb the surface of the water as it was slowly dragged by the current.
Almost knee deep in the cool water, she could ignore for the moment the heat of the lowering sun; most importantly, she could ignore Darcy’s presence a few feet away, no less distracting, and no less warm.
Moving down the stream, they both had little luck, until the sun fell some more and Elizabeth was called to attention by the nibbling of the fish; she jerked her hand in a smooth movement she had had little occasion to practice in some time, and secured it.
Darcy was at her elbow with the landing-net in a moment, and once she netted the beast, he lost no time in proposing that they have something to eat, and fished with dead rods for a while.
She could not refuse, even as she felt nervous flutters in her chest, and was sure she would not be capable of swallowing a thing.
They sat down not too far from the edge of the water, even though there was no shadow near, and Darcy brought back cold cuts and fresh fruit from his saddle. He also went to recover a bottle of mead from where he had laid it down when they had arrived, secured in a shallow of the river to keep it cold.
Elizabeth lay back, trying to get comfortable with the layers of stiff cloth that were entirely too restrictive. Damn the cravat, in any case! Who was the deuced torturer that had devised it? Those were her thoughts when she felt a shadow fall over her, and—
“Well,” Darcy said, looking down, “Are not we comfortable.”
She thought she could perceive he was amused, and sat up to answer. “Indeed, it is a very pleasant place,” she said, looking up at him. He tugged his cravat, once, and she was amused to note she had imitated him by reflex; their gazes crossed, and held, and he smiled.
“I had imagined that the next time we would find ourselves in this situation, we would have been free to get rid of the damned things,” said Darcy, laying himself by her, both in posture and voice perfectly relaxed.
He was looking over to the water, leaning sideways over his elbow, and Elizabeth was yet again thrown into doubt about his meaning. But there was no time now to guess and fret, and so she said what she would have said if they had been Bennet and Darcy, two friends in a fishing party.
“Why would we not be free to do it?”
There was a silence, and Elizabeth almost bit her tongue. What a stupidly simplistic thing to say, when the answer was self-evident! She almost rose, wanting to leave, but she could not, at least not without apologizing.
She tried to speak in an even and light voice. “It is quite possible that the sun has addled my brain.”
He looked at her, but his expression was inscrutable. “Then it is equally possible that the sun has addled mine; we have both spent the same amount of time under it, if I am not mistaken.”
Elizabeth tried to smile, but could not. His attempt at levity was welcome, but she was too rattled by her own emotions to express it.
“You are right, of course; there is no reason for us to swelter under our cravats and coats,” he said at last, and begun to go about the business of getting rid of them. He did not look in her direction as he did it, concentrating in disentangling the linen at his throat.
After a moment, she realized she had been staring and looked away. If anyone would have asked—no, if anyone would have asked she would have answered nothing—but if she would have had occasion to ask herself, she would have wondered at it. Had she not seen plenty of men in linen shirts, to be enthralled by the sight of a friend divesting himself from his coat?
But she did not then wonder; she looked down and lost no time in imitating him, fingers clumsy on the knots.
After that there was a silence, and Elizabeth fancied that Darcy felt as awkward as her; he kept arranging and re-arranging the food in the space between them. It did not serve to put her at ease in the least.
He served and offered her a glass, and their hands touched a little when he handed it to her. She endeavoured to be calm, and so managed to only smile and colour slightly when he passed her an orange.
The refreshments gave them an excuse to appear easy, eating and drinking, talking very little but with an excuse for it. They hardly looked at each other. When her appetite disappeared, Elizabeth sighed and lay back on her elbows, looking at the sky.
“Do you often come here to fish?”
“At every opportunity during the summer, if I am at Pemberley; it is out of the way and usually well stocked.”
A silence again; how she tired of it!
“We must paint a classic picture, the rods abandoned to fish by themselves and the two fishermen sleeping.”
Darcy did not respond, but she felt him watching her.
“We should return to our rods—your trout seem too acute to be caught with the fly resisting the current.”
“We should,” said he, but his tone was rough; he made no gesture to get up.
