If it could be said that their conversation thereafter was natural and unaffected, the same could not be said about the feelings coursing through them by their slight touch; those were completely affected.
Unfortunately for both of them, before Darcy could solicit a private audience, their exchange was again interrupted from another quarter. When Darcy saw the man approach, he felt every bit the errant schoolboy as he attempted then to discretely remove Elizabeth’s arm from his. She was having none of it and tightened her grasp on his sleeve. He stood straighter, trying to convince himself that he had no reason to feel uneasy; the man was just . . .
“Mr. Bennet, sir.” Darcy bowed stiffly. Elizabeth’s father. And judging from his face, Darcy could see the man was not best pleased. Where Elizabeth’s arm was before a pleasant patch of warmth, now it felt like fire, one that was currently drawing her father’s eyes. Darcy swallowed and again attempted to slip his arm away. It was not as if he did not wish Mr. Bennet to know his intentions towards his daughter; he had just not informed him yet. Moreover, Darcy felt as if the man could read his very thoughts, some of which he would rather not have Elizabeth’s father know.
Elizabeth tightened her hold. “Papa, how are you this evening?” His face was worried, though she could tell by the way Darcy was fidgeting beside her that he was misinterpreting her father’s look as disapproval or possibly anger. It was a common enough misunderstanding.
Mr. Bennet looked up from Elizabeth’s hand at Darcy’s sleeve to her face. She was contented, happy, and he did not wish to cause her any grief. Even though he knew that, of all his daughters, her sensibilities would survive the topic he wished to speak with Darcy about, he still did not wish to burden her. No, he could not have her present when he spoke to Darcy. Besides, why upset her unnecessarily if it turned out to be nothing after all?
“I am well, my dear, though I am feeling a bit parched. Tea is perfectly fine for you young people, but an old man like me needs something a bit more lasting. Lizzy, would you be so kind as to go to my book room and smuggle a glass of my brandy back to me?”
Elizabeth smiled and slid her arm out of Mr. Darcy’s, a touch peevish that he seemed relieved. “Of course, Papa.”
Mr. Bennet bent and placed a tender kiss on his daughter’s cheek as he said, “I will keep your place here, so no other ladies steal your beau.” His teasing caused her cheeks to flash bright red. A quick glance at Mr. Darcy confirmed that he was similarly affected. She nodded quickly and curtsied before she departed swiftly out the parlor door.
Mr. Darcy watched her retreat, lifting his chin and trying to affect his familiar ascetic façade to hide his own embarrassment at her father’s jest.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet began in hushed tones without preamble. “We cannot speak privately without causing some talk, and I would rather not have them speculate. I am sure you understand.”
Darcy did understand. He understood, with growing alarm, that perhaps his suit would not be sanctioned by Elizabeth’s father! It was a possibility he had never considered, its being so absurd to him. His mind was too much in turmoil to respond.
“So I must speak to you in company, though I know you will understand my wishes not to draw any attention.”
Darcy nodded his head numbly.
Mr. Bennet breathed a sigh of relief that only made Darcy feel more despondent. In a more conversational tone, surprising Darcy, Mr. Bennet said, “Mr. Darcy, when we last spoke —” He paused and looked the younger man in the eye, willing him to remember their last conversation. Darcy expelled the breath he had been holding. Of course! He wants to talk about Wickham. When Mr. Bennet was sure that Darcy understood his reference, he continued, “When we last spoke, you said you had some business that you were going to look into. Might I ask how your business investigations panned out?”
His expression grave, he replied, “That business was concluded just last week, sir — I believe satisfactorily to all those concerned.”
Suddenly Darcy felt endeared to the older man when he saw that he was struggling with his emotions. It was some time before he responded. “I am glad to hear it.” Mr. Bennet swallowed thickly and said, “So you did not find any reason to worry — that is, about the business, of course.”
