Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 11

Darcy stared uncomprehendingly at the man before him. He had just told Mr. Collins in six different ways that he was uninterested in Lady Catherine's opinion of his matrimonial duty, but it appeared a seventh may yet be required.

The man did not seem entirely brainless, but Darcy was beginning to wonder whether this distant cousin of the Bennets had a faulty memory or simply a streak of stubbornness that eclipsed all sense. Mr. Collins insisted, as if repetition would make it so, that defying Lady Catherine was not to be borne. In actuality, defying Lady Catherine was not only bearable, it was essential to the sanity of her relations.

Every time he thought he could not tolerate another syllable from Mr. Collins, he recalled that his own aunt bore the greater share of blame with her incautious, unsubstantiated declarations and her expectation of prevailing over everybody, and he refrained from letting loose whatever scathing comment came to mind.

He really wished he could sit down to breakfast, preferably with his beloved by his side and this utter bore nowhere in sight. Just thinking about what he wished he were doing offered some relief. Usually he did not allow himself to be distracted from what a person said to him in the moment, but this was no London soirée, where he had to be on his guard against scheming acquaintances. Nor was it the home of one of his Fitzwilliam relations, where he had to be equally wary of scheming family. Nor was he at Netherfield in the company of Miss Bingley, for that matter.

Just when he came close to losing patience again, he heard a most welcome sound behind him.

“My dear Fitzwilliam, how kind of you to entertain my cousin, but he has breakfasted, or at least made a good beginning, and you have not.” Elizabeth wrapped her arm around his and led him away, leaving Mr. Collins gaping.

Darcy smiled his gratitude. How beautifully simple Elizabeth's solution was! He had not forgotten his duty, however. “What of your father?” he asked Elizabeth. “I have yet to speak with him.”

“We can discuss the details later,” said Mr. Bennet, hurrying towards them. “You have my consent.”

“I thank you,” Darcy said, taken aback. He stopped to offer his hand, which Mr. Bennet shook. Elizabeth's father exhibited no eagerness; he rather had the air of one satisfied with having dispatched an unpleasant but necessary task. Darcy did not know what to make of him.

Breakfast at Longbourn was a noisy affair. Darcy stayed close to Elizabeth and took a seat by her. Mrs. Bennet only troubled him to inquire about his favourite dishes, and after she noted his answers, she conveniently spoke to Mr. Collins at some length. As the minutes passed, he was not sure if he had imagined or actually heard Mrs. Bennet say something about having been chosen over Lady Catherine as his mother-in-law. What an odd way of putting things! As long as he met the right bride at the altar, he could have no objection, and if such a declaration impeded Mr. Collins's flow of words on the subject, so much the better. In truth, he was quickly coming to see the advantages of acquiring a deferential mother-in-law over an interfering one.

It took several minutes, but eventually the chatter and clatter settled into an innocuous, comfortable rhythm. Darcy was able to relax, at least outwardly. Inwardly, his mind was full of the changes his morning ride had wrought. He would be married at long last, and to a woman he could love and who could love him in return.

Miss Lucas called before they were quite through. Her appearance was fortuitous, as it occurred just when Mr. Collins's face had begun to puff up in annoyance at remarks from Mrs. Bennet and Miss Lydia. Just Lydia, thought Darcy; she would be Lydia to him now. He did not want to think too deeply about that.

“Having second thoughts?” asked the woman of whose voice he had grown enamoured in the past weeks. She had stood when he had, eager to see her particular friend, but Miss Lucas was detained by Mr. Collins, who had greeted her and monopolised her company as if he were already the master of the house.

Darcy looked down at his side happily. “Second thoughts? About you? No.”

“You looked terrified for a moment.”

“I was, a little.” He looked into her eyes and tried to determine how to combine frankness with delicacy. He could hardly offend her more than he had already done, but there was no need to be foolish or careless of her feelings. Hesitantly, he leaned in close and said in a quiet voice, “I have one little sister, quite a timid creature, and now I am to gain four more, one of whom is Miss Lydia.”

He did not know what he had expected, but Elizabeth put all trepidation from his mind with her delightful laugh.

“Oh, you poor man! I ought not to feel sorry for you, however, not really. My father hides from the Bennet women in his library. From what I have heard, Pemberley's library is far superior and should offer as much protection as you require from the more boisterous of your new connections.”

When Mr. Collins had satisfied himself as to the welfare of Miss Lucas and her family, that lady made her way over to Elizabeth.

“Eliza, Mr. Darcy, good morning.”

“Charlotte!” Elizabeth exclaimed in concert with Darcy's own sedate greeting to Miss Lucas.

“Is Maria still abed?” Elizabeth asked her neighbour.

“She was when I left, but I would have wished to come alone today in any case,” Miss Lucas replied. She glanced over her shoulder towards the place where Mrs. Bennet and Mr. Collins were again conversing at odds with each other. Turning back, she said, “Eliza, I admit I am surprised not to be your only guest at this hour.” Now her eyes darted between Elizabeth and Darcy. A moment of silence followed. It seemed Miss Lucas would go no further with any vocal enquiry, though her look spoke volumes.

“We are engaged,” Elizabeth told her. The acknowledgement was delightful to Darcy's ears, and he could not help his broad grin.

“Truly? I congratulate you!” Miss Lucas said, looking genuinely pleased and not a bit envious.

Darcy watched with satisfaction as the two friends happily conversed. He could not imagine Miss Bingley announcing an engagement with anything less that the intent to inspire envy amongst her acquaintances. He could say the same of a number of ladies in his London circle.

He had no more time to spare for the supposed feelings of Miss Bingley and her ilk, however; he was still sorting through his own feelings. Did he wish to make his friends envious? No, he cared little whether or not they wanted Elizabeth. She was his, and as such, as long as she wanted him, no one else could have her. He did feel a new sort of pride, and he felt a strong desire, one he realised he never again would have to suppress. He felt relief at having escaped the matrimonial plans of others—those unimaginative, presumptuous schemes.

Most of all, he felt joy.

Just as the tension between Elizabeth and himself had unaccountably resolved into bliss, somehow the various other tangles got sorted—not ideally or completely, but well enough. Mr. Collins cast a disapproving glance his way from time to time but did not resume his argument or even remain in the Bennets' company for long. Miss Lucas invited the parson to Lucas Lodge, and thither he went before an hour had passed. By then, Mr. Bennet seemed less distant, if not exactly welcoming. Elizabeth's youngest sisters left him alone for the most part. Miss Mary seemed still a little scandalised from the earlier amorous display, and the younger girls appeared to have little interest in him.

Once Mr. Collins departed and Mr. Bennet abandoned them with what seemed a rather thin excuse, Mrs. Bennet cried out, “How lucky for us that Charlotte thought to take Mr. Collins off! I shall go out myself to call on my sister and tell her the good news! Lizzy, you must come along, that is, if Mr. Darcy will not mind it.”

“Mama—”

“Oh! Hm,” Mrs. Bennet said, eyeing the couple, “No, Lizzy. On second thought, you had better not go just now. Mr. Darcy, stay as long as you please. Stay for dinner if you like.”

“Kitty and I will go with you, Mama,” Lydia said, jumping up to gather her things.

“Come along, then.” She and her youngest two daughters soon quit the house. Mary excused herself to practice her music, which they heard presently.

When Mrs. Bennet left the room, Elizabeth had moved to sit by her elder sister. The two ladies made a pretty picture. The unstudied elegance of the one, the energetic grace of the other, and the happiness of them both conveyed more loveliness than their physical features alone could do.

Darcy thought he could sit and stare at Elizabeth indefinitely, especially now that they had come to an understanding. However, that did not mean Elizabeth wanted to sit and be started at. She might have plans. She might be exhausted, for she could have had little sleep, though she looked as vibrant as ever.

He did not know what to do with himself until he had the sudden idea to ask Elizabeth her opinion. After all, he had nothing pressing except to please his beloved. He was not at Pemberley or at his house in London, where there might be any number of matters to attend to. Bingley was away from Netherfield and therefore not in need of any assistance of his. He was quite at his leisure, and he might as well use the time to learn how to please a woman worthy of being pleased.

“Elizabeth,” he called out, diverting her attention from Jane. She came to him at once. “I could stay all day, but you might have secret matters to discuss,” he said, looking between her and Jane and smiling. Jane smiled back, and Elizabeth laughed. “I should at least go to Netherfield and let them know I will be dining out. It seems I also have several letters to write.”

“I suppose I have a letter or two to write as well,” Elizabeth said with a curious look in her eye. Then she smiled. “But I do want to talk to Jane. You will be back this evening, then?”

“Yes.” He leaned close and whispered, “I shall miss you.”

“It will only be a few hours,” she whispered in reply, “but I think I shall miss you too.”

Darcy was tempted to embrace Elizabeth and kiss her in front of an audience for the second time that day. By the look on Elizabeth's face, she was well aware of the fact.

Instead, he kissed her hand and took his leave.

Some time later, Darcy was again alone in Netherfield's library, writing a letter. He had written to Georgiana, and he had just begun a note to his solicitor when he heard Miss Bingley arguing with someone near the door. He set down his pen and went to see what had occurred.

“I told you he is not to be disturbed. Our neighbours can have nothing of import to say. Just give it to me!” Miss Bingley insisted.

“Is something wrong?” Darcy asked. A young lad he thought he remembered seeing at Longbourn that day stood with hands behind his back, protecting their contents from Miss Bingley's grasp.

“Mr. Darcy,” said the butler, “this young man asked to see you, sir.”

The boy nodded. “I was told to put this in Mr. Darcy's hands and none other, sir.” Yes, the boy was definitely from Longbourn. He held out the paper, which Darcy took.

