Chapter 2

Despite every emotion that had ever crossed the hearts and minds of Mr. Darcy and Miss Bennet during the year of their bemused acquaintance, one attitude had simply escaped their notice. A feeling of mutual comfort had been impossible for either to reconcile, as neither Darcy nor Elizabeth had truly spent much time together, alone.

Darcy, having applied again for Elizabeth's hand in marriage, and she having now bestowed it, brought about an alteration of every understanding that the two had acknowledged before; and this new angle to the connection created novel and unusual feelings in two taciturn people. As the couple explored the countryside, the sights known to one though not the other, they each had an opportunity to measure their connection.

In Elizabeth's countenance there was eagerness. She came to possess an enthusiasm to delight her lover's every notice, and it was her inclination, which had always been her bent, to know of Darcy's motives—past as well as present. On their walk, she asked him questions of himself and of his life—inquiries in which Darcy answered out of love and in deference for Elizabeth, though until now he had shunned such an occupation.

In Darcy's character there soon befell a particular harmony rare to the gentleman. His pleasure was obvious by his proclivity to smile each and every time he did look his lover's way, and by the esteem visible in his eyes, esteem he reserved for Elizabeth. The ease with which he came to draw Elizabeth closer to him as they walked gave them both some reassurance that they were indeed to be, forevermore, a couple.

As they walked on, Mr. Darcy became amicable, eyeing the horizon. Oakham Mount was a curious place, described to him by Elizabeth, as they neared the foot of the incline. The place was particular to the history of that region of Hertfordshire—a fortress atop a formidable hill brought forth from the necessities of a dark and brutal age. Its early manor and surrounding rampart had long crumbled, the casualty of conquest and pilfering, and of the English weather. All that remained were rugged stones half buried that had once composed a sturdy foundation.

For some time, it had been a place of solitude and escape for Elizabeth, somewhere for her to go when the headaches of Longbourn simply would not do. The lofty vista offered a splendid sight of the neighborhood, Meryton to the east, Longbourn to the South, and Netherfield to the west. It had allowed Elizabeth her very first look at Mr. Darcy a year ago as he and his friend had been out riding, surveying an easterly field of Netherfield Park, although then she had not known who he was, nor could she have ever guessed whom he would, in fact, become.

Their climb up the hill, arm in arm, was not so taxing, as there was a path well-worn into the turf, which did wind round and round, leading toward the top. Darcy studied the course ahead, occasionally glancing at Elizabeth, and asking as to the strain, to be sure the hike was not too much for her to bear. Elizabeth thought the gesture enchanting, though never once did she admit to him just how often she had made the ramble on her own, and in no way would she let on how effortless it had always been.

Near to the top of the mount were small terraces, fashioned by the footsteps of climbers as makeshift steps to reach the crest. The couple stopped, and Darcy let go of Elizabeth's arm and glanced at what lay ahead.

Elizabeth admired the dauntless manner in which Darcy scaled the stages a few at a time in his haste to reach the top. He had always appeared fit, not a man to squander his time in idleness, as his station in life might suggest. From her first impressions, Elizabeth knew him to be conservative, particularly for so young a man, and yet he had the advantage and appeal of youthful and agile physicality.

Darcy turned about, removed his gloves and set himself secure with his walking stick. Only then did he present his strong and steady hand back down for Elizabeth's protection. She gladly received the offer; removing the petite kid gloves from her own hands, and placing her bare palm within his so that she would not slip, and Darcy gently guided her over the jagged steps, making Elizabeth feel as if her feet had not the need to touch the ground at all.

Elizabeth was now safe and sound on the earth at the weathered top of the peak, but Darcy did not release her hand. His fingers came to entwine through hers in a timely suggestion of resolve; since in the confidential scheme of both he and his betrothed—two lovers must surely be permitted this one familiarity.

Darcy's hand was warm and dry, his skin singularly smooth to Elizabeth's touch, even if his grip was solid in its purpose. Elizabeth was determined to linger in the effect of the novel experience, and she was joyful for the chance of it; but then she glanced up at her partner, uncertain that it was quite harmless between them that they should remain so linked.

"I shall not let go," Darcy spoke with an ardent gist, "Unless, of course, you wish it."

"I do not wish it," she returned, trembling; a healthy blush spread extensively across her face and neck.