“It is your mead’s fault, you know—nothing worse than mead or wine to murder any desire to give up the grassy hill after a picnic. One is too drowsy to—” She talked nonsense, she knew. There was nothing else she could think to say.
“Let us go,” she said, at last, and sat up. She felt his gaze, but did not turn. She did not move again, did not dare move, for some reason.
She felt him at one side and behind her, and she could not repress a shudder when he kneeled, far closer than he had been before.
“We could be quite pastoral,” he said, and his voice was the same rough tone as before, “but for your hair.”
She closed her eyes. She did not know why—she could not think—
His fingers on the nape of her neck, first, softly—so softly, she was not sure they had been. But then they were at her head, at her pins, at her bandeaux, and were pulling them; there was no doubt they were his fingers, carefully removing everything that held her hair high. She did not dare breathe until it was done, and it fell in soft waves just below her shoulders.
She almost did not feel his hands leaving her head, but bowed it, all the same, wanting to avoid his eyes. She felt grateful when her hair fell over her flaming face and covered it. She thought she dreamed a light caress, and then—
“Here,” he said, his voice low, but demanding all the same. “Here; tie it back.”
He took her hand in his and opened her fist, put in it a simple black silk ribbon, and then moved back. She could still feel him breathing; she still was acutely aware of him. She rallied, straightened, and tied her hair back with trembling fingers.
“There, if the observer is not too close, we may pass for regular fishermen.” He still spoke in a low voice, as if it was a secret between them, or as if she might be scared and run away at any moment.
That thought more than anything made her recover, turn her face his way, and ask, “Why, what would an observer that got too close see?”
His eyes tracked her features with unnerving intensity, but she did not turn away. “Nothing amiss, perhaps…”
“Perhaps?”
He smiled—a quick, broad smile—and looked at his hands, which held her bandeaux still. He absently reached and put it away in one of his coat’s pockets. “I do not quite know. You are different somehow, but I cannot put my finger exactly on where the difference lies.”
She could not imagine, for a moment, what was the problem, and then, blushing, she did. Darcy had not thought to prepare something for her to bind her chest. She had not thought it very noticeable, but perhaps… It would not do to call attention to it.
“It must be the hair,” she said, and then coloured even more, because thinking of her hair made her think of what had happened just before.
“It must be.” He appeared to hesitate, and then said, “I know you received word from your father.”
“I did,” she said, and looked away. She looked back at him after a moment; she wanted to say something more substantial, but did not know where to begin. “He does not understand what he has done, either time—he understands so little, that were I a stranger to him, I would suspect him of wilfully deceiving me about it.”
Elizabeth looked down, not knowing whether to continue or not, but Darcy said nothing.
“He still has this idea of me—of his favourite child. It is not—I know it will sound childish—but it is not fair of him. I cannot hate him because he is so completely unaware of what he has done.”
“Ignorance has never been a valid excuse for a having caused an injury.” He paused, and continued a moment later with more strength, “Hell is paved with good intentions, and in his case, even that—” There he stopped and stood.
She could make no answer. He walked a little, moved away from her, and then turned back.
“Even that—he cannot claim he did not know what he was doing. He cannot.”
She was miserable; she could not avoid reading censure of herself in his words. Should she not have stopped it, when she gained conscience of what they had been doing? Surely she should have. She could not speak.
“You cannot—I cannot believe you think he is an innocent in all of this. He has done you ill—not once, but twice.” He talked in a fierce, low tone.
He paced, never going very far, until he came to stand in front of her again, his silhouette against the setting sun. He was frowning, and in his anger, he was an awful sight.
“Do you plan to journey to Longbourn?”
“I know I should.”
“You know not such a thing. If you want—if you need—to see your father, then go. But you owe him nothing.”
She could make no answer again, but this time it was gratefulness that silenced her, not despair. Darcy crouched down besides her.
“You need not depend on his kindness anymore; he can be nothing to you, if you so desire it. Bingley and your sister, I am sure, would gladly have you in their home forever; Pemberley itself will be at your disposal while I am its master.”