Miss Bingley stood by looking frustrated and not pretending to conceal her curiosity. She dismissed the butler, but when she tried to send the boy on his way, Darcy stayed him. “Let me see if an answer is required.” He was concerned now. Had there been trouble? Had Mr. Collins come back to harass them?

Had Elizabeth changed her mind? He hoped not!

Tearing into the letter with something less than his customarily dignified manner, he read over the first lines and sighed in relief. “All is well. Elizabeth is well.” And Elizabeth is still mine, he thought. He bit down on his lip but could not contain a smile. He dispatched the messenger, made slightly richer in thanks and coin, and turned to his hostess. Miss Bingley looked like she had a dozen questions to ask and no desire to hear the answers to any of them. He ought not to continue to smile, but he could not help it. He was too happy.

“I fear I have been indiscreet,” he said to his hostess, feeling a sudden compassion. “I apologise. I shall try not to trouble you any further today. I must finish my letters, and afterward I shall probably be with the Bennets until very late.” He returned quickly to his task, shutting the door behind him.

He now had an extra letter to write, but he would have to read this new one first.

If the words “Dear Mr. Darcy” had ever before caused him such delightful palpitations, he could not now recall it.

I feel silly for penning this note when I have just seen you, and you are but three miles distant. Might a lady be excused for a fit of silliness on the occasion of her engagement? I sincerely hope you will think so. In fact, I hope you will go so far as to write a note in reply. I believe it would be quite pleasant to read your words when you have happier news to communicate than in your last.

I do miss you. I like the feeling, but I shall like seeing you again even more.

Fitzwilliam, how does one know one is beginning to be in love? Is it possible it is happening to me as quickly as all this? Perhaps we can discuss the matter when next we meet.

With growing affection,

Elizabeth

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Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 10

The unwelcome sound of Mr. Collins's voice startled Elizabeth, and she spun out of Darcy's embrace. She stayed close and wrapped her arm around her lover's as sights and sounds intruded. She paid only scant attention to Lydia and Kitty's laughter and Mary's frowns. Jane's questioning look she sought to ease with her own smiles, but she was not as effective as she wished. She knew full well her happiness eclipsed any mortification, whether that fact showed on her face or not. Before she could say a word to allay Jane's concern, Darcy spoke.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bennet,” he said, “and good morning to you, Miss Bennet, Miss Mary, Miss Catherine, and Miss Lydia.” He bowed to them all, including Mr. Collins. “I begged Miss Elizabeth to let me join you this morning. Oh!” He turned to Jane. “Before I forget, I was charged by Mr. Bingley to convey his deepest regards to you in particular, Miss Bennet, and to your entire family as well. He is likely travelling to town as we speak. I believe he will return on—”

“Saturday,” Jane said before Darcy could finish his sentence. Her face suffused with a delicate blush. “I apologise for interrupting you.”

“Not at all. Saturday is correct,” he replied with a gracious smile. “Now, I must have a word with Mr. Bennet, if he is available.”

“But—but Mr. Darcy!” said Mr. Collins, red-faced and flustered. “You cannot—My cousin—How could—Lady Catherine will be—What will Lady Catherine say? This must be Cousin Elizabeth's fault!” He glared at her and appeared torn between approaching Mr. Darcy to admonish him further and maintaining a respectful distance in honour of his consequence and his connection to Lady Catherine.

“I believe I have grasped the nature of your business, Mr. Darcy,” said Mr. Bennet. Elizabeth had not noticed her father's library door open.

“Good morning, sir,” Mr. Darcy said, turning to face him.

“Yes, well,” Papa began, only to be interrupted by his cousin.

“My dear cousin, you simply cannot allow this match to proceed! It is not sanctioned by Lady Catherine de Bourgh!”

“And what has Lady Catherine to do with whom my daughter marries?”

“Oh! Nothing at all! It is her nephew's marriage in which she must have her say, though I do not doubt my dear cousin would also benefit from her ladyship's sage advice on the matter! In fact, it is my intention to introduce Cousin Elizabeth to her ladyship as soon as possible, for you must know that—my attentions have been too marked to be—”

“Now, Mr. Collins,” interjected Mrs. Bennet, “I tried to spare you this, but you would leave the breakfast table! When I stepped out intending to discover what was keeping Lizzy, I saw her here and could easily tell what she was about. I had no idea of anything of the kind between them until that moment, you understand, or I never would have....Oh, my! But I came back immediately to spare your feelings! I tried my best, did not I, girls?”

“My feelings?” said an ever more agitated Mr. Collins. “Lady Catherine's feelings are the matter for concern!”

“Sir,” said Papa quietly to Mr. Darcy, “I will speak with you shortly. Right now I want to talk to Lizzy.”

Elizabeth looked at her father and then at Darcy, who nodded and smiled, and she slipped into her father's library. She heard Darcy addressing Mr. Collins as the door closed.

“Lizzy,” Papa said, “what do you mean by accepting this man? I can see you do not hate him any longer, but I would swear you did when you woke this morning!”

“I would not say I hated him this morning when I woke.”

“Yesterday morning, then!”

“Fair enough.”

“Do not be tiresome, Lizzy! Explain yourself.”

Elizabeth took a seat but then jumped right back up and began to pace. Her father looked worried now instead of annoyed, so she stood still and smiled at him, which only seemed to increase his worry.

“You have not had a sudden desire to be rich? I know the man danced with you last night. Did you decide to make something of his unlooked-for interest? I have never considered you a mercenary girl.”

“I am glad you have not.”

“Then tell me what this is about!”

He had used that quiet, insistent voice that was almost worse than shouting. Elizabeth looked with compassion at him. Poor Papa! He had expected this outcome no more than she had, and she ought to help reconcile him to it as quickly as she could.

“I will do my best to make you understand. I am not certain I understand it all myself, but I am certain I want to marry Mr. Darcy.” She really was certain of that. She sat down again and waited until her father did likewise.

“And it has nothing to do with pin money and carriages?”

“No.” She shifted in her chair. She was convinced that she was making the right choice: not necessarily an easy choice, but the right one. She thought a moment. “I guess you could say we have misread each other from almost the beginning of our acquaintance.” It had not been easy to own up to her mistakes, but she was the better for it. She was certainly happier for it.

“What mystery has there been in his behaviour? We could all see that he is proud and disagreeable.”

“He was not proud and disagreeable just now!” He had not been too proud to behave civilly, even amiably, towards her family. She knew it was not reasonable of her to expect her father to disregard Mr. Darcy's previous attitude towards the people of Meryton in general and his family in particular, but she found herself short of patience with him nonetheless. She was happy; could that not be sufficient? “The man outside your library is quite pleasant and spoke prettily to my mother and sisters.”

Her father did not appear impressed. For a moment he just looked at her, and then he said, “You barely know him.”

She had to stop herself from saying, 'I know him better than you think.' It would not do to give her father the wrong idea. She took another approach. “If Mr. Bingley were to call on you today and ask for Jane's hand,” she asked, “would you deny him?”

“No.”

“Jane has not known Mr. Bingley any longer than I have known Mr. Darcy, and she has hardly spent more time in Mr. Bingley's company than I have spent in his friend's.”

“I dare say Jane and her Mr. Bingley have not spent their time misunderstanding and insulting each other,” her father pointed out, raising a brow in enquiry. “I find it hard to imagine you have not repaid Mr. Darcy for that injudicious remark at the assembly.”

“Oh, I have. Twice I refused to dance with him.”

Her father seemed to soften at that. He even looked amused. “And the man kept asking.”

“Yes. I was a blind fool.” She shook her head. “Last night I flaunted my foolishness by spending the first dance refusing to speak to him and the second questioning and accusing him. It was awful. Do not laugh, Papa!”

Her chuckling father paid her no heed.

She smiled reluctantly. “I admit to being ridiculous. It was that horrid conversation, however, that led to our present understanding. Mr. Darcy discovered that I did not like him. He had not realised it until then, if you believe it. For my part, I discovered that an old acquaintance of his had spread lies about him and that what I had assumed was mutual dislike was not mutual after all.”

“An old acquaintance? I do not imagine anyone bearing the name of Bingley has said anything derogatory about the man.” His eyes suddenly brightened. “Is it the new officer from the north I have heard you and your sisters giggle and sigh over? I admit to rarely listening to Lydia, but she was quite voluble last week when you all came back from your aunt's. She raved about a certain soldier's looks and then complained that he made several mentions of Mr. Darcy, of all people, during a game of lottery tickets! I remember being surprised even a redcoat could draw Lydia's attention away from lottery tickets, so fond is she of that game.”

“Yes, Mr. Wickham is the man. He is the son of the late Mr. Darcy's steward and something of a ne'er-do-well.”

“So Mr. Darcy has gone from being your enemy to being the man you want to marry! That is a great deal to sort out during a pair of dances—or a single dance, if you refused to talk to him for the first one. How did you manage to settle it all? I know he did not ask you to dance a second time. Your mother would not have kept silent about that. Neither did you appear to be friendly when we left the ball.”

Elizabeth did not wish him to know about the letter, so she did not answer immediately.

Her father looked squarely at her. “Now I may seem an old man to you girls, but I know what manner of sounds I heard outside my library door. Please tell me a few kisses have not turned your head and caused you to throw away your good sense.”

Her shoulders drooped.

She told him as much about the letter as she dared without revealing any specifics regarding Miss Darcy. Her father looked none too pleased, and from his few remarks, she gathered he was less disturbed by the contents of the letter than by the fact that she had received it at all. She waited a moment for his brow to relax and for him to dismiss or make a joke of it, as was his wont with disagreeable things, but he continued to frown at her. It occurred to her that he might suspect her of withholding something from him. If so, did he believe it to be more than it was? Did he perhaps think she had gone further than she ought, further than morality, and not just prudence, dictated? The thought was painful.