Jane and Charles Bingley had chosen not to complete the journey, for they had by now become comfortable together. Instead, they found a clearing in the grasses below where they could sit, and spend time laughing and flattering one another, with all the affection that lovers could assemble, and confer together on the particulars of their forthcoming wedding. Certainly, they awarded no notice of their friends, quite on principle, bringing forth gratitude from both Darcy and Elizabeth.

The gusts of wind that often blustered atop Oakham Mount did busily blow at the tails of Darcy's greatcoat, and billowed Elizabeth's muslin skirts and petticoat about her legs. The view from where the couple stood was without a doubt as fine as had been promised, and in some ways, the breeze was exhilarating after such a trek. The sights before the pair swept away all sense in their minds and stirred every sensibility of their spirits. Indeed, the aim of two lovers who yearned for a little solitude, and the objectives of one meddlesome mother, was complete indeed.

After a time, Elizabeth's pretty eyes peered coyly beneath her bonnet toward Darcy, to find his eyes affixed on her. "Does the prospect compare with what you have seen in Derbyshire?" she asked, still possessing a blush.

"Not at all," he sighed. "I find the sight of you more beautiful since then—by far."

Elizabeth laughed; "You are indeed a flatterer."

"I would think you would not tolerate too much adulation," Darcy nodded with a classic grin, down in the direction of Elizabeth's sister Jane and her lover, Bingley. "They fawn over one another with doe eyes and flatter each other enough for us all, I think," he had to chuckle at the notion. "More ardent words of desire, I imagine, have never before been spoken by two people so in love. Not even, I wager, in the text of a sonnet."

Elizabeth giggled at the comment, for with every moment that passed in the company of Darcy, she came to realize how very much alike they truly were in wit, and in temper.

"Do you admit, Mr. Darcy," her eyes brightened as she spoke, "that it is not in your character to speak words of love to a girl?"

Darcy grimaced, "In that, I have had little practice. Will you go easy on me, my love?"

Elizabeth smiled and nodded wholeheartedly, and she loved him all the more for giving it a go. Darcy had spoken words that, for him and for her, did not come naturally.

For the first time, Darcy called Elizabeth his love; simple and succinct, and ever so doting for such a reserved man. Those very words came to be the endearment he would forever use to call her when she was needed, and to make his position clear during argument or later in apology; these would become the words he would sigh in her ear when they were close.

"Come, sir, what of the landscape?" Elizabeth heard herself change the subject. "Does it compare to Derbyshire?"

"The landscape?" Darcy laughed to clear his head, and then obliged his partner by looking out at the vast scene. "I have far more practice in describing the value of a landscape. I will be sure to tell your mother that it was pleasing, and that it was worth the suggestion for the convenience of being rid of me."

Elizabeth's brows furrowed in censure of her family. "With all my mother has done to dissuade you from finding comfort in my father's house, I should award you no blame for wanting to hold her in contempt."

"I try not to be influenced by mothers," he explained. "Even my own mother was guilty of unwelcome interferences."

At once Elizabeth remembered the alleged bargain between Darcy's mother and Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She realized that Mr. Darcy's proposal to her had spoiled all of Miss Anne de Bourgh's desires and all of Lady Catherine's hopes, yet for the most part and on this subject, Elizabeth was little affected. There was only one Mr. Darcy to be had by only one woman, and Elizabeth by her own good luck, thought herself the winning lady.

To Elizabeth's disappointment, Darcy let go of her hand. He swept the hat from his head, ran his hand through the strands of his disheveled hair, and looked about for a place where they both could sit. A large, old footing stone suited the purpose, and after Darcy let his hat, gloves, and walking stick drop to the ground, he shed his greatcoat and laid it out on the stone, motioning for Elizabeth to settle herself down upon the fabric.

When Elizabeth was seated, Darcy took a place beside her, and she quite consciously sidled her shoulder against his, and his arm, by design, slipped through the crook of hers. Again, his right hand faithfully embraced that of her left, until their fingers came to intertwine, without a doubt, searching once more for that sense of contentment.

To Elizabeth's judgment there was anything but ease to the situation. She could hear her lover's effortless breathing, and thought her own to be something far from easy; and when Elizabeth supposed that Darcy might at any moment turn and kiss her, she did sense herself begin to fluster in expectation of such intimacy, and she felt her hands begin to tingle. Nothing was spoken between them for some time, and although these silent pauses had made Elizabeth ill at ease during the acquaintance before their promises of love, she now came to anticipate and take delight in what pleasures and sensations could transpire between soundless, taciturn people.