His tone was matter of fact, as if there had never been any doubt about it; even though he was not smiling, she could not help throwing her arms around him and embracing him.
She felt him holding his breath against her, tentatively encircling her in his arms, and then they were hugging, and nothing had ever felt more right. After some moments—Elizabeth could not have said how much time had passed; it was all like a dream—she lightened her hold on him.
“Thank you.” She did not more than whisper the words, but she was sure he heard her. He did not release her, instead falling to his knees and pressing her closer.
She hid her head against his chest, and felt him exhale. “’Tis almost evening,” he said, his voice not quite steady, “We should be heading back.”
She drew back a little, and he let her go. They were awkward for a few moments, their eyes not meeting, until she spoke.
“I am a selfish creature. My friends and my pleasure all reside here; I do not think I will go to Longbourn, at least not now,” she said, her face warm, with a nervous smile and a quick look up at him.
He smiled back. “No more selfish than I am. I had hoped someone would keep me company and protect me from Bingley’s evil schemes of making me dance every dance with strangers.”
He touched her shoulder lightly, stood, and went to pick up their tack.
She set out herself to gather the remaining food, the glasses and the half full bottle. “You forget that I am rather fond of dancing myself; I would hardly protect you when I am of the same mind as him regarding the entertainment. I see nothing to fear from it.”
They were both mounting when he answered her, with a smile that lightened his features and sent her heart racing. “It was my hope you had not changed in that regard.”
When they arrived at the house, he accompanied her to the room where her clothes remained, and then waited for her outside. He had a few words of advice before parting, regarding what to say to the maid. (Nothing—he had already taken care of it.)
Coming back to the normal run of things was difficult. She could hardly avoid turning towards him with every thing she thought of, and he seemed to be likewise afflicted. They received a few odd looks from Mrs. Annesley, but if she thought something about it, she did not share it, at least not with Elizabeth.
Georgiana seemed to take their new, more public understanding with more pleasure than surprise. Anything like strife distressed her, and their banter had gained an edge of careful consideration that it never had before, which served to avoid wakening her fears.
Though she was progressively more comfortable with her guests, she never appeared so with her role as a hostess, and came down with dreadful head ache the evening of the Assembly.
The Rooms were crowded and merry; so similar was the demeanour of the people attending to her old neighbours that Elizabeth felt more than a twinge of nostalgia.
The Pemberley party caused quite a stir, and there were several families who approached Darcy, taking him away in a whirlwind of older ladies that exclaimed over his presence, and asked after his sister, and introduced him to a virtually endless parade of young ladies.
Elizabeth, who had accompanied Jane to a chair, could not help tracking with her gaze his progress through the crowd—beyond being circumspect.
She saw him talking, in a corner, with an imposing matron, and watched him walk to get her some refreshment. She was distracted for a moment by Jane, and when she turned back she saw him hand back with perfect manners a dance card that the daughter had dropped, and smile at her.
The young lady looked down, coy, and then she said something and handed the card back at him.
Elizabeth forced herself to look away, to pay attention to the man Jane was introducing her to, but her mind was away with him. She could only smile, weakly, and curtsy.
The first dance was about to begin, Jane said, and the man said something else, which she did not hear.
She could not avoid stealing another look across the room.
Their eyes met. She could not breathe, for a moment, until he smiled. She blushed. He looked back at the ladies and said something to them; a perfect gentleman, because Elizabeth saw them smile at each other in complacency.
Jane was talking to the man at her side, but she could not look at them, could not look away from Darcy, at the other side of the room.
He then walked a straight line to her. “Miss Bennet, may I ask your hand for this dance?”
She readily assented, beyond caring about what her happy, rosy countenance would betray.
He offered his arm, and guided her to the formation. The music began soon enough, and there were a great number of couples. Unlike former times, she had no cause to fear that they would be forced to face each other in silence.
Indeed, he began talking almost immediately. “I have always thought the expression particularly curious. ‘To have someone’s hand’, ‘to ask for someone’s hand’.”