“I hope you know me well enough, Papa,” she said unhappily, “not to believe the current state of affairs between Mr. Darcy and myself was built on a foundation consisting solely of improprieties!” She tried to smile despite her consternation, but her father's expression did not change, and that dampened her spirits. She turned from him and said no more.

Elizabeth had not expected to be sat in her father's library this morning, at odds with him over a marriage proposal from Mr. Darcy, of all people! The threat of Mr. Collins's addresses had been nothing to this. Mr. Darcy was no Mr. Collins, whose sole attraction was being heir to Longbourn. If she wished to marry him, especially after having detested him, why could Papa not trust that she must have very good reasons?

She could only guess that her father did not appreciate having to adjust his ideas to these new circumstances. He was, in truth, likely to grant Mr. Darcy anything he should ask, but he appeared to be annoyed because Elizabeth would not spare him the bother.

Jane would never have faced this sort of enquiry or disapprobation over a suitor. Even if there had been any number of letters—or kisses, for that matter—her father would have questioned nothing of consequence. Jane, however, was unlikely to go from hating a man to loving him; she would begin and end thinking well of any man she wished to marry. That would make an application for her hand blessedly uncomplicated.

Elizabeth thought about Mr. Darcy. There seemed little uncomplicated about that man or about her acquaintance with him.

Just as she was considering whether to say something in Mr. Darcy's defence, as defending her own behaviour had accomplished nothing, her mother burst into the room. “Mr. Bennet, you must come quickly! There is such a to-do! Your cousin looks as red as a tomato, and he insists Mr. Darcy is engaged to Lady Catherine's daughter!”

“What is this?” Mr. Bennet said, looking at his wife with interest.

Papa must believe he has found a way round this matter, Elizabeth thought. It would be best for him to be disabused of that notion without delay. “Mama, there is no engagement between Mr. Darcy and his cousin.” She smiled at a sudden thought. “Do you recall last night at supper, when you spoke to Lady Lucas about my marrying Mr. Collins, as if it were a settled thing?”

“Oh, that!” said Mrs. Bennet, catching her meaning with gratifying quickness. “No, no. I see. I see! Never mind that now.”

“Exactly, Mama. Mr. Collins speaks only of Lady Catherine's preferences, and no more. Mr. Darcy has already told me of it. His aunt will not be pleased, but that cannot be helped.”

“I suppose not, but Mr. Collins is so angry, going on and on about his patroness's disappointment! He was even a little rude when I begged him to finish his breakfast and let Mr. Darcy be.”

“I ought to go and rescue Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, imagining he must be quite weary of Mr. Collins's impertinence. Rising from her chair, she looked up and saw mild surprise fading into resignation on her father's face. Her mother's face was a picture of almost girlish excitement.

It was time to leave this room. “Come with me. Mama,” Elizabeth said, taking her mother's arm. She determined to enjoy this rare moment of accord between them. “If Mr. Collins will not relent, we can remind him that the choice is Mr. Darcy's, and he prefers to have you for a mother-in-law rather than Lady Catherine.”

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Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 9

Darcy kept pace with Elizabeth and pondered the delicate place they had reached in their acquaintance.

Their walk had begun beautifully. They had engaged in pleasant banter, and when they had lapsed into silence, there were still glances and blushes and smiles. Seeing her smile directed at him so frequently was almost as good as having her kisses. Had things gone a bit further—had she reached out for him, touched him—he might have kissed her again.

Then something went awry.

It had taken him two steps to realise she was no longer at his side. He had been speaking of her family at her instigation. He had kept his strictures to a minimum, and for his pains she had accused him of not being gentleman-like! The words had stung him.

He was every inch the gentleman! That was how they had come to be walking to Longbourn together this morning. He had determined that she should be undeceived regarding Wickham. Upon finding himself alone with her, he had exercised great restraint and only proceeded with such displays of affection that she did not object to or that she actually encouraged. Indeed, there had been no want of encouragement!

For all that, he had not swept her up in his arms, put her atop his horse, and ridden off with her to the next town. Nor had he coaxed her away from the path to some secluded place for the purpose of enticing favours from her. He knew more than a few men who would have done the latter without a second thought and maybe even a few who might have risked a kidnapping charge for the former, but he was not that sort of man.

Yet his admission, however succinct, that he had had the reasonable scruples of a reasoning man had somehow drawn her censure.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose. Was he really congratulating himself for not behaving like a villain, for not being an unprincipled ass, simply because he resented the fact that a single remark of his had been judged and found wanting?

Only Elizabeth could affect him this way.

This was the conundrum that was Elizabeth. She attracted him, frustrated him, confused him, surprised him, and sometimes angered him. She inspired, amused, and delighted him.

She moved him.

He could not remember not being interested in her, even when he had thought he was not interested in her. He had kept looking at her until he had wanted to keep looking—until he had wanted her to look back.

Now she was looking back, and it would be the height of foolishness for him to ruin everything in the heat of the moment. He had said enough to achieve an uneasy truce, but he would do well to come up with something better before they reached her home. He would not like her to bid him goodbye at the door with nary a backward glance.

Oh, but he was piqued! He had been hard-pressed to keep the irritation out of his voice, and there had been an edge to his words. Elizabeth had not left his side, however, and she had not tried to rush him along. He was glad of that. He needed this last stretch of the walk to Longbourn to be a slow and thoughtful journey.

He tried to use the time well. He thought of the content of his remark and sought to understand why Elizabeth had taken exception to it. Were not his feelings about the relative stations of the Bennets and his own family, not to mention the behaviour of some of the Bennets, natural and just?

Bingley would say he was being too fastidious, but Bingley was always saying that.

His earlier thoughts about Lady Catherine's behaviour came back to him. He was suddenly dissatisfied with how easily he had forgotten those musings. Had he dismissed them from his mind because he depended on the distance between Pemberley and Longbourn to keep him from having to reconcile himself to the unpleasant aspects of the match?

He considered his parents, education, and inheritance. He had a heritage to make a man proud, and apparently it had made him proud, but did his position in the world really require him to think meanly of others not similarly blessed? He had taken for granted that it did. Now he began to doubt the rightness and even the practicality of doing so.

He glanced at the woman next to him.

She had her pride too, he realised.

Could he not begin, at least where it most mattered, to take people as he found them and to disregard those foibles he was apt to overlook in others when they were gilded with wealth and consequence?

It would be a challenge, but Darcy was not put off by challenges.

His happiness was bound up in Elizabeth Bennet. There was no doubt on that score, but how was Elizabeth to know she could trust her happiness to his care if she feared he might forever reproach her for circumstances beyond her control? Why would she dare trust him with her heart if she could not trust him to tolerate, for her sake, the people she loved?

His eyes were appraising the old, dignified façade of Longbourn House and admiring the prettiness of the grounds when he had an idea.

Elizabeth was on the point of turning her feet towards the front door. He reached out and gently touched her arm. “Will you direct me to the stables, Miss Bennet?”

She started at that, but he could see no advantage to being anything other than bold now, so he continued.

“Elizabeth,” he said, “I mean to shed all claims to gentleman-like behaviour for the present and invite myself in. If I wish your connections to be mine in future, I ought to have a proper value for them. In pursuit of that, I should like to spend some time with them if I may. You were quite right to chastise me. You would not be the woman I lo—” He stopped, impeded by a wave of embarrassment. He had been fooling himself in refusing to use the word. “I suppose I do love you. It is pointless to deny it. You would not be the woman I am at least beginning to love,” he said, smiling at her surprised face, “if you were afraid to tell me when you think I am in the wrong.”

There was so much emotion in her face that for a moment he thought she might cry again, but then she composed herself and, to his astonishment, grasped his hand.

She led him to the stables, and then, when his horse was seen to, she took him into the house. Thereupon followed a flurry of activity during which they separated only of necessity or expedience, and then only briefly. He had not seen much of Longbourn before and certainly did not know his way about the place. It was a whirl: servants' names and faces; inquiries and glances; that lightness in his beloved's voice that sounded like a smile and hovered on the brink of joyous laughter; and throughout, the near-constant touch of her hand in his, At length, she settled him in a well-appointed parlour with a promise to return to him soon.

He did not have long to wait. He stood at her approach and noticed that slight difference in her height that he sometimes did. Looking down, he saw that she had exchanged her half-boots for slippers. She came quite close and said in a low voice, “I had to hide away my precious letter. Come!” She took his hand and led him down the hall to stop before a door. “Oh! You must be hungry. Had you anything to eat before leaving Netherfield?”

He admitted to not having had much of an appetite then but feeling peckish now.

“We shall remedy that, but first, I thought you might wish to speak to my father.”

“Your father?” he said, nonplussed. Then her nod and her smile and the light in her dark eyes cleared away all confusion as to her meaning but not the reasoning behind it. “But you were not ready! You said you wanted time to think.”

“I have been thinking,” she said, that mesmerising mouth twitching on one side during her pause, “and I now think the idea of a little more time to be over-rated.”

He opened his mouth to reply and found himself unable to utter a word. Elizabeth had pressed herself to him and raised her face while lowering his. With a little leap, her lips met his own. It hardly would have been gallant not to assist her and he held her to himself, indulging their mutual wishes, until the enormity of the moment burst upon him. Caressing her face, with the sound of his ragged breath and his pounding heart in his ears, he asked, “You will marry me? That is, will you marry me, Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

“Yes, I will marry you, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy?!?”

The exclamation had not come from his beloved. He lifted his face to discover that they had quite an audience. The youngest two Bennet girls admirably prevented giggles from escaping their mouths while their shoulders shook. Miss Bennet looked as if she could not credit what she saw, but her frown of perplexity and Miss Mary's frown of disapproval were worlds apart. Even Mrs. Bennet was there, looking with something like triumph not at him or Elizabeth, but at her houseguest. As for Mr. Collins, who had cried out his name, that man stood staring at him in horror and indignation.