"Elizabeth," Darcy, at last, spoke her name; and the lady did turn her full attention to him upon hearing his sobered voice. "I should want to go to your father this night, and petition his blessing to our match."

"Of course," she replied, her heart beating madly for the reality of her remaining apprehensions, and for the certainty of the pledge. Elizabeth grew more anxious, yet more determined, as now was the time that she must indeed declare her faults to Mr. Darcy.

"Is there any issue on which you will not settle?" he asked out of benevolence for her present economy. "Anything that would prevent your happiness?"

"I place the utmost confidence in you, sir. I do believe that my best interest is foremost in your thoughts."

"Truly, it is," Darcy answered candidly. "From this day and ever after your happiness is my concern. I would not want the tedious contents of a settlement to cause a rift between us."

Darcy held Elizabeth tighter; and he smiled in great satisfaction with his situation, glancing at her petite hand clasped in blissful union with his own. This is what he had wanted—longed for, all these many months; and at once his breathing was stilled, and he was overcome with the need to know what pleasures Elizabeth's kiss would bring. Yet when he turned and looked into her eyes, Elizabeth did not appear to be as easy as before. He could see that her desire to please him had vanished.

"I have to suppose," he spoke tenderly, refusing to be alarmed, "that your present melancholy must come from another source. Perhaps you have some reservations on my seeing your father?"

"No," Elizabeth replied, her judgment muddled, "I have no doubts of your good intentions, or fears of my own feelings. I do believe that my father will welcome you, but I must be prudent and offer you warning of his disposition on the subject."

For the first time that day Fitzwilliam Darcy appeared justly discomfited. "Warning of his disposition?" he repeated the very notion. "Do you tell me that your father may not favor the match?"

"No, I would not say precisely that," Elizabeth gave Darcy's hand a tighter clutch for reassurance.

"What then? Is it I who is lacking?" Darcy felt himself affronted, though he tried but failed to resist the temptation of presuming such private doubts. "Surely, you have not changed your mind?"

"Truly, no!" distressed, Elizabeth sought to curtail her lover's mistaken thoughts. "You are by far, the best man that I have ever known!"

"But what of your father?" his voice was kind, but direct, as Darcy's desires did not embrace such sport.

Elizabeth had no wish to be cruel, but because of their admitted affection, because of their devoted relationship, she could not now hide from Darcy any emotion that she felt. She spoke her mind, and she spoke it plainly.

"I am certain that my father will agree to our marriage, although he, and my mother, and my sisters save Jane, have not an inkling of our connection. My father knows only that we have formed an acquaintance, once, at a dance."

Darcy imparted a harmless, though less gentlemanlike exclamation to his maker, that he would rather not have said before Elizabeth. She took it in good humor, for Elizabeth would have thought him insensible had he not been a little bewildered on hearing such news.

"My father may not believe that I would agree to your kind offer," Elizabeth did her best to articulate her fears to her lover, although she was keenly aware of her failing in placating his mounting agitation. "I should not wish any repudiation he may offer up, to give you trouble or cause you to doubt the true nature of my affection for you."

"Right then," Darcy muttered, and followed with his dry wit coming forth. "To your family I am no better than a stranger. I should wonder what they might think of me if I had persuaded you to run away to Gretna Green."

"Dearest Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth sighed to calm him, though at any other time she could have laughed at his chosen allegory.

Mutual comfort by now was discarded to the wind, and both Darcy and Elizabeth were momentarily wretched. Elizabeth hastened once again to console her partner, to further explain herself as best as she could.

"I never said a word of your proposal last April to any soul other than to Jane," she went on. "I will not humiliate either of us on that account, for we are not the two people now that we were then. At that time, your declaration of affection, and the confessions in your letter confused me, for I had not guessed that your feelings could be so hurt by my refusal.

When I left Derbyshire in the summer, I did not think, with circumstances being what they were, that I would ever see you again. I could not believe that you would come to Hertfordshire and renew your addresses to me—I dared not hope, however much I wanted it to be so."

Although the elevation on Oakham Mount was not at fault, Darcy felt lightheaded. "You have thought me to be very shallow, Elizabeth," he swallowed, "and I suppose it possible for a man like myself to merit such opinions."