“I truly had never meditated upon it,” she said, “but now that you mention it, it is quite curious.”
“It is, of course, symbolic,” he said, affecting thoughtfulness, but not serious at all, “Dancing is, after all, quite the metaphor for marriage.”
She blushed, and looked down, but she could not allow herself to feel intimidated by the subject. “Indeed, the similarities are striking.”
“They are?” said he. “I had only thought that one represented the other in society, not that the activities are related. Do you care to defend your position?”
She could never back down from such a challenge. “You have to agree the parallels are blatant: in both the man has the advantage of choice, the woman only the power of refusal, in both it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution .”
He laughed. “It seems you are right then, or that I was more right at my first observation than I had surmised.” He paused, and then locked their gazes. “Though I hope you will grant me that the seriousness of one commitment is not diminished by the frivolity of the other.”
She could not help herself and said, trying to suppress a smile, “Of course, the sanctity of dancing cannot be understated.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Darcy spoke in the driest tone imaginable. “That is a relief; I should not doubt your respect for the serious matters.”
It was their turn to make the figures then and they went down the dance. Darcy initiated the conversation once they were standing in front of each other again.
“I could not help meditating, how this metaphor of yours—“
“Mine? I merely elaborated on yours, sir,” she said, a teasing smile on her lips. “Do not try to skirt your own blame on the matter now.”
His smile was quick and easy. “Fine, then; mine. I was thinking how it would apply in a case such as ours, where you are protecting me. It is a queer marriage, the one in which the wife must protect her husband.”
He did not lose his smile, but his was an expression she could not quite recognize, and even as she spoke, she was not sure she knew what she was answering.
“I should think that in a true marriage of the minds, any and each of the members of it respond equally for the safety of the other.” Uncertain, she continued, trying to lighten the tone, “Though, indeed, I fear no wife ever has courage to protect her husband from dancing with unknown young ladies.”
“Indeed, few women could,” he said, his gaze intense on hers.
The second two Elizabeth danced with her brother, and the third two with a neighbour of Darcy, a kindly older gentleman which had been introduced to her at the beginning of the evening.
She saw Darcy partnering a very pale Miss Bingley and another lady she did not know. They looked at each other fleetingly whenever the figures made it possible, and once Darcy made a face, making her laugh, and in another occasion he was frowning in prodigious seriousness.
The fourth two Darcy asked her again.
“You are indeed in great need of protection, it seems,” she said as he rejoined her.
“I am surprised you admit it. Was it not you who said that you saw no great danger in the entertainment?”
“No life and death danger, no, but I see you are in the direst danger of losing your good humour.”
They danced. Their hands touched, but they were gloved, and though his warmth seeped through the fabric, still she wished it was not there.
The fifth two, she danced with the son of Darcy’s neighbour, who had asked her before. He was a gay young man, but she could not be comfortable, because in his haste to be agreeable and attentive, he asked far too many questions about her family and her home.
The next two, she was surprised to be asked by Darcy again, but they stayed silent throughout, so she could not be sure of its meaning. He was perhaps only doing what he had said, using her for protection.
Afterwards, Darcy took to the floor with the eldest daughter of Mrs. Langworth. The matron had a pinched look, and watched Elizabeth like a hawk. She suddenly felt the crowd and the many eyes on her, and the lack of the ones she most wanted. The need for fresh air was overwhelming.
The rooms were opposite to the town’s green and she could not breathe until she was outside and sitting on a small bench a little into it, besides a horse-chestnut tree.
Once there, she was easier. She took off her gloves, dropping them beside her. She leaned back on her hands, fingers hugging the cool rock, and looked up at the stars for a long while, struggling not to let her mind meander too much into the reason for her distress.
She did not want to dwell on it; she did not want to recognize that the last days she had come to hope—nay, she would not think it. To think it would make its ridiculousness painfully obvious.