---

Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 8

Elizabeth wondered how it was that she had begun with a letter and ended with a kiss.

She discovered she did not mind at all, but she could not help but wonder.

She hoped this serendipitous circumstance would resolve the problem of Mr. Collins. Even a hint of interest from a man of Mr. Darcy's wealth and importance ought to preserve her from being bound prematurely to her cousin. Mama could hardly object, Longbourn and entails notwithstanding.

As Darcy had ridden towards her, she had thought of what a complex character he was. Charlotte had said he was a man ten times Mr. Wickham's consequence. He had ten times Mr. Wickham's complexity, too. Mr. Wickham was a simple man, she had concluded, simpler than Mr. Bingley, who could laugh at himself and use his wit capably against the older and likely cleverer Darcy. Perhaps Mr. Bingley was a more intricate character than his open, easy temper made him seem, but that was for Jane to discover. Though Elizabeth's thoughts were still swirling, she felt with growing certainty that she preferred to claim for herself the challenges and rewards of studying the many facets of Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Then Darcy had reached her, and the first words from his mouth showed he had not come to triumph in his superior knowledge or to receive the apology she knew was owed him. What he had done was to ask after her comfort. She had striven to make him as uncomfortable as possible last night, and today he sought her comfort! It had been too much. She had abandoned all efforts to prepare a proper speech and said whatever came into her head. Then she had felt his arms around her for a dizzying moment, and suddenly they were sat close together, his fingers brushing away her tears.

The she had said more things, and....

She could not believe she had been so forward.

Never, never must Lydia know the particulars, nor Kitty, for that would be the same as Lydia's knowing. Mary would be scandalised. Only Jane could be told, if Elizabeth could ever bring herself to reveal how wantonly she had behaved.

But was it wanton to want to kiss such lovely lips? They looked delicious when he smiled.

“Come, you should be at home.”

She shifted in his arms.

“You are cold,” Darcy said.

She was cold. That was part of the reason for her shivering.

“Ride my horse back to Longbourn. I will follow on foot. I would enjoy riding with you, but I do not think it would be quite the thing,” he added, grinning impishly.

After she assured him she was no horsewoman, he decided to walk back with her, leading his horse. For a moment, she almost wished they could have ridden together, but walking was for the best. They smiled and even laughed as they went, but they did not touch, which allowed her some control over her feelings.

His strides were long and quick. He seemed to know and expect that she would keep up with him. She thought his figure was rather fine: not fashionably padded with the evidence of habitual indulgence, but fit and strong, the body of a man used to exertion.

He liked to be acting, moving, accomplishing. Had he been in need of employment and disappointed by a benefactor, he would not have wasted time with malicious gossip. He would have found work and, moreover, had something to show for his efforts. He had inherited his father's property several years ago, and his friends had nothing but praise for Pemberley. His active interest in his sister's welfare had led him to visit her, and that affectionate care had thwarted their enemies.

He was a far more attractive marital prospect than Mr. Collins.

She groaned.

“Elizabeth,” Darcy said, slowing their walk. “Is something wrong?”

It had been an extraordinary morning. After all he had told her by letter, she could tell him this. “I just remembered that Mr. Collins all but promised to propose this morning.”

She caught his brief look of distaste, but this time she was in agreement with the sentiment. “He has the living at Hunsford, does he not? What is his connection to you?”

She was relieved that he was willing to speak of it. She had needed to speak to someone. “He is my father's cousin.”

“Is he your father's heir?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish to marry him?”

“Are you out of your senses?”

He laughed. Then he became serious. “Though I do not know whether I can say I am in love,” he said, colouring, “I do believe I am in very great danger of it.”

The words warmed her.

“You, however,” he continued, “only liked me well enough to kiss me less than an hour ago.”

She did not know what to say to that, but it appeared he was not expecting a response.

“I do not want you to think it is typical of me to seek out a lady immediately after a dance.”

“So you did not seek me out?”

“Actually, I did.” He stopped, so she did as well. “What I am trying to say is that I have behaved differently with you than I typically do with regard to ladies because you are different from any other lady I have met. I have never longed for the company of any woman as I have longed for yours.” He paused and seemed not to know where to look for a moment, and then he looked into her eyes. “Though we have only been acquainted a few weeks, I do not think my affections and wishes will change. I would ask you this moment to be my wife if I thought you wished for a proposal, but I believe you might appreciate more time. Am I correct?”

Elizabeth stared. “It is uncanny how well you know me,” she said. “I would appreciate a little time to think. I realise my behaviour may have led you to believe otherwise, but I was so caught up in what I felt in that moment.” She watched him, and her embarrassment fled as disappointment flickered across his face. “It is not that my feelings are necessarily fleeting.” She rather thought the reverse, but she was not ready to say that to him. “It is just that they are new, and I have not thought very deeply about how things might change.” Her embarrassment flooded back as she decided to be frank with him. “I admit I was thinking just now that you are a much better marital prospect than Mr. Collins, which reminded me that he means to make his intentions plain today.” It was not so hard to look him in the eye when that eye seemed to brighten at her words.

“At least I am not at the bottom of your list.” His voice sounded nonchalant, but his expression gave him away. He looked relieved and excited. “What should I do to get to the top?”

“Hmm.” She knew her eyes, and probably flaming cheeks, must be giving her away, but she tried to make the tone of her voice match his. “You have made a very good beginning. I do not know if you need any advice from me.”

His smile was brilliant then. “A letter every now and again, when you happen to champion a scoundrel while dancing with me?”

“That might do. You write charmingly.”

“Thank you.”

“What will happen when I champion someone who is not a scoundrel?”

“Ah.” He took a few moments to consider that. “It will depend on the age and situation of the gentleman in question. If it is an elderly man who dotes on you as he would on a granddaughter, that is one thing, but if it is some young, smart fellow who might turn your head, I think I will have no choice but to act.”

“And how will you act?”

Elizabeth waited for a reply as Darcy stared down at her. He silently indicated that they should resume their walk. As they started, Elizabeth was on the verge of demanding to know his thoughts when he told her.

“If you had not just confirmed that you wished for more time, I would have shown you. We must be close to the manor house now, and I would not want to do anything that would compel you to commit yourself before you desire it.”

He was right about their vulnerability to curious eyes. They were nearing one of the paths that led to the hermitage, and soon the house would be in full view. It would be just her luck if Kitty were to spy them from an upper window, or a tenant or servant were to see them and spread gossip in the village.

Still, she was as curious as any onlooker might be. “Perhaps you can tell me of this...demonstration that I am forced by your prudence and gallantry to forego.”

“Elizabeth!” Darcy said with as much fondness as exasperation.

“Yes?”

He raised his eyes to the heavens.

“What have I done?” she asked him.

“As if you do not know, you teasing woman!” Looking at her with a trace of a smile on his face, he said, “I should not have offered to delay my addresses. I never should have given you that option. You will tease me to within an inch of my life before you make up your mind.” His gaze fell to the ground in front of them. “It is true that I thought of you, but I realise now I was also being selfish, even cowardly. I was afraid you might refuse me.”

Elizabeth thought about this. How would she have reacted had he proposed on the spot? If he had asked between kisses, she could not vouch for anything she might have said, but he had a point. They had come a long way since their first meeting, and she told him so, looking ahead instead of at him as she spoke. “So the man who, not so very long ago, was afraid of giving consequence to a lady 'slighted by other men' is now afraid of being rejected by that same lady, who is reasonably sure of another offer. Interesting.”

“The irony is not lost on me, my dear.”

She turned sharply to look at him. He had not sounded affronted, but she had needed to see him to confirm that he was not. This was the same man who had looked with contempt upon her, first of all, and then on her family and friends. Would he be sorry he had given in to his feelings in this matter?

She wondered that he was not married already, and then she remembered something Mr. Wickham had said. “Are you very sure, then?” she asked. “I have no wish to marry my cousin, but will you regret not having married yours? Or was that something else Mr. Wickham lied about?”

“If he said I was engaged to Miss de Bourgh, yes. If he only said a match was expected by some, then he did not lie. My aunt wants the match. I have no desire for it. I doubt my cousin would decline to marry me if I were to ask, but I do not think she holds me in particular regard.”

“All the same, you would not want a richer wife or one with noble connections?”

“I could wish my wife's connections were not so...low.”

The manner in which he said 'low,' clearly referring to more than her family's position, brought Elizabeth to an abrupt halt. A less welcome kind of warmth flared up in her, the kind she had been used to feel during her encounters with Mr. Darcy. While unsurprised by his opinion—her recollections of his early disdain had prompted the enquiry—she felt a sharp disappointment in hearing it flow so easily from the same mouth that had kissed her. Had he made a joke of it, she could have borne that. There were kinder ways to express such concerns, but he had not even tried to find one. Had he still been her enemy, she would have laughed it off, but he was a man who held her in no little affection, a friend who every moment was becoming more. She felt wounded and angry. “I could wish,” she said, attempting to keep the worst of the anger from her tone, “that my husband would have the wisdom not to believe he could be pleasing to me while so casually insulting the people I love.”

“You asked me a question!”

“Which gives you the right to answer whatever you choose, in whatever manner you choose, without the least concern for—” No longer masking her ire, she had muttered through clenched teeth. “You are certain,” she said in a clear voice, “this is what you want?” She struggled to encompass it all in a gesture: the unappealing relations, the discord between them, the belief that he had made an inferior choice.

He just looked at her with wide eyes and said, “You are what I want!”

That he could declare this—that he could still want her despite everything he did not want—was gratifying, but it did not completely satisfy her. “I come with my family,” she felt obliged to say, though in a milder tone, “and I will not have you forget it.” She frowned. “It is possible to combine honesty with consideration. It is the gentleman-like thing to do.” At this, she saw him flinch as if in response to a physical blow. Did no one ever call him to account for his offensive speech? She remembered Mr. Bingley had done so on occasion, but what of others in his circle? He could not expect her to listen with complaisance to his disparagement of her family, whatever their faults.

