Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  Endlessly, she tortured herself with thoughts of Mr. Darcy—his subtle smile, burning gaze, absorbing conversation, and unassuming generosity. His impassioned declaration of love. Regardless of how she told herself a person ought not to form a design on a memory, her heart would not be dissuaded. She could think of him in no other terms than of being in love, for no other sentiment came close to expressing the depth of her present feelings towards him. Observing Jane’s happiness had taught her how utterly foolish she had been to refuse him.

  “Do you visit her grave often?” Bingley enquired behind her. She almost toppled over in surprise and stood hastily to prevent it, making her head reel as it had not done in days.

  “Forgive me, I meant not to startle you,” he said.

  “You are forgiven. I thought you would be longer with the curate.”

  “He is not yet here, but we found Mrs. Goulding in the church. Jane is speaking to her about flowers for the wedding. Speaking of flowers…” He crouched unexpectedly and reached to gather up those Elizabeth had just laid, which she only then noticed had been strewn untidily over the grave when he startled her.

  She was glad of his distraction. It meant he did not witness the blush that any and all mention of his and Jane’s wedding brought to her cheeks. Arrangements for the occasion were now a source of constant deliberation at Longbourn—and constant anxiety for her as she fretted over Mr. Darcy’s attendance. She dreaded feeling his enmity should he come but dared not ask after him lest she learn he meant not to, for the prospect of never seeing him again grew ever more difficult to bear—which was perhaps the reason that the unmistakable sound of his voice affected her so.

  “Elizabeth.”

  She whipped her head up—but too quickly. Her temple throbbed, and her vision swam. Nevertheless, she saw him, standing motionless beyond the wall, his eyes fixed upon her. She gasped at the familiar intensity of his stare. He was come! Pressing a hand to her thundering heart, she took a step towards him but no more, for faintness encroached, and her knees buckled.

  “Lizzy!” cried Bingley, lurching to his feet to arrest her fall.

  The wave of dizziness receded as quickly as it arrived, and barely an instant passed before Elizabeth twisted from his grip to look for Mr. Darcy. She almost cried out to discover he was no longer there.

  “What is going on?”

  Reluctantly, Elizabeth gave up peering around the perimeter of the churchyard and turned back to see Jane approaching them along the path from the church.

  “Your sister is unwell,” Bingley informed her. “She almost fainted.”

  “I am not unwell,” Elizabeth assured them. “I only felt a little light-headed. It has passed now.”

  “Indeed. How fortunate that Mr. Bingley was here to catch you,” Jane replied coolly. Taking Mr. Bingley’s arm, she said to him, “The curate will see us now.”

  “But your sister—”

  “Go, go, I am perfectly well, I assure you,” Elizabeth insisted, though she began to wonder whether she might actually be hallucinating, for Mr. Darcy was nowhere to be seen. Resolved on searching for him beyond the churchyard, she added, “Indeed, I believe I shall continue on to Oakham Mount and join you again at Longbourn.”

  Jane took her at her word and left, pulling Bingley with her. No sooner had they disappeared inside the church than Elizabeth whirled about in the direction of the lane—and gasped in surprise. Mr. Darcy, more striking, more imposing, more real than any memory she had conjured in his absence, stood directly before her. The world stilled.

  “You awoke,” he whispered, staring at her as though she were an apparition.

  “I, oh, I—pardon?”

  “You awoke. You are alive.” His accent had none of its usual sedateness; his voice was hoarse and urgent.

  “I do not—”

  “Bingley sent word that you never awoke.” His eyes darted across her face, settling on her bruised temple. To her astonishment, he raised his hand as though to cup her face. “After this.”

  She held her breath, but rather than touch her, he lowered his hand to his side and pressed it in a tightly clenched fist against his thigh.

  “I thought you dead.”

  “Heavens, no! I suffered from a concussion for a few days, but I am recovered now. But for the odd spell of faintness,” she added, indicating the spot behind her where she had swooned moments before.

  “Then Bingley—”

  “Caught me.”

  Elizabeth fancied she saw a greater contrariety of emotion in his look at that moment than in the whole of their previous acquaintance. His manner bemused her. He was as discomposed as she had ever seen him, apparently stunned to see her, with an urgency about him of which she could make no sense but that her heart yearned to understand.

  “Pardon me—if you thought me dead, why are you come?”

  He was shaking slightly as though from some great emotion or the effort to constrain it, but when he spoke, his voice was steady and impossibly deep. “I have yet to find a way to live without you by my side. When I thought I should have to live without you alive in the world at all, I could not bear it. I came to say goodbye. I knew not what else to do.”

  Hope overturned her heart. “Then I am very glad to be alive, for I should have been sorry to miss the opportunity of seeing you again—very sorry indeed.”

  Mr. Darcy blinked several times and frowned but was otherwise motionless. She watched, hoping dearly that he would take her meaning, and drank in the sight of him as she waited. He was every inch as handsome as she recalled, though with one addition to his countenance.

  Quite without forethought, she raised her fingers to touch the vivid red line beneath his left eye. “This is new.”