"If I ever did think you too proud to love me still, I cannot believe it now. How can I put in plain words how very much my own opinions then had changed? And when they had, I certainly sought to be your lover; and I desire now to be your wife."

Darcy did grasp the significance of Elizabeth's confession, and he was drawn into his own mortification and guilt on the matter. He never let go of Elizabeth's hand the entirety of her declaration or throughout his silent deliberation; in fact, he gripped her hand tighter, searching for mercy and offering penitence.

He spoke quietly when he was able, without pride on his behalf and without prejudice for Elizabeth's behavior. "What trouble might I have caused had I gone on in such arrogance?"

Elizabeth pouted. "I have forgotten which of us truly began it," she sighed, "and I prefer not to think of arrogance and prejudice ever again."

Darcy was in agreement. "I will be certain to make my feelings plain to your father, and try to give explanation of our acquaintance," he stopped to clear the strain from his voice, "and I will certainly pray, Elizabeth, after all that I have to say, that he considers me a fitting husband for you."

Elizabeth was pleased by Darcy's humility on the matter. "Will you allow me one more benevolence, sir?" she implored of a good man. "That I may enlighten my mother of our engagement, this night, when you have gone away to Netherfield."

Darcy nodded his concurrence, for what harm was to be had in what he hoped was one last night of guarded misery; and he was satisfied with Elizabeth's willingness for having asked his opinion. Elizabeth supposed herself glad for all that had been said between them, and she was relieved for memories set aside; yet she had one last thing to say as she smiled and brought their clasped hands toward her, brushing her soft, warm cheek against their intermingled fingers.

She whispered to her suitor, in her favored manner of familiar address, "I do so love you, Fitzwilliam", and Darcy's troubled heart found joy.

For the two lovers so surreptitiously betrothed the evening seemed endless. First came dinner, with all the formalities and trimmings, so seen to by Mrs. Bennet. Since it appeared to her that they got on passably well, she placed Mr. Darcy to her husband's left, and Elizabeth to her father's right at the table. This she did so that the two would be apt to engage in civil conversations across the table, far enough away from herself and her favorite, Mr. Bingley, and this, on any other occasion might have been considered by both Darcy and Elizabeth to be a good thing.

To be frank, more glances were exchanged about the table that night, than discourse. Elizabeth pushed what food she had taken about her plate and anxiously looked to Darcy, who in turn was made to eat more than he thought prudent, in hopes of avoiding suspicion.

Later that evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to his library, Elizabeth saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow. Never before in her young life had Elizabeth felt so helpless, so frantic in spirit at the chance that the two men foremost in her life, would not get on at all.

Elizabeth fingered the needlework in her hands, pulling at the stitches that she considered uneven, until the good and the bad were indistinguishable. Nothing more could be done now to ease her mind other than to wait. Beneath her breath, Elizabeth did pray that her father would be sensible enough to hear out such a suitor, and that he would be reasonable to letting her go; and in her heart she had to trust that her Mr. Darcy might truly find himself devoid of any improper pride.

The making of an excellent match, albeit any match at all between a man and a woman, is at best a precarious business. It is simply not enough for two people, who know very little of love and its labours, to formally declare their affection and devotion to one another; for once that is done and feelings abound, the remaining efforts to securing just such a union is by all accounts wholly maddening.

It may perhaps seem a simple matter for the lady, for her duty is to answer her suitor's entreaty with a fervent yea, or a gentle nay; and assure her parents that her response is in earnest. Much, however, is expected of the man, for it is he, or so he often comes to believe, who, once accepted, is under the closest scrutiny in the affair.

Indeed, the gentleman ought to be a fitting catch, for a start; and therefore he is expected to provide evidence that he is willing and able to marry. His willingness, he is to exhibit, quite sincerely to his lover if he is to please and win her good opinion and that of her family, for a bride does not yearn for a husband who is estranged to her feelings. Consequently, a man's ability to provide for the economy of his betrothed is to be laid out in full before her parents if he is to succeed in declaring himself worthy of courting their daughter.