She recalled her relief that Mr. Darcy had missed seeing several of those faults exhibited last night.

Feeling a sense of defeat settle over her, she said, “Mr. Darcy, we have only just begun to be friends, and see what a bad job we are making of it! I know I have little right to complain of what you say of my relations to my face when I have spoken poorly of you to your enemy behind your back! Perhaps the obstacles are too great in our case. Perhaps there is too much between us.”

His eyes did not leave her face. The interval before his reply was painful, and she wondered if the next words he spoke would put an end not only to the silence between them but also to her nascent dreams.

“Elizabeth Bennet,” he said at last, “there is much between us, and I am by no means done with you.”

---

Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 7

“Miss Bennet, are you well?”

Elizabeth looked...lost. He had not expected her to be this dismayed to find out that Wickham was unworthy of her admiration.

“How could I have been so wrong?” Elizabeth said. She seemed on the point of tears. “I was wrong about everything.”

“Probably not everything,” he said, seeking to lighten the mood and to respond honestly at the same time. His reply seemed to make things worse. She blinked, and a few tears fell. If he had thought the force of her anger had been difficult to bear, her brittle sadness brought him to a new level of discomfort.

Darcy looked about him. Fields that must have been bustling with industry a few months ago were great, lonely patches now. He had spotted just a few people from a distance and encountered no one while riding, though admittedly he had kept off the main road. Still, there would be little to take a man far from his own grounds this time of morning so late in the year. They were unlikely to have an audience for whatever would happen here. He knew his own wishes, but he had to think of hers.

He picked her up and placed her on the wall. Then he sat down next to her. He removed his gloves and tentatively reached out to touch her face where the tears had fallen. “I am sorry if anything I wrote caused you distress,” he said. He felt the wetness of his fingertips and the softness of her skin, and he had to suppress a shiver of delight amidst his concern for her. He dropped his hand and balled it into a fist to get himself under regulation. “I am sorry for your disappointment. I would tell you he is not worth it, but I can hardly find fault with your compassionate nature.”

“My compassionate nature!” She laughed. Her tone was mocking, but she was mocking herself, not him. “Oh, I am disappointed in myself for being taken in so easily and giving ear to his complaints when I had just met him the day before, but that is not what distresses me most.”

“Then what?”

“I showed no compassion at all for you when I sat in my aunt's parlour and listened to that man attack your reputation and blame your supposed dishonourable conduct on jealousy! It is only right that I tell you that Mr. Wickham said very little before first asking my opinion of you. After that, he could not stop talking. To my shame, I did not want him to. I barely hesitated to believe the vilest things about you in that moment! I am not proud of my behaviour, and I thank you for showing me how wrong I was about Mr. Wickham, but what I truly regret is....” She stopped and swallowed, and then that fierce, brave, marvellous young woman looked straight at him with her beautiful eyes. “I regret being so wrong about you,” she said.

The shock he felt at her admission prevented speech. Her tears were not for Wickham but for him, for having misjudged him? He could scarcely believe it. The look on her face was one he had never seen her direct at him before. He opened and closed his mouth several times to no avail. He wanted to do something other than talk, and he could not stop thinking of it long enough to respond sensibly.

“I should not have thrown Mr. Wickham's assertions in your face last night as I did,” she went on to say, looking worried. “I should never have engaged in unseemly, baseless gossip about you in the first place. I will understand if you cannot forgive me.”

Darcy shook his head to clear it. This feeling of lightness and pleasure was all out of proportion to her words. Regret was not respect. An apology was not affection! Yet something was infusing him with a hope that would not be suppressed. It was almost tangible, this new thing between them. It was in her manner as well as her words. She had not flinched or drawn back when he had touched her. She was not repulsed by him. Not repulsed! He wanted so much more than that, and yet it was a comfort.

He needed to pace until he became reasonable again, but he was loath to leave Elizabeth's side, and she still waited for him to speak. “Miss Bennet,” he began, but she stopped him at once with a gesture and a pained look.

“If you are trying to tell me that I have forfeited your good opinion—”

“I am trying not to kiss you,” he said, interrupting her.

Oh....No. He had not meant to say it, just to do it. He squeezed his eyes shut after seeing the surprise in hers.

In the quiet, he felt her touching his clenched fingers, gently prying them apart. “Must you try so hard?” she whispered.

He opened his eyes. Her face was closer to him than it had been before. “I thought you did not like me,” he told her, hoping she would deny it, tease him about it, laugh it away—anything, so long as she kept holding his hand.

Instead, she looked almost shy. Almost. Elizabeth Bennet was not shy. “Did not you say that impressions change?” she asked him.

He stopped resisting.

---

Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 6

Elizabeth was looking at Mr. Darcy, but she was thinking of her aunt Phillips.

Once, at Longbourn, her mother and aunt shared recollections of a ball many years past. A very handsome friend or relation of one of their neighbours had attended, and every girl there was wild to dance with him. The gentleman, however, only had eyes for the young Miss Gardiner that night. “He looked like he wanted to eat you up!” Aunt Phillips said to Mrs. Bennet. Elizabeth remembered wrinkling her nose in distaste, for the phrase sounded so vulgar coming from her aunt, but the sisters tittered and declared what a pity it was the man's reputation as a rake was so well known that their papa would never have countenanced a match between him and his remaining single daughter.

What Elizabeth wanted to know was whether that rake had looked at Mama like Mr. Darcy was looking at her now.

At last the man turned away and rode off. She ought to be accustomed to his scrutiny by this time, but that long stare and that light smile had her feeling oddly warm for a November morning.

He was too handsome for his own good—for her own good.

Elizabeth's fingers trembled a little as she held the pages of his letter. She forced her gaze down and began to read.

The look of indignation you wore as we danced is one I have seen many times in connection with Mr. Wickham, most often when his name is mentioned in the hearing of those who have suffered a prolonged acquaintance with him. Mr. Wickham himself has worn it while telling the collection of lies and half-truths he has repeated so long now that he may well believe them. On occasion I see traces of it on some unlucky fellow who has done business with him and hopes to recover his loss from me, as if Mr. Wickham were my ward rather than the son of my father's steward. Most painful, however, is observing that look on the face of an unsuspecting young lady who has not yet been exposed to Mr. Wickham's less redeeming qualities and who wonders how anyone can be so callous as to deny such a deserving gentleman his due. Though it was gracefully done—without missing a single step in the dance—and though the eyes that flashed their accusations were very fine indeed, to be charged with behaving unjustly and unkindly towards that man infuriated me. My anger soon took a proper direction, however, and I hope yours will as well after you have read this letter.

The elder Mr. Wickham was an exemplary man who had the management of the Pemberley estates for many years. My father served as godfather to his son and supported him at school and at Cambridge, support his own father could not afford because of his wife's extravagance. My father had the highest opinion of his godson, and though he did not live to provide for him in the church as he had intended, he particularly recommended to me in his will to assist young Wickham in his career and, should he take orders, grant him a valuable family living. In addition to this, he left him a legacy of one thousand pounds.

You may wonder how a man with such a fine example in his father and a wealthy and generous friend in mine, and such good prospects as a result, has ended in the militia far from his childhood home, with little to his name and few, if any, connections of worth—and no, I do not mean monetary worth.

My father's attachment to Mr. Wickham was steadfast, but it is many, many years since I have considered that man a friend. Being nearly the same age, I had opportunities to see him in unguarded moments that my father did not have, and I can testify to his general profligacy. The particulars may be too indelicate to share, but I will say it is fortunate that more than four years ago, soon after the death of my excellent father and then his, Mr. Wickham decided against taking orders. He knew as well as I that he ought not to be a clergyman. When he requested money in lieu of the preferment, I paid him three thousand pounds in exchange for his resigning all claim to assistance in the church. He said he wished to study law, but from the little I heard of him in the years following, that was a mere pretence, and he lived a life of idleness and dissipation in town.

Can you imagine my indignation last year when I began to hear directly and frequently from Mr. Wickham by letter once the living he had refused to wait for became vacant? His circumstances, he claimed, were very bad, and I had no trouble believing it. I knew the extent of the debts he had left behind him in Lambton and other villages near Pemberley. The first letter read thus: He had given up studying law as unprofitable and now meant to be ordained; therefore, I should present him with the living, as I had no one else to provide for and would not want to disregard my father's wishes. Subsequent letters heaped abuse upon me for holding him to his earlier agreement.

I wish my dealings with Mr. Wickham had ended there. Unfortunately, my father was not the only Darcy to retain a favourable impression of his godson. I had not intended ever to disclose this to any human being, but I have witnessed your affection for your own sister, and I know I can trust you with the reputation of mine. Mere months ago, in the summer, Mr. Wickham sought to repay my refusal to secure him several hundred pounds a year with a scheme to acquire thirty thousand pounds outright. I was unaware the woman I had recently hired to preside over my sister's London establishment had a previous acquaintance with him. When she accompanied Georgiana to Ramsgate to spend several weeks there, Mr. Wickham presented himself to their notice and, with Mrs. Younge's aid, quickly convinced Georgiana to believe herself in love. My sister, who is fifteen, had pleasant memories of Mr. Wickham's kindness to her as a child and no suspicion that he had not turned out well. I still shudder to think she would have married him in Scotland had I not visited her by chance a day or two before they were to leave. She confessed her plans to me, for she truly had not wished to disappoint me by taking such a step without my knowledge and approval, however much her companions had encouraged secrecy. How long would Mr. Wickham have taken to spend her fortune? How much sorrow would she have borne, tied for a lifetime to such a man while learning what many others before her have learnt: that he loves no one but himself?