  His eyes widened, and his hand flew to cover hers, bringing her mortifying awareness of her presumption, but he would not surrender it for all her efforts to withdraw.

  “Have I any hope?” His voice was strained with emotion.

  She let out a breathy, nervous laugh and nodded. “I think you may never be more assured of anything.”

  His breath caught. His eyes darkened to a fathomless ebon hue. His palm, warm and sure, came at last to rest upon her cheek. “Marry me. I am so in love with you. Marry me, I beg you.”

  All her wishes were answered. He loved her still! With nary a moment’s hesitation, she assured him of her jubilant acceptance, and she was at once pulled into his fervent, desperate embrace. Encircling her completely in his arms, he whispered her name like a promise and held her to him as though he would never let her go. Barely crediting her own boldness, she snaked her arms about his waist beneath his coat. He stiffened and drew back far enough to look at her. She did not think she would ever forget his expression.

  “I have not the words to describe what I feel for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.”

  He leant down and slowly, reverently, pressed his lips to hers. She shivered. Her skin veritably crackled at being so tenderly touched. At once, every feeling of futility was banished, all hope vindicated, and every expectation exceeded. She was lost to him.

  She kept her eyes closed for a moment or two after he ceased his caress, daring not to break the spell. When she did open them, she found him watching her, piercing her with his gaze and thrilling her with the most enigmatic smile she had ever beheld.

  “I do not give you leave to ever die again, Elizabeth Bennet.”

  ***

  Darcy’s happiness was such as he had never felt before. Elizabeth, who only weeks earlier had fractured his world with her avowals of disgust and until moments before he had believed dead, had agreed to marry him, had allowed him to kiss her, and was standing in his embrace, laughing with unaffected delight. It was nothing, however, compared to the joy her next deed produced. He watched, enthralled, as she placed her hands flat upon his
chest and fixed him with the same exquisite dark eyes that had haunted him since the first moment of their acquaintance.

  “I love you.”

  He stilled, astonishment and exultation paralysing him as readily as had his utter despair the previous day.

  “I see you doubt it,” she said softly, smiling a small but magnificent smile. “I shall say it again and again, ’til you believe me. I love, I love, I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  Such elation as this declaration produced could not be constrained to speech. He kissed her again—possessively, as a man kisses a woman he means to bind to him. His heart, his soul, his world were bound up in this one woman, and here she was in his arms at last. His.

  Regardless of his disinclination ever to relinquish his hold upon her, they could not continue thus indefinitely. He drew a short distance away, feeling instantly bereft. He knew he ought to speak but could no more order his turbulent mind to form a coherent thought than he could bestill his racing heart that, in contrast to its notable silence over the last day, was near deafening him with its present thundering. He caught the familiar expression in her eyes. She, without doubt, was laughing at him, and his heart soared. That decided him. He stepped back and held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  She gave him a quizzical look, wrinkling her nose charmingly, but nevertheless wrapped both hands about his arm. He clasped his hand over hers, drew her tightly to his side and set off along the path.

  “What are you about, sir?”

  “I am taking you to that church.”

  “That is as I thought. May I ask why?”

  “I am done waiting for you, Elizabeth. I would marry you. I daresay this church will do as well as any other.”

  Her laughter lifted his soul. To his complete joy, she rested her head against his arm and gave him a playful nudge.

  “I would not object, but we must wait our turn. Jane and Mr. Bingley are within—oh! Does Mr. Bingley know you are here? I do not think he saw you before.”

  Darcy immediately reversed their path, overtaken with an irrational surge of resentment at the memory of Elizabeth in Bingley’s arms. “Not as yet, and I would keep it that way for a while longer, for I am in no haste to share you. Would you do me the honour of walking with me? I have much I would say.”

  Thus, together they passed beneath the lychgate, and though he had expected to leave his heart behind in the churchyard, Darcy left with not only his but also Elizabeth’s.

  ***

  Bingley could have sworn he heard Elizabeth laughing, but when he and Miss Bennet exited the church, she was nowhere to be seen. He could not help but be disappointed.

  “Is something the matter?” Miss Bennet enquired.

  “I was only thinking how very ill your sister looked earlier. I am not at all sure she ought to have walked on by herself.”

  “You are good to be concerned,” she replied stiffly, “but Lizzy would not have gone if she felt unwell. She is very sensible.”

  “Aye,” he conceded with a wry smile. “As are you, Miss Bennet.”

  “Jane.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I thought you might like to call me Jane now that we are betrothed.”

  “Well, yes, if you like.”

  “I would like it very much.” She smiled brightly, always a pleasant surprise.

  “Then, yes, of course. Jane.”

  “Thank you. It seems only right after all that, since you have dispensed with propriety when addressing Lizzy, you ought to do the same for your wife.”

  ***

  Elizabeth glanced up at Darcy. He looked happier than she had ever seen him, his eyes burning intensely and his lips curled slightly at the corners as though a laugh might come as easily as a smile—or a kiss.