The application for such a betrothal is not a thing that a father bothers to teach his son, nor is a father himself instructed on his decorum upon receiving any such offering for his daughters. As some suitors can attest, it is truly a wonder that this business should ever be accomplished at all, particularly at Longbourn, and on the whole, when wooing Miss Elizabeth Bennet, since this lady desired of her beau far more than mere essentials.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, at this instant in his life, did certainly wish to strike such a bargain for a wife, and so with a hold of his breath to set his mind to right, he stood in the hall, just beyond Mr. Bennet's library; this one task at hand. The young gentleman tarried a moment to adjust the sleeves of his coat, the position of his waistcoat and necktie, and to smooth the fabric of his breeches with the palms of his hands before making a move to knock on the door. When he did so, a charitable voice bid the caller enter, and Darcy reached for the latch and let himself into the room.

"Mr. Bennet," he exhausted no time in greeting the gentleman with a considerate nod, believing brevity and respect to be the best tonic for such a state of affairs. "If you are not otherwise occupied, sir, I do desire a word."

If Mr. Bennet was astonished by the presence of a man he hardly knew asking for an audience, he certainly did not show it on the exterior. "Be welcome, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth's father acknowledged civilly.

Darcy considered his opening bidding, and the elder man's counter, to have gone remarkably well. On any other occasion he would have taken the time to look about the room. Mr. Darcy was a man wholly conscious of his surroundings, for unlike Bingley and most young men his own age, it had always been Darcy's bent to know the particulars of where he was at any given moment; but in some way this instance was curious to any other he had ever had the satisfaction of attending.

He felt a tad strange for keeping his eyes so implacably fixed upon Elizabeth's father. He barely knew the man for heaven sake, and to behave so hardheartedly before he had an opportunity to state his intention was indeed a bit too severe even for Darcy's principles. There was no point in guessing what Elizabeth's father was to say, and Darcy had no sooner been determined to open his mouth and speak his tidings, when his advance was thwarted by a measure, relatively unforeseen.

"Depend upon the fact young man," Elizabeth's father spoke by means of a stroke of insight. "I know exactly how it is."

Darcy's seriousness toward the dealing at hand improved. The corners of his lips turned upward in a flattering grin at his good fortune; his temper presuming that a father laden with five daughters, four of who were as yet unwed, had surmised the reason for just such an interview.

"I should have come earlier, sir," Darcy remained smartly reserved, affecting no stretch to one's imagination, "but with dinner taking a leisurely turn, I thought it best to wait until everyone was settled in the drawing room for the evening."

Mr. Bennet took the younger man's reckoning to heart, and so he reached high on the shelves behind him, pulled down a book and glanced at the title. "This should do," he chortled at the certainty of his own cleverness, and handed the volume to his unlikely companion.

Darcy took the offering, read the gold leaf on the spine, and yet without speaking a sensible word in total, managed to look to the benefactor of such kindness and convey his keen bafflement. There were times when Mr. Bennet had thought that the neighborhood had been rather unjust in their opinion of proud Mr. Darcy, and so he was stirred to action by the young man's obvious dilemma.

"Have you read it?" he asked.

Darcy gamely rejoined, "I have, in fact."

Mr. Bennet reached out his hand, a gesture of which Darcy was required to interpret. By the sheer luck of having been born the son of at least one reticent parent, he deduced correctly and promptly handed the book back, only to be presented another, charitably tendered.

"My dear sir," the younger man addressed his elder as courteously as his parents had taught him, but with his own certain gift for the discernment of folly. "Inasmuch as I appreciate the excellence of your library, I believe that you mistake my reason for such a conference."

"Highly unlikely," acquitted Mr. Bennet.

"Truly sir," Darcy answered; and gingerly positioned the newly offered novel upon the desk, "I have yet another motive for being here."

Mr. Bennet would not be swayed, and therefore he insisted, "Between the two of us Darcy, I understand you perfectly well."

Darcy supposed otherwise, yet he could not devise the words to equal his insistence that Elizabeth's father listen to the entire pitch. He took a chance to mask a sigh in the hope that it would placate his rising impatience, yet Darcy became aware that the palms of his hands had begun to perspire; and his discomfort grew in proportion to the deterioration of such a fragile circumstance.

"The condition of being the friend of a man so betrothed to one of my daughters certainly must have its shortcomings," Mr. Bennet continued. "I can only imagine what a punishment these obligations must be, son. I have always said that misery is to be trapped betwixt two such besotted lovers in a room full of ridiculous women."

"Well," Darcy shrugged; to some extent in agreement, "It has been..."