I have too much appreciation for your liveliness of mind to desire your agreement on every subject, but if we should have occasion to dance again, I hope we shall improve in our ability to advance mutually pleasing topics of conversation.

I shall endeavour to place this letter in your hands as soon as may be.

Yours sincerely,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Elizabeth read the letter through twice. The first time, she paid attention to everything pertaining to Mr. Wickham and compared it with what she had heard directly from the man himself. The ways in which the two accounts agreed and diverged were striking. The magnitude of the elder Mr. Darcy's kindness to his godson was certainly consistent with the fervent gratitude and lavish praise Mr. Wickham expressed. The circumstances regarding the living, however, appeared quite different with so many pertinent details misrepresented or left out of the telling. Refusing to take orders and resigning all claim might certainly be considered imprudence, but that was no fault of Mr. Darcy's, even more so if the very idea for the compromise had come from Mr. Wickham himself!

When she read of the plot against Miss Darcy, or rather against the girl's fortune, she wanted to weep. Even there, Mr. Wickham had ventured into deception—for deception she must call it—and had again, unfairly, spoken ill of a Darcy. Mr. Darcy's description of events gave the impression that his sister was tender-hearted and easily influenced rather than proud, and Mr. Wickham's poor opinion of her seemed nothing more than sour grapes.

Elizabeth had been so pleased when Mr. Wickham had singled her out! Now she wondered why he had done it. She remembered that he had not been forthcoming with his complaints until she had revealed her own dislike of Mr. Darcy. She felt every kind of fool for having encouraged him by her attentiveness. There may have been truth in his looks, as she had told Jane, but she had first realised several hours ago that truth did not always extend to his words.

When Elizabeth read through the letter a second time, she was caught by Mr. Darcy's words of approbation for herself. She glanced over the pages and re-examined the phrases that illuminated his interest.

He considered her a graceful dancer. He thought she had fine eyes—very fine eyes. He thought her an affectionate sister. He trusted her discretion. He appreciated her liveliness of mind. Even after their disaster of a dance last night, he believed she might prove to be a pleasing conversation partner were they to stand up again.

He cared enough about her welfare that he had missed much of the ball in order to devise an effective means of warning her away from an unscrupulous man. He had risked being seen to pay her peculiar attention in giving her a letter. He had somehow known he needed to make the extra effort with her, that it would require more than another heated conversation in a busy ballroom for her to agree to hear his side of the story. She looked at the adieu. He had not needed to add 'sincerely' because she had no reason to disbelieve him. His account fit in so well with Mr. Wickham's in places and yet explained and corrected that which had not made sense to her before.

Several minutes ago, Mr. Darcy had stared at her, apparently studying her face for the pleasure of it. And though he could be doing anything else right now, he still rode within view. He had not abandoned her. Instead, he seemed to be watching over her.

She could not ignore so much evidence, no matter how much her contrary heart wished to try. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy liked her. He liked her a great deal. Impressions change, he had said, and he ought to know, for it was obvious he no longer found her merely tolerable.

She looked down at herself. She doubted she appeared more than tolerable today, with her hastily scrubbed face, simply arranged hair, and clothes chosen more for comfort than fashion. She thought of how carefully she had dressed for the ball in anticipation of capturing Mr. Wickham's heart. What a silly waste that all seemed now.

She was probably one in a long line of women who had convinced herself that Mr. Wickham's fine figure and winsome manners put him in possession of every virtue. She doubted she had nearly as much company among those who had cast aspersions upon the honour of Fitzwilliam Darcy. She hoped neither mistake would harm more than her pride, but how could she know? All she knew was that her judgement had failed her, and she owed Mr. Darcy an apology at the very least.

Did she owe him more than that? Did she want to give him more?

Elizabeth looked at Darcy until she saw that she had his attention, and then she stood watching him ride towards her, trying to make sense of her rapidly changing feelings and wondering what in the world she was going to say to him.

---

Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 5

Elizabeth was opening his letter.

Elizabeth was reading his letter!

She had not torn it open immediately, but she had kept it and brought it outside to be alone while contemplating it.

She had not thrown it away. She had not let her feelings for him prevent her from giving the letter due consideration.

It was a promising notion. She would not be the dupe of Wickham if she believed even half of what he had written.

It was a terrifying notion. There were some things he had written that she might not tolerate well from someone she disliked, but he had not been thinking of that while he wrote.

Why did he even care? He was allowing her far too much power over him.

He would not look back. He would do as he had said and ride, giving her time to digest the words. That letter had not been easy to write, and she would not feel easy while reading it, not if she admired Wickham even a little.

She was at least open to admitting the man had faults. That seed of doubt Wickham himself had sown was enough to make her feel she ought to read the letter.

Or was it? Had it been his silent persuasion as well, and not just her conviction, that moved her just a moment ago? Had he some power over her?

He mounted his horse and turned. The pages were now unfolded in her lap, but she was not looking at them.

She was looking at him.

Why had he pretended to himself he would not look back? Elizabeth was worth looking at any day of the week.

He allowed his gaze to linger without further self-recrimination. He might have kept at it for a full minute had he not remembered he ought to leave her to her task. With a smile at himself for being silly and at her for being lovely enough to inspire such silliness, he rode away.

Already he was thinking of going back. He would have to return, to convey Bingley's regards if for no other reason. That point settled, he enjoyed a leisurely ride over the grounds, always endeavouring to keep Elizabeth in view or nearly so.

He noted her posture when he rode close enough to make it out. She looked up from the letter from time to time, staring across the landscape. Once he thought he saw her shake her head, but he probably fancied that. She mainly seemed to be looking down.

She appeared still for the most part, but he knew all her little movements that he could not see from this distance. There was the way her hands often hovered on the point of a gesture. There was the way her mouth would pull to one side a little when she was thinking of what to say, and sometimes of what not to say, he suspected. There was...

There was too much of Elizabeth in his brain.

How was he ever to marry someone else when she was all he could think of?

Why was he thinking of marriage at all?

For a short while he rode faster, though the thoughts kept up with him. A closer connection to trade than he cared to tolerate, the vulgarity and lack of propriety shown by some of her family, little to interest him in the society of her set...

He could not say there was much to interest him in any unfamiliar society. He did not take more pleasure in someone's company because that person was considered suitable; he simply felt more obligated to try to do so. Besides, there was nothing unsuitable about Elizabeth herself. She was perfectly admirable.

Mrs. Bennet, though!

It was unreasonable to want to be connected to Mrs. Bennet if you were not.

He recalled the day she visited Netherfield. How many times had she put her daughter to the blush during that brief conversation? It was odd that Mrs. Bennet did not seem to like him any more than Elizabeth. She had tried to antagonise him and had reserved her flattery for Bingley. Well, he supposed it was not odd if Mrs. Bennet cared how her daughters felt about Bingley and himself. Then it would be logical to praise the gentleman favoured by the one daughter and insult the gentleman decidedly out of favour with the other.

That was more than Lady Catherine would have done. Lady Catherine would not have bothered to consider Anne's feelings regarding marriage. Anne would feel what she was told to feel, as far as her mother was concerned. But what were Anne's feelings? Darcy's observations over years of brief obligatory visits told him that Anne cared for little beyond her own comfort. He doubted she had warmer feelings for him than for their Fitzwilliam cousins or for any of Lady Metcalf's eligible connections, for that matter. Yet Lady Catherine regularly hinted, if someone as frank as his aunt could be said to hint, that Anne particularly desired the match planned by their mothers when he and Anne were still in their cradles. The things his aunt had said in pursuit of that match! How many times had he blushed for her when in company with someone she saw as a rival for Anne's affections, or a rival for his? When they were just a family party, how many times had she exaggerated Anne's accomplishments or taste and his affections and interest—and both their consequence in the world, come to think of it?

No, Elizabeth was not the only one with relations for whom there was often cause to blush.

What would Elizabeth think of being connected to Lady Catherine?

He imagined that meeting. He envisioned Lady Catherine in all her state, Elizabeth with her outward cheerful civility and inward amusement as her host's pronouncements grew more and more ridiculous.... Oh, he could imagine Elizabeth's replies to his aunt's inevitable intrusive and impertinent questions! He reined in his horse and had a good laugh. She would rout the old cat and do it with charm.

If his aunt knew what he was thinking, she would never care to meet Elizabeth unless to warn her away from him.

It was providential that Rosings was a great many miles from Pemberley.

Longbourn was also far away from Pemberley, though, like Rosings, not so very far from his house in town.

Elizabeth liked the country. She would not wish to be always in town. He would keep that in mind.

He wondered what she thought of him now.

None of this might matter. It was nothing but an exercise in fantasy if Elizabeth's opinion of him did not improve. She would not jump from dislike to admiration to love by reading a single letter written about someone else, but he hoped her opinion would change in his favour.

Elizabeth was looking in his direction. Had she just glanced up for a moment? No, she was looking steadily towards him. Perhaps she had finished the letter.

He might as well join her and find out. He would rather be with her than alone with his thoughts in any case.

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Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 4

Elizabeth was wide awake.

Men.

Men!

Men had ruined her sleep, and not even in a good way.

She liked men. She really did.

But why did they have to be so difficult?

Last night, Mr. Collins kept hinting—warning—that he would propose today. She had tried to discourage him, but he was such a headstrong, foolish man that there was no telling him anything. If he persisted along this course, which she was certain he would, she would just have to bear up under it and hope Papa would support her.

And Papa! Why could he not have intervened before now? He knew a month ago that his cousin had invited himself here. He might have prevented the visit or sent his daughters away until he knew what sort of man Mr. Collins was. He could have pointed Mr. Collins in a different matrimonial direction or at least shared some of the burden of entertaining him rather than foisting his company on his daughters. And last night he might have dragged Mr. Collins off to play cards after supper so that she could have salvaged something of the ball. Surely someone had been off playing cards after supper. That was where she had assumed Mr. Darcy had gone before he returned with that letter.