Darcy understood the man’s need to know — his need to dispel any questions about his daughter’s death. Compelled to reassure the older man, he smiled and nodded. “Nothing at all, sir. I believe all those affected by the nature of my business can rest easy now that it has been concluded with positive results.”
Mr. Bennet could only nod. He was overwhelmed for a moment with acute relief, his happiness complete. When he was mere days away from giving the hand of his oldest daughter away to a man who loved her — and when he had only just found the love of his life again — Mr. Darcy’s words of reassurance that Lydia’s death was an accident could not have been sweeter.
When he gathered enough of his composure to turn to the younger gentleman, he extended his hand and said, forgetting to code his words for others, “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. You have given this old father —” He coughed, struggling again. “If there is anything I can give you in return, you have only to ask.” They both knew he was referring to Elizabeth’s hand.
Mr. Darcy glanced away from Mr. Bennet only to smile at Elizabeth as she entered the parlor again. “I do have something in mind, sir.”
Mr. Bennet could laugh now, feeling light as a feather. “Then I will look forward to seeing you soon in my library, perhaps for a game of chess?”
Mr. Darcy tore his eyes from Elizabeth to address her father again. “I hope not before too long, sir.”
Elizabeth had reached the men then and was relieved to see them smiling. She handed her father his drink, and he excused himself to return to the couch beside her mother. Mr. Bennet’s last words gave Mr. Darcy such joy that he felt he must bring her hand to his lips! But before he could resign himself to take her arm in his instead, she made the movement herself, claiming him as he had wished earlier. He looked at her and smiled so brightly that his dimpled cheeks forced her to catch her breath.
* * *
The sky was sunny and clear on the day that Miss Jane Bennet resigned the name of her childhood and took the name of Bingley. It was a lovely assemblage of friends and family who gathered to witness them bind their love and make their vows before man and God. Elizabeth had been so delighted with her sister’s happiness that she did not know the effect her bright, sparkling eyes had on the best man standing beside Mr. Bingley. Every time she looked at him, he trembled, praying for the day when she would stand with him as his bride.
He still had not had the time to speak to her privately, but he was not as concerned. He was still eager, to be sure, but he did not seek some rushed affair, hurried because they had stolen a few moments of private conversation. No, when he told Miss Elizabeth Bennet that he loved her for the first time and how bewitched he was by her, he wanted all her attention. So he tarried, his family ring always in his pocket, waiting for the perfect time.
Fortunately for both of them, their duties as wedding attendants to the bride and groom allowed them to spend much of the day’s festivities in each other’s presence. The day seemed as magical to them as it did to the new Mr. and Mrs. Bingley. It was during their dance that evening at the wedding ball that Mr. Darcy made the first steps to secure her life to his.
“Miss Bennet, I feel it imperative to inform you that tomorrow I am going to call at your house with Georgiana.”
Elizabeth laughed at his formal recital of his plans for the next day. “I thank you for informing me, sir. I will try to remain at home for your visit then.”
Darcy looked her in the eye in that intense way that she had come to love so much. “And then I am going to leave my sister with your sisters to request permission from your father for a private audience with you.”
Elizabeth faltered, almost missing the ladies’ next turn in the dance. With all the love in her heart, she looked towards him th
en and replied, “I will look forward to it, sir.” She raised a brow in that saucy way he had loved since he first met her. “Though what you can have to speak privately to me about, I cannot guess . . . ”
“Minx!” He laughed loudly, shaking his head and causing others to look towards them.
Elizabeth laughed too, though butterflies had begun to swirl around her insides. How she could be so nervous suddenly when she had expected and known for weeks that this day would come, she did not know. Part of her still wondered how she could have garnered the affections of such a man.
Mr. Darcy parted ways with Elizabeth that evening with an equal measure of anticipation, anxiety and impatience. He had only one night to sleep before he could lay claim to her heart forevermore. If it also meant reclaiming her lips . . . well, who was he to complain?