  She felt a thrill at the thought of his tender caresses. It had felt necessary, after their painful journey, to seal their union in such a way, and she was determined to waste not a moment in consideration of their impropriety. It was for them to forge their path, and this intimacy was theirs alone to know. She smiled to herself; after so long wishing for his embrace, she was more than happy to discover it such an agreeable place to be.

  “You are happy?”

  She started a little but was not surprised to find him watching her. It was what he did. “Never more so. You?”

  “More than I have the words to express. I fear I will awaken at any moment to discover this but a dream.”

  “If it is, then it is an uncommonly authentic one.”

  “As are all my dreams of you.”

  He held her gaze, unabashed, and though she felt herself colour, she delighted in his characteristic frankness. Having once accused him of speaking only to amaze the whole room, she better understood now that he spoke only when he could do so with conviction. If the whole room took it upon itself to be amazed, that was up to them. She chose not to be.

  “If my actions so far today have not convinced you I am real, I am afraid you will have to wait until we are wed and apply to me then for further proof.” His eyes widened, and she smiled at his surprise, though with so much regret weighing upon her, she soon sobered. “I hope your dreams of me were not all nightmares. I have treated you very ill.”

  “There is nothing to reproach in your behaviour to me.”

  “We both know that is untrue!”

  “I do not.”

  “Nay, you cannot deny I have been hateful. Certainly, I cannot forgive myself for the things of which I have accused you or the way I have spoken to and about you. In fact, I cannot fathom how you came to love me at all.”

  “Fortunately for you, your obstinacy is one of many reasons.” The smile with which he said this faded, and in a more strained voice, he added, “I think it more reasonable that I should wonder how you have come to love me.”

  Remorse twisted her stomach, for despite his demurrals, here was proof of how deeply she had wounded him. “I have come to better comprehend you, and there is very little I have discovered that has not brought me to loving you.” His brow furrowed endearingly, but he spoke not, and she determined to erase his every doubt. “Your letter did much to improve my opinion.”

  He groaned. “You cannot know how I regret ever having presented you with material proof of my resentfulness.”

  “I may not have liked it very well at first,” Elizabeth admitted with a smile. “But I have since come to treasure it. It has been a comfort to me.”

  “For that alone I am glad to have written it, but you may burn the wretched thing now. I intend henceforth to provide all the comfort you require.”

  Elizabeth was rather diverted by the fluttering this produced in her stomach. “Then there was Mr. Bingley’s return.” He looked a little abashed, which was proof enough for her of his part in it. “It was more comfort than you can know to see Jane’s heart mended. They are engaged, did you know?”

  “I did not. That is happy news indeed.”

  She squeezed his arm. “Thank you.”

  “Pray, of all things, do not thank me! They would be wed by now if not for my interference.”

  “Nevertheless, I do thank you. It must have taken great courage to speak to him.”

  “Not as much courage as it took to hear what he said in response.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You mistake my meaning. Bingley was not angry. It was his observations of my behaviour to you that were most painful to hear.”

  “Well, then I must thank him, for now you and I may quarrel about whose behaviour was worse, and that will give you a fine opportunity to admire my obstinacy.”

  He stopped walking and turned her to face him, his eyes so focused that she could see flecks of gold glinting in his brown irises. “I cannot laugh about it. I am so in love with you. Knowing I have pained you ha
s been unbearable.”

  Before she could think how to reply, he wrapped his arms around her, cradling her shoulders and head as he whispered a heartfelt apology. With her ear to his broad, solid chest, she heard his heart beating, powerfully and much too fast.

  “I forgave you all your mistakes long ago, Fitzwilliam. Pray, I would hear you say that you have forgiven me mine.”

  He tightened his hold on her. “Every one.” She did not expect him to continue and was surprised when he added, “Even your decimation of Mozart’s Eleventh Sona—”

  She poked him in the ribs before he could finish, laughter bursting from her lips. “Teasing man! Will you always know so easily when I need a laugh?”

  “I hope so.” He took her hand and placed it on his arm. When they had walked a short distance, he said, “It is to be ‘Fitzwilliam,’ is it?”

  “’Tis your name, is it not?”

  “It is, though I am little in the habit of answering to it.”

  “I have read the adieu in your letter every day since you gave it to me. I am afraid you cannot be aught else now but my Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  Clearly moved, he lifted her hand to his lips. “God, I love you, woman.”

  They walked on, Elizabeth with a lightness in her heart she had begun to fear forever lost. As they often did, her emotions bubbled over into action, and she reached up to snatch a leaf from the overhanging canopy—which the tree refused to yield. The resulting flick of the branch showered them both with debris from on high. She shrieked in surprise and hopped backwards, laughing as she brushed bits of foliage from her dress. Turning with an apology on her lips, she was utterly undone to discover the illustrious Mr. Darcy, bespattered with flora, now reaching to pluck a leaf from the canopy.

  “You cannot know the pleasure I find in pleasing you,” he said as he presented her with it. “I had long despaired of ever having the privilege.”

  “How fortunate for me that your happiness is dependent upon my own,” she replied, accepting it.

  He pointed to the leaf. “Had I known pleasing you was so easily done, I should have given you a tree the day we met.”