Mr. Darcy! She really did not know what to make of him.

And Mr. Wickham! He had such an appearance of goodness! Yet....

Good gracious! She would never get out of here if she stopped to ponder that now.

She prepared quietly and hurriedly and left the house with Mr. Darcy's letter in her hand. She walked at a brisk pace and did not stop until she reached one of her favourite places near the border of Longbourn. She steadied herself on the low wall, tucked her garments around her against the chill, and stared at the envelope.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet

To be opened when she finds herself doubting the honour of a certain new acquaintance, which should occur no later than three months hence, but likely will happen much sooner

Had those who knew Elizabeth best—Charlotte, her aunt Gardiner, Papa (Jane would never deliberately discomfit her, so she was not to be counted for this purpose)—crafted a conundrum to madden and intrigue her almost past the point of bearing, she believed they could not have done better than Mr. Darcy, who had known her only a matter of weeks. He was a clever man!

To open the letter, she had to admit to having doubts about Mr. Wickham's character. She was not certain her little questions about the discrepancy between his words and behaviour qualified as doubts.

To discard the letter unread was to risk—what? A mind unprejudiced by Mr. Darcy's opinion? A curiosity permanently unsatisfied regarding this matter? Ignorance of some minor infraction committed by her new friend?

In actuality, Mr. Wickham was but an acquaintance, and a new one at that, as Mr. Darcy rightly referred to him.

Would she wish to call a man friend if another man, one who had known him since childhood, felt the need to warn her that such a friendship might be regretted?

When Mr. Wickham related his history, she had been so pleased with herself for having disliked Mr. Darcy before. But it was precisely because she and Mr. Darcy were not friends that she had had nothing to lose in hearing what Mr. Wickham had to say.

Would the tables be turned if she were to read this letter?

Would she, as she had entreated Charlotte not to wish upon her for the world, end by thinking better of a man she had determined to hate?

As if her thoughts had conjured him, Mr. Darcy appeared over the rise, reined in his horse upon seeing her, dismounted, and walked in her direction.

“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing as he reached her.

“Good morning.” As she started to rise, he gestured for her not to get up. She nodded and wondered what he might say to her. It was the height of awkwardness to have him find her here, holding his unopened letter.

As in their dance, she forwarded the conversation, this time not to create more awkwardness for him but to spare them both. “It will not surprise you, I think, to know that I am in a quandary,” she said, indicating the letter.

He appeared relieved at her beginning the subject. “While I have no doubt,” he said, “that you will have cause to open it—if you do not have cause already—I am honoured that you are considering it at all.” He looked away. “I realised last night that while I chose you as a dance partner, you would not have chosen me.” The small sound he made might have been a sigh. “I apologise. I am not usually such a slow top, I hope.”

Elizabeth hoped her shock was not obvious as she rallied to answer him. “Having overheard your initial impression of me, you must forgive me for not expecting I would ever be your choice.”

He turned and looked at her, his face as unreadable as a mask. “Impressions change, do they not?”

She blinked. She did not know what to reply to that until she looked down at the paper in her hand. “You hope to change a particular impression of mine with this.”

“And you hesitate to allow the attempt?” he asked quietly.

She raised her eyes to him and acknowledged his words with a tilt of her head. “I am uncertain if it is warranted by the two minor...inconsistencies I have noticed between Mr. Wickham's words and his subsequent actions.”

This admission elicited a raised eyebrow but no verbal comment.

She almost let out her breath in a puff but caught herself. “Very well,” she conceded. “You win. I shall open it.”

“It is not a matter of winning or losing.” This time the sigh was clear. “Good old George,” he murmured. “He is as he ever was.” There was bitterness in his tone, the bitterness of being right when you wished you were not. “I will leave you to it,” he said, “but I may return in case you have any questions.”

Elizabeth did not know why she found that knowledge reassuring despite not being able to imagine what questions she would have. In fact, as eager as she was to read the missive—she was already tearing at the seal—the biggest question she had at the moment was why she was not now experiencing that burst of relief she usually felt when parting company with Mr. Darcy.

Perhaps that was what made her look up at him as he mounted his horse.

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Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 3

Darcy had no idea what to do with himself.

It was half past eight o'clock on the morning after a ball. He ought to be in bed. He ought not to be pacing, fully dressed, listing in his mind the many places to which he could possibly flee.

He had done it now. All his circumspection had been for naught. He had handed that woman the means necessary to compel him to marry her.

He had handed her correspondence where others might see. He had addressed it to her and signed it.

Had Miss Bingley been the recipient, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. Miss Bingley, however, would never have dared to disagree with him about George Wickham—or about anything else, for that matter.

But Elizabeth had a letter from him in her possession, to use as she saw fit. She could show it to her father and hint at enough to have Mr. Bennet pounding on Netherfield's door at the earliest respectable hour, and he, being a man of honour....

No. He was overreacting. A letter and a hint or two would not be enough to force Mr. Bennet to act. His two youngest daughters were flirts, and his wife was an inveterate matchmaker. If something so slight as this would have done for the purpose, between the mother and the girls themselves, surely all five daughters would have been engaged or married by now.

Still, a girl like Elizabeth would be treasured by her father, and if she were to convince him there was cause...

This was Wickham's fault.

Yet it galled him to find himself beholden to Wickham for such a jewel as Elizabeth.

Still, to be fair, Wickham owed him for a lifetime of vexation and grief. Dropping Elizabeth into his lap could be construed as Wickham's making amends, however belatedly and unintentionally done. After all, it was hardly a perfect gesture, considering his future mother and father and sisters. He could not even swear Wickham would not be delighted to know Darcy had got himself into such a scrape as to align his ancient family with people so decidedly beneath him. The cur would probably laugh to hear it.

He would laugh even harder knowing Elizabeth was sympathetic to him, Darcy's enemy.

But if Elizabeth sided with his enemy, then why...

He stopped pacing.

Why would she marry him, unless it was for his money?

No. She might have taken Wickham's part, but she was not Wickham. She would never marry him for his fortune alone. She would not scheme. She had integrity. She had compassion. Surely compassion was behind her wrong-headed championing of Wickham's cause! She was nurturing and kind. She loved to laugh and would never condemn herself to a joyless union.

She had not laughed during their dances. She had not even smiled at him.

Any other single, young, sensible gentleman's daughter would marry him. He was a gentleman but also the nephew of an earl. He was wealthy and well connected. He was not ill favoured. He was in excellent health. He was companionable with those he knew well.

Elizabeth Bennet was aware of these things, but she would not marry him because she did not like him.

He felt relieved.

He felt miserable.

What if she refused to even read his letter?

This was madness. Staring at the walls of his room had not provided any helpful insights. He needed to be out of doors. He decided to go down to breakfast first.

Bingley was there before him.

“Darcy! I did not expect to see you!”

He frowned. “Good morning to you too, Bingley,” he said.

“I did not mean to be rude, old man” Bingley said, laughing. “I would not be up at this hour myself if I did not have to go to town.”

Darcy remembered hearing Bingley talk to Miss Bennet about having to be away for a few days. The lady sighed and said she would be glad to see him again as soon as he could call after his return, or some such thing. That seemed a little forward, but there was nothing objectionable in expressing her honest reaction to Bingley's news.

“What brings you down here so early?” Bingley asked him.

“I could not sleep. I think I shall go for a ride.”

“Going to jump a few fences, eh?” Bingley peered at him. “You are not planning anything too adventurous, are you? You don't look quite yourself.”

“Not likely. Too tired.” He was not terribly hungry. The restless energy he had felt in his room was suddenly gone. Conversing required effort.

Fortunately, Bingley was more than capable of carrying the conversation without any help from him. He spoke of a field just perfect for a good gallop, and another nearer Longbourn, and from there he began to sing the praises of Miss Bennet. His voice sounded so melodious and rhythmic that it really was almost like singing. “So if you happen to ride towards Longbourn,” Bingley concluded with that look he often wore when giving a broad hint, “and you happen upon any of the Bennets, do convey my deepest regards to them, particularly Miss Bennet.”

“Of course,” Darcy said. What else could he say?

He might as well ride towards Longbourn. Perhaps he would see one of the Bennets. Perhaps, as at Netherfield, despite its being the day after a ball, they would not all still be asleep. Maybe Elizabeth would be up earlier than the rest and out for a walk.

He felt his energy returning.

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Next

Deliberation and Doubt, Chapter 2

Elizabeth had never been so glad to leave a ball in her life.

She had stood up for one tolerable set, having had to content herself with merely speaking of Mr. Wickham to another officer rather than partnering the man himself.

The sets immediately before and after were each their own sort of hell. It was just as well that Mr. Collins's infernal hovering had prevented her from dancing for most of the night.

There had been plenty to capture her attention, after all. Her family, excepting Jane, had put on quite the display.

She included herself among those that behaved badly. She should never have been so insolent during her dance with Mr. Darcy. What must he think of her? But she had been so angry! She was still annoyed with the man. At least he had absented himself early and not been on the spot to see the Bennets embarrass themselves—well, the rest of the Bennets. Lydia's antics, Kitty's silliness, Mary's putting herself forward to no one's satisfaction but her own, Papa's callous words to his middle daughter, and Mama's endless boasting at supper all went unobserved by Mr. Bingley's exacting friend.

Elizabeth settled in between Jane and Kitty and turned away from the manor house. Across from her and on one side of their mother, Lydia rested her cheek on the cushion and appeared to be asleep already. Mr. Collins would sit in the box again, so Elizabeth could imagine for the duration of the ride home that he was back in Hunsford. If only he were! He, too, with his ridiculous speech, had played a part in the Bennet family farce. What had been the point of saying, in a voice loud enough for half the room to hear, that he would have exhibited for them if he had been blessed with the talent to do so? Elizabeth could only be happy her cousin had never learnt to play. Judging by his lack of rhythm in the dance, she did not have high expectations of his musical abilities.