Chapter 16
Elizabeth could not sleep. Who could be expected to sleep when filled with such anticipation and excitement? No, she could not find any way to relax. Though she lay in her bed all night, she was not tired. Her mind kept sleep at bay while evoking every one of her favorite moments with Mr. Darcy. In the quiet peace of the morning, first light was already chasing the night’s shadows away. Elizabeth decided she needed to calm her excited nerves with a walk about the countryside.
She quietly rose and went to her dressing table. She could not hide the smile that pulled at her cheeks. Elizabeth was anxious to share with Jane the blissful tumult in her mind. But Jane, of course, was gone away with Bingley. Without Jane’s steady nature, Elizabeth was restless with nervous excitement. A walk was indeed needed.
After pinning up her hair, Elizabeth walked towards her dressing room, opening the door quietly so as to not wake the rest of the house with its creaky hinge. She had the door opened only an inch when she heard whispered voices on the other side. Two of the maids were putting away the starched and folded laundry in her dressing room. Not wishing to disturb their work, she quietly leaned against the wall and smiled dazedly. Waiting for them to finish, she could not help but overhear part of their conversation that wafted through the cracked door.
“I ’ear ’e left ’er in London, ruined, ’e did.”
“But ya say she’s a come ’ome now?”
“Aye, and lucky she is; ’er uncle owns the inn, or she’d ’ave no place.”
“No man’ll ’av ’er now.”
Elizabeth turned her ear towards the door then, curious as she realized they were talking about the missing girl from the Meryton Inn.
“I ’ear she’s a breedin’ too, poor mop.”
“An’ there’s more, Bess.” The maid lowered her voice even further, causing Elizabeth to steal closer to the door to catch what was said. “She ’as said the bastard b’longs to that gent who ’ad been always callin’ on Miss Lydia, bless ’er soul.” The maid shook her head again.
“The off’cer?”
“Aye, Wick somethin’ er other. Told ’er they’d get hitched, ’e did.”
“Not Miss Lydia?” she gasped.
“No, ya ninny! The mop at the inn.”
Elizabeth was glad she was leaning against the wall then because she had very little strength in her legs anymore. Her knees had gone weak, and her head was still spinning when the voices of the maids faded away down the servants’ staircase. Mr. Wickham was the man who took the girl from the inn? She could not fathom it, even knowing all she did about his character. Still, all she knew for certain was that he was a liar, a cheat and a gambler. But a libertine? Darcy had not said anything about that.
Elizabeth shook her head, more than a little shaken. She regained her strength and walked into the dressing room to ready herself for the day. She was eager to see Mr. Darcy and relate to him what she had just learned of Mr. Wickham. It was simply too astonishing not to tell him! When she remembered his intentions for that morning, all her earlier excitement returned and she hurried to dress for her walk.
When she exited her bedchamber, a thought stopped her in her tracks. Never had she once thought that Mr. Wickham could have been dishonorable with Lydia, but now she wondered. If she had not heard about Wickham’s behavior with the maid at the inn, she would have disregarded the errant thought as ridiculous. But something nagged at her mind, and she began to panic. He had spent so much time with Lydia. If he was of such loose morals, could he not have been capable of coercing her sister to commit some breach of propriety or even something more sinister? Instead of turning towards the stairs to go down for her walk, Elizabeth turned the other way and nearly ran up the back stairs to the attic. She quickly found the trunk that held all of Lydia’s belongings.
With no small amount of determination, Elizabeth managed to move the heavy trunk away from the wall so as to open the lid. Her sister’s belongings before her eyes caused them to tear. She rifled through the trunk until she found what she was looking for. Pulling out the worn leather diary, Elizabeth sat back against her heels. She held it, experiencing a moment of indecision about whether she ought to read her sister’s private thoughts.
Covered with dust and cobwebs, Elizabeth decided she had to know. After closing the trunk, she secreted the small book into the pocket of her dress and then rushed down the stairs and out the door. A sinking feeling in her heart drove her forward, as far away from the house as she could possibly go on foot. She would not attempt to read any of it until she had reached the secluded peace of Oakham Mount.