Mr. Bennet would not hear Darcy's full reply. "I can picture it in effect only, mind you," he nodded, "since I have not been obliged to observe it in person for some years."

"Sir, a moment is all I ask," Darcy returned to the original subject as he made yet another effort to excite Mr. Bennet's curiosity.

"My Lizzy often seeks out a book during such tedious events," Mr. Bennet then smiled fondly. His spectacles scarcely rimmed his ears and they sat perilously low upon the bridge of his nose as he stopped a moment to take a discerning look at Darcy.

"I do not know much of you, young man, but I can see a slight likeness in character between you and my second daughter. You do not look to me to be a town popinjay, though you are fastidiously tidy."

Darcy had no practical reply other than to declare with a degree of embarrassment; "I did happen to straighten my necktie before I came in."

"I imagine, my fellow, that you favor a good read to any departures of fancy, since you seem rather grounded for a fellow of what—six and twenty perhaps; seven and twenty?"

"Eight and…" Darcy interrupted the elder man's merry ruminations, though he nearly got caught up again in the nonsense of the whole exchange. "If I may continue, with your good opinion of me happily intact, it is your daughter Elizabeth which brings me here to disturb your privacy."

"Elizabeth?" repeated Mr. Bennet; this time, his outer countenance easily provoked by sentiments of paternal defense.

Darcy came to presume that he had mistaken the conviviality of Elizabeth's father. He had no experience to go on, other than Bingley's acknowledgement that such an interview with Mr. Bennet had been moderately rational. Darcy, however, was finding Mr. Bennet's manner much to the contrary of the claims of his friend; for perhaps it was that Mr. Bennet had suspected Bingley's attachment to his first daughter, but Darcy had it on good authority that the poor man had been given no such plan of any other commitment regarding the second.

"What have you to say of my Lizzy?" a suspicious father inquired under a faulty notion of the man standing before him. "I expect that you have learned of the idle reports circulating among my relations and yours."

Cornered and uncomfortable, Darcy replied, "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Do not imagine yourself caught Mr. Darcy, as Elizabeth and I have reckoned it foolishness. She has no hope of tempting your good opinion, sir. No anticipation whatsoever, for we all know your position concerning the eligible women of this neighborhood."

Darcy felt rather incredulous. "I image, sir," he frowned, "that you do not."

"My daughter," Mr. Bennet touted, "if she was so inclined, would have little trouble enticing a fellow of your rank into matrimony."

By looking at Darcy, it was difficult to determine if he was insulted or perplexed, for he possessed a curious expression which seemed to incorporate both feelings, and several more besides. Hastily, and for the welfare of every person involved, Darcy was made to utter one sentence quite strong and plain, and with true grit.

"I am in love with your daughter, Elizabeth."

Upon earshot of such an avowal from a man thought to be wholly unconnected to Elizabeth, Mr. Bennet pushed up his spectacles and was compelled to engage the chair behind his desk. He appeared pale and in some doubt of what he had just heard.

"Sit down," he groaned as if his supper had upset him, and he directed Darcy toward another chair in the room with a waggle of his finger, a gesture akin to a father chastising a son; and the younger man had no choice other than to oblige, straight away.

When Darcy had reclaimed what remained of his confidence and half of his wits, his eyes again met those of Mr. Bennet. Both men appeared dazed to the point of wordlessness, yet within some moments Mr. Darcy managed to speak deftly and timely, with the intention of alleviating the torment of both himself and Elizabeth's father.

"I love your daughter—tis true," he said.

There it was, laid open. Darcy had declared his position to his lover's befuddled father, and he awaited a response. Outwardly, he had managed to uphold the confident veneer of a gentleman, as he had spent eight and twenty years in unvarying practice; but privately, aside from once being rejected by Miss Elizabeth Bennet, young Mr. Darcy had the notion that he could never more be made to suffer such feelings of utter ineptitude.

Elizabeth could not stomach the prospect of having the two men she loved shut up together, casting her future life; nor could she stand the sight within her hands of the fabric she had been worrying until two whole days of work had come to ruin. She set the cloth on the table and sprang to her feet, making haste out of the drawing room doors to glance down the hall toward her father's library.

The door was indeed shut tight and she could hear no perceptible voices, which she supposed was a sign of her good fortune. Elizabeth had been impudent in leaving the drawing room without excuse, and so, with her cheeks tinted the color of the hips on an autumn rose from a certain level of embarrassment she slipped back into the room where most of her family was occupied in various amusements.