Yes, it was fortunate Mr. Darcy had missed hearing that pompous windbag blathering on and on. She wished she could have missed it herself.

If only Mr. Wickham had come! He need not have concerned himself with encountering Mr. Darcy after all, considering how brief a time the latter had been among them. Mr. Darcy had barely stayed in the room long enough to have driven Mr. Wickham away.

Now why did something seem not quite right about that notion?

Elizabeth closed her eyes and thought of what the gentlemen had said, both tonight and at her aunt's card party. Mr. Darcy took offence when she brought up the subject of his former friend, but then he said Mr. Wickham's problem was not in making friends, but in keeping them. Mr. Denny blamed Mr. Wickham's absence on the man's desire to avoid Mr. Darcy. Mr. Wickham....

Mr. Wickham said he had no reason to avoid Mr. Darcy except what he might proclaim to all the world.

Then he said he would not proclaim it to all the world in honour of his godfather's memory.

But he must have spoken of it to Mr. Denny.

And, of course, he had spoken of it to herself.

So instead of boldly facing Mr. Darcy with his claims of ill usage—since he had, in fact, chosen not to keep silent about those claims—and instead of allowing Mr. Darcy to decide whether to tolerate his presence or not, Mr. Wickham avoided his enemy at what was probably their first opportunity to be in company since their unexpected meeting on the street in Meryton.

Elizabeth opened her eyes at that thought and looked about her.

Most of the occupants of the coach had allowed the motion to lull them into light sleep. Only Jane remained bright-eyed. Elizabeth closed her eyes again, but she was alert enough. She might have drifted off with the others if not for the paper concealed in her hand. She was unsure if anyone had noticed it. With Lydia so tired, Papa was the most likely to have caught her furtive movements, but he gave no indication of having done so.

She was tempted to curl her fingers more tightly around the paper, but she wished no tell-tale sound to escape and give her secret away. What was Mr. Darcy about? Did his note have anything to do with their argument?

Her wonder at his audacity in passing her a note—no, a letter, and it felt like a thick one, folded up in her hand as it was—quickly became overshadowed by her burning desire to discover its contents.

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Next

Deliberation and Doubt

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(2021)
Pride and Prejudice
After thinking it over, Mr. Darcy decides that his guarded warning to Miss Elizabeth Bennet about Mr. Wickham is insufficient.
*WIP*

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Chapter 1

“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.”
—Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 18

Mister Fitzwilliam Darcy watched in silence as Miss Elizabeth Bennet walked away from him at the end of their dance. He thought with dissatisfaction of the subjects they had discussed in general—and with disgust of one subject in particular.

If any man was capable of causing upheaval in the life of Fitzwilliam Darcy, that man was George Wickham. Nearly eloping with Georgiana was somehow not enough mischief for one year. Wickham had to add to the insult by finding his way to Meryton and spinning his sorry tales in the hearing of one of the most intriguing women Darcy had ever met.

He pressed his hand to his face for a moment and peered through his splayed fingers at the reveling crowd. He felt tired now; he often did at large gatherings. Perhaps he ought to have gone to bed before the start of the ball, as Bingley had joked days ago. There were several dances remaining, along with supper and likely some musical entertainment from a few of the young ladies, but by standing up with Elizabeth, Darcy had already experienced all the enjoyment he had hoped to glean from the evening. Unfortunately, that same activity had delivered as much disappointment as delight.

Darcy walked counter-clockwise along the ballroom's perimeter and allowed his thoughts to wind backwards through the last several minutes: the sight of Elizabeth turning from him without having offered so much as a 'thank you' for their dance (not that he had thanked her either, his conscience reminded him); her unsuccessful sketch of his character; her refusal to canvass books or some other topic of his choice (he had the impression she had been too distracted by her own thoughts or possibly even uninterested in his thoughts); Sir William's accidental information regarding the expectation of a Bingley-Bennet wedding; and the blighted prospects of a certain mutual acquaintance.

Of course everything had gone wrong at the mention of Wickham. That was hardly surprising.

What was he going to do about it?

Darcy stopped walking.

Ought he to do anything about it?

He had done something. He had warned her.

But was it enough?

He considered her points of enquiry. She had questioned his judgement, of all things. Impertinent woman! She had insinuated that he was prejudiced. She had used his own words against him to make him seem unreasonably unforgiving.

Rather than discuss literature, or remark on the fortuitous cessation of rain, or enjoy a reprieve from meaningless chatter, Elizabeth had chosen to challenge him. She had dared to upbraid him regarding his treatment of Wickham, as if she could know anything of the matter! She, who danced well and showed no disinclination for the activity, she, who tended to smile even while delivering set-downs, used an occasion that should have been an honour and a treat to glare at him and...and scold him, as if she had the right!

She would rather scold than flatter him, glare than ogle him, vex than placate him. He marvelled, but he could not reason away the evidence.

It occurred to him that she had declined every other time he had asked her to dance. He could only assume she would have preferred to have done so tonight as well, but he supposed she had not had a ready excuse, and in any case she would not have wished to forfeit other opportunities to dance so early in the evening.

He reluctantly concluded that Elizabeth Bennet, to all appearances, did not like him.

She did, however, appear to like George Wickham very much.

Darcy had seen it before, countless times, and in every case but his father's, it had ended badly for the other person. Father had been blind to George's failings of character. Others were not so fortunate. Others could not afford the luxury of blindness.

He certainly could not afford the luxury, and it had been an age since he had considered George a friend. The thousand pounds set aside for the bequest along with the cost of schooling and occasional presents for his godson had hardly drained the elder Mr. Darcy's coffers, but Darcy himself had spent more on matters pertaining to George Wickham in the last four years than his father had laid out for the boy in the preceding ten.

Friendship with Wickham would end badly for Elizabeth, too, and she would have to recover from the rogue's toxic charm without the support of a brother or father. The likelihood of Mr. Bennet's bestirring himself to protect his daughter's reputation or her heart appeared low to non-existent.

Darcy was going to have to do something more.

He needed to think. The noise in the room was not helping. An idea began to form, and he walked to the doorway, carefully peering around, as he often did in town, for any who might be tempted to follow so as to avoid their notice. With a start, he realised the only woman here who fit that description was Miss Bingley.

He picked up his pace. He considered going to his room but thought better of it and opted for the library. How apt a choice, for this was the room where he had spent a half hour alone with Elizabeth near the end of her stay at Netherfield, though they did not speak. This was the room where he had paced mere hours ago and debated with himself over whether he would ask her to dance tonight, whether he would risk undoing all the work of that silent half hour when he had hoped to crush any expectations she might have had of him.

There was not much warmth left from the earlier fire, but the coolness would keep him alert and efficient. He laid out the writing materials, considered his approach, and began his letter.

The endeavour took much longer than he expected. So much for efficiency! He preferred thoroughness in any case. He brought the fire back to life in a small way so that he could burn his blotted first attempts after using them to prepare a clean and orderly version of what he wished to communicate.

As he was turning the first newly copied page over, he heard whispers near the door.

“Oh, it is that tall, proud man, the one who hates to dance!”

“'Twould be a lark if one of us was to lock herself in here with that one.”

There was giggling.

“I should not dare. Aunt says he is so prim and unpleasant! He might be more inclined to march a girl back to the ball, scolding her all the way, than to kiss her.”

“I most certainly would,” Darcy said in a loud voice without turning around or ceasing his activity. He was pleased to hear two distinct gasps, the closing of the door, and footsteps rushing away from the room. He was not disturbed again.

By the time Darcy had completed his task, the ball was over. He hurried towards the front of the house only to find he need not have rushed. He watched as guest after guest left and the Bennets somehow remained. Mrs. Bennet seemed rather pleased with each departure. Had she manoeuvred to delay her carriage?

Darcy kept out of sight of Miss Bingley and her sister, and in doing so, found himself near Bingley and Miss Bennet. The two were conversing as if there were no one else about. Miss Bennet sounded more animated and happy than he had ever heard her. She even laughed and sighed. Earlier, after Sir William had interrupted his dance with Elizabeth, Darcy recalled thinking he had never noticed any sign of peculiar regard from Miss Bennet for Bingley. Now, he could see why Miss Bennet's friends, not just the people of Meryton in general, might cherish expectations of a match.

The eldest Miss Bennet could not long hold Darcy's attention, and his eyes soon found their true object. Miss Elizabeth was near the door, shifting in her seat and looking ready to bolt whenever Mr. Collins turned in her direction. Aside from Bingley's quiet tête-à-tête with Miss Bennet, almost every word of conversation was spoken by Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet. The former spoke of a plethora of trivialities while making frequent mention of Lady Catherine, Rosings, and a parsonage house, and it soon became clear to Darcy that his aunt must have granted Mr. Collins the living at Hunsford. The others paid little heed to the talkers and for the most part looked down or smothered their yawns. No one was looking at him.

At last, the Bennets' carriage was ready. Darcy wended his way through the gathering until he was next to Miss Elizabeth. Doing his best to be discreet, he grasped her hand and closed it around the letter he held. As she made a sound of surprise, he said, “Pardon me,” and stared at her intently. He saw her transfer the letter to her other hand, stare back at him with a mixture of irritation and curiosity, and then nod.

He managed to slip away just as Mr. Collins noticed his presence among them. He was grateful the man appeared unaware of his connection to the inmates of Rosings. Mr. Collins seemed just the type to finagle his way past Miss Bingley, who was stood in such a manner as to block the path back into the house, in order to pay his respects to anyone connected with the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

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