But—Perhaps Darcy could have felt himself attracted, if fleetingly, to an awkward creature like herself, to someone who was neither here nor there, who was never something completely. Not a man, of course, but never a woman either. For herself, she did not hate it. She mourned Edward fleetingly, and she certainly did not abjure what she had become. But for him—for how such an association would be seen by the world—she regretted it.
For how preposterous would it be, for a proud man like him to dwell on it, to travel the path between attraction and desire, from desire to love?
No—she would not dwell on it, she said to herself, even as she thought it, and tears blurred her vision; even as she refused to allow them to fall, eyes unmoving looking at the stars.
Ridiculous creature that she was! Nothing had changed; nothing, except that she had suddenly, forcefully admitted to herself something that she ought to have known months ago.
She heard a noise behind her, and she breathed, deeply, to calm herself.
There was a rustle, and steps coming closer, and a dreadful moment of uncertainty, till—
“Here you are. I wondered where you had gone to.” Darcy’s tone was low, and she heard him come even closer, to stand just behind her. She felt his warmth at her back, and saw his dark silhouette hiding the stars over her.
At last, she turned, straightening and pivoting over the bench. “The rooms are crowded.”
“Indeed, they are. Quite unsupportable I should say; even more after my protector vanished.” He moved, and came to sit besides her, looking over the green. He took off his gloves with unstudied elegance, and laid them down between them, over hers.
She tried to make her tone teasing; she feared it came up brittle. “I thought my work had finished for the evening; for us to dance any more dances would have been quite scandalous.”
“We have already sent the tongues wagging, I am afraid; I was subjected to such a sly but through questioning that I was forced to run. See? I still need protection.”
Elizabeth smiled. “You did not look it.”
“I am a man of great self possession; I never look it. But then again, that does not mean that I never need it. What am I to do, if my champion abandons me to the wolves?”
She could not but laugh. “If I can be so bold, I think you may overstate the danger.”
“Indeed? I should think not—it scared my protector away, and I know her courage rises with every attempt to intimidate her.”
She looked down and smiled weakly, knowing he would not see it. “Your protector was not scared, I do not think,” she said; when she looked up, he was watching her intently.
His hands went to her elbows, and he covered her shoulders with her wrap. She could not turn away; he raised one hand to her face, and trailed a slow line from her forehead to her lips. “Your eyes are bright.”
He did not say, ‘you are crying,’ nor did he ask why, and for that she was immensely grateful. She could have made no answer; she could not speak.
His finger trailed over her lower lip and then Darcy seemed to recollect himself, and moved back. He looked away and stood.
“I can never tell what you are thinking,” he said. “I never know what you will say.”
She breathed out a trembling laugh. “I?”
“You. I had hoped… I had been waiting for this evening.”
“I had, as well,” she said, because it was the truth.
“I wanted…” He came to stand in front of her. “You are so much more courageous than I am—my champion.”
She was about to protest—indeed, she was quite the most cowardly person she knew—but he began again.
“I have wanted to ask since before it would have been prudent—and yet, the fact that I do not know what you think of me… I am your friend,” he said, and stopped.
“You are—but,” and then she hesitated for a moment, until her own recent discovery almost burst forth, “you are so much more.”
She felt the silence something dreadful, and at the same time, she knew she had gone less than halfway. He was listening, and sat again by her side, serious and pale, but said nothing.
“I—words are not enough to express what you are to me; what you have been to me for months now. You say I am brave—I am not. I am cowardly to the extreme. I hid from it, and, even now, hesitate to admit it.”
She took a shuddering breath, and yet he did not answer. She looked down. “I love you—there it is; I have said it. Even those words mean nothing in comparison to what I feel.”
She felt him close and she raised her eyes; his face was almost against hers, his mouth against the side of her mouth. “If I am so to you, then it cannot be a surprise that you are so to me. I cannot lose you, and I cannot hold back any longer. My beautiful champion; my most precious friend; my dearest Elizabeth, will you marry me?”
The happiest of confusions almost overcame her then, but she had no trouble in relieving him from his distressed suspense. She moved, rosy and warm, and kissed him with the fiercest of passions.