Nary a person had noticed her departure, apart from Mr. Bingley. It must have been the appearance of curious vexation on Elizabeth's face, which made the gentleman rise and leave his beloved Jane to take up a place beside her sister.

"Miss Bennet," Bingley spoke, familiar to his gentle character; and his outstretched arm came within an inch of Elizabeth's back as he directed her light frame toward the window and away from her mother and her sisters.

"My friend is far more eloquent than I," he whispered by means of compassion. "Your father was very kind to me, Miss Bennet, and I am certain that Darcy will make a fine impression. He is not so naive as I in these matters, you know."

Elizabeth's eyes widened, her nerves sure to unravel. "He has done this before?" she flustered.

"Not at all!" Bingley's voice rose higher than was prudent. "I meant," he returned to a whisper, "I do not think that he has, no—but what I meant is that he has a better understanding under the pressures of such an interview."

"I certainly hope so," Elizabeth gave a little moan. "Let us trust that my father and Mr. Darcy can get along, Mr. Bingley. It pains me to think of them speaking of me—having to come to some sort of an agreement. What if I should be the cause of vexation to one, or to both?"

"I cannot believe that you can be the cause of displeasure to anyone."

"And if my father does talk him out of it?" worried she. "What shall I do then?"

"That," Bingley grinned, "is not possible."

Mr. Bingley's expression made Elizabeth laugh, for he was indeed a kind young man to entertain her nonsense. "Forgive me, but I must confess," she said, her arms hugging her shoulders, "with all that has happened on this day, to this being the most joyful and the most maddening experience of my life."

"What do you say there, Lizzy?" Mrs. Bennet's voice was shockingly terse. "Are we to have no part in it?"

Charles Bingley sighed, for he knew what it was to be in love, and to hope for so much happiness; and he knew precisely what is was like to love from a distance. "Ease your fears Miss Bennet," he whispered. "Tend to your handiwork, and all will be well, you will see."

Elizabeth gave him a nod of understanding and a smile of gratitude, and she did as he had so wisely advised for a man so admittedly green in the ways of the world. Upon taking up her place at the table, Elizabeth smiled at her mother and lifted the worried cloth in her hands, and from there her nimble fingers went on to repair what damage she had done.

"Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth's father spoke some sense, "I must own to being entirely astonished by this application."

Darcy colored, for it had been far easier to declare without reluctance that he loved Elizabeth, rather than having the obligation to explain those reasons and feelings. He had never been good at purporting his emotions, not at all.

"I have long admired your daughter, sir," Darcy then began; applying the candor he had so lacked when last in Hertfordshire. "From nearly our first acquaintance I saw Miss Bennet as a beautiful and articulate woman, and I have come to know her as kind and gentle to whoever she does meet."

"Then I shall assume that you do know my daughter," Mr. Bennet came to the material point ideally willed self-evident by all fathers of daughters.

"I do, sir," Darcy applied caution. "You are aware that we were acquainted last year at Netherfield. I did meet with your daughter again as she visited her friends in Kent. It seems plain that you know of my aunt's alliance to your relation, Mr. Collins."

Mr. Bennet raised a graying brow, but said nothing. He had not known that Elizabeth had seen much of this young man when she had visited her friends, though he at once came to suspect that any reports he had recently received from Hunsford might have been more truthful than he had formerly considered likely.

It was here that Darcy lay open more, perhaps, than he had wanted to tell. "I am obliged to say that at that time I did not find Miss Bennet agreeable to any particular notice I had wished to bestow."

"No?"

"Not hardly," Darcy blanched at what he had revealed. "I considered myself to be in love, and I sought her companionship so earnestly that I did not believe in Miss Bennet's reluctance to give it, nor could I conceive of my own failure to merit such attention. I made Miss Bennet an offer, and what I believed was sensibility in tact on my part in offering up a proposal was taken as an arrogant and abusive avowal, and for that I will always be heartily sorry, and exceedingly ashamed."

For once, the stern stare of someone else did penetrate Darcy's often-unflustered demeanor, prompting him to swallow and reply in haste, "Pride does come before the fall—I believe it is said."

Darcy was perfectly contrite in his manner and appearance. He was sincerely forthcoming in his explanation to Elizabeth's father, for he had by now gone too far to have it go any other way.

"This last summer," he smiled guardedly, in memory of the event, "I again met with your daughter, and your brother-in-law and his wife in Derbyshire. The meeting was quite on accident, I assure you, but with good fortune the likes of which I could not have fixed or fancied. Over the course of such a separation it was clear to me that I was still, very much in love with Miss Bennet, and that my heart and my mind suffered for what I had pushed away. I had upset the best chance at happiness to ever be placed before me—by my show of pride in assuming that I would be readily accepted by any woman, I had slighted the very finest woman I have ever known."

Elizabeth's father did not pretend to understand the past connection of his daughter with this young man, but Darcy's appearance put forth guilt and grief in the matter so convincingly that Mr. Bennet had no reason to refute a word. Mr. Bennet fancied himself a scholar of human folly, and from the fraught expression of the young gent before him, he was receiving quite a case in study of just how obliging a man of consequence could become at the hands of a clever young woman.

Darcy sat tall and straight in his chair, his eyes, he thought, fixed on his beloved's father, and he confided his own private discipline to his senior. "I have made it my business," he divulged, "to be the sort of man deserving of your daughter's esteem and expectations."

Mr. Bennet thought it right to remain doubtful. "And have you been a success, sir?" he inquired.

"All men want good wives," said Darcy. "I have never before known a woman who wished to examine my character, let alone find a stain—to find more than a mere defect, really; and I had not thought myself to care, until the message was supplied by your daughter, Elizabeth."

Darcy ceased to speak for a moment. He had said so much more than he had intended, yet when he meditated on the effect of his confession upon Mr. Bennet, he found that for once he had the man's complete attention.

"I believe that Miss Bennet has come to see something good in me," he felt a singular emotion, a most suitable pride. "I do suppose that I have been successful, sir, as yesterday I made to her an offer of marriage, and I was overjoyed when she accepted."

As Mr. Bennet was soon to discover, there would be no end to the day's enlightenments or astonishments. If ever anyone could have felt pity for the man it was now, though it was not due to the fact that he had five daughters and no sons, but that he had only one daughter so dear, and that her good character had before now, gone so undervalued.

As Darcy had promised Elizabeth, he made his case and his plea for their future together. "If I am ever to be a happy man," he said, "with any woman to call my wife, I am convinced that your daughter Elizabeth, by all that is genuine, will be the making of my joy."

The elder gentleman offered no solace to Elizabeth's suitor. The father could not; for he now understood the merit of his darling daughter, and it was the first time that he had ever truly conceived of seeing her leave his house forever.

He pondered whether this young man, and his seemingly genuine offer would be good enough. Mr. Darcy's words of praise and affection for Elizabeth seemed irrefutably sincere, and there was no question as to his providing her with a fortunate income and existence. Where Mr. Bingley had seemed a fine, young, if not naive fellow when applying for Jane's hand in marriage, this Mr. Darcy appeared a different sort.

The man had a gift for making his point painfully clear, but prudent nevertheless—and if anything, Mr. Bennet thought him a clever match for Elizabeth's own temperament. Mr. Bennet had the notion that their lives together might never be dull if Darcy did make every effort to keep his head and if Elizabeth could forever find something in him to admire.

With some embarrassment Mr. Bennet recalled his own words of just a short time ago comparing Darcy's nature to that of Elizabeth's. The conclusion had been drawn out of ignorance for the situation, yet he had considered it, even so, and he found that at least Mr. Darcy had a hint of wisdom that Mr. Bennet himself had so lacked, when it came to the choosing of a wife.

"I am convinced, Mr. Darcy, that Elizabeth will indeed be the making of your joy," avowed Mr. Bennet.

"Then you agree to the match?"

"I must know, sir, that you will make her happy."

Darcy had no need to ponder this statement, for this very thing had been in his thoughts for many months. He could have said that it was his dearest hope to do so, or stated that he would try to keep Elizabeth content as a wife, but he offered no such obscurities.

"I will," he replied as plainly as any man of worth could ever speak his mind.

"Then sir," Mr. Bennet nodded, as there was nothing more to be heard from Darcy, "I ask for your patience as I wish to have Elizabeth offer up her agreement in the matter. If, as you say, she is of a mind to accept you, then I give you my consent."

Darcy dared not celebrate any triumph, although