* * *
Darcy had hardly slept a wink. He was rehearsing all he wished to say to Elizabeth that morning. After so many months — so much heartache, personal assessment, and humility — Darcy was ready to place his heart before Elizabeth and hope she would receive it. What had she not done for him? During the course of the months after her sister’s death, Elizabeth had taught him more about himself through her judgments of him than he had ever known before — hard lessons at first, but necessary to learn what it took to please a woman worthy of being pleased.
He did not want to consider what a disaster it would have been to propose to her in Kent. He was positive now that she would have refused him. The relief that filled his breast was immeasurable. Darcy swept away the troubling thought. It was irrelevant now.
Unable to stay indoors any longer, he decided to ride that morning to relieve some of his nervous energy. When he slipped out to the stables, narrowly missing Miss Bingley on his way, he asked the groom for directions to Oakham Mount. He had never visited it when he was in town last autumn, though it was always acclaimed as possessing an excellent view.
After receiving directions, Darcy mounted his horse and kicked him into a steady gallop. The breeze was in his face, and he felt the sting of the cool morning air in his lungs. When he was near the summit, he stopped his horse and dismounted. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon. He tied his horse loosely to a nearby tree, so it could graze as he began his final ascent up the hill.
Upon reaching the top, his breath was taken away by the picturesque view — not the surrounding vista of hills and lush green farmland and not the rainbow of colors painted across the sky as the sun rose higher but that of his sweet Elizabeth. She was sitting on a small boulder, her back to him, reading. He marveled at how delicate and feminine she looked, her back arched in a curve over the book.
Recovering from his surprise and with a smile on his face, Darcy quietly approached her. When he was but a few feet away, he called her name softly, not wishing to startle her. When she did not respond, he stepped closer. His smile broadened at her distracted state. “Elizabeth . . . ”
His brows knit together when she did not react again to his call. Must be a very good book. He quickly crossed the last of the distance between where she sat and where he stood, kneeling in front of her to finally catch her attention.
What he saw on her face caused him to fall back on his heels. Her eyes were red and her face covered in tears. Her face was painted in an anguish he had only seen once before: when he had discovered Georgiana with Wickham before
the intended elopement. He recovered himself then and instinctively reached for her shoulders to bring her to his embrace.
“Elizabeth! What is the matter, my dear? Please, what is wrong?” He felt a rush of panic when she resisted his embrace and pushed against his chest for him to release her. He immediately complied.
Elizabeth could not speak; she could hardly think. He was pleading with her; she could hear his voice, but she could not communicate what she felt. It was as if she were drowning. She silently handed him the book, covering her face with her hands to weep.
Mr. Darcy took the book from her with questioning eyes. He reached into his coat and pulled out his handkerchief for her. Carefully, he pulled at one of her hands, to uncover her face again. “Elizabeth,” was all he could manage. Her sorrow affected him too powerfully for him to voice anything more. His throat closed, and he patted her cheek tenderly with the soft linen. She took it from him to wipe her face as she indicated again towards the book.
“It is Lydia’s,” she finally replied in a throaty whisper.
Darcy sighed; he understood then. He was saddened that her tender heart was still so grieved by her sister’s death, but it was something he loved about her: her full, compassionate heart. He patted her back and took the seat next to her. “I know it is difficult, Elizabeth. You need never hide your feelings from me.”
Elizabeth shook her head; she needed him to understand. What she knew now was not just in the past between two individuals. It affected her life too. It affected Darcy’s, and he deserved to know. Her heart was breaking, anticipating the moment when he would learn of her shame and no longer want her.
With a voice barely above a whisper, she pushed the book back to him again and said, “Read it.”
Darcy frowned. He looked down at the worn binding and opened the book to the first page. It was filled with an embellished, feminine handwriting he did not recognize. The first words, “Dear Diary,” stopped his examination and he closed the book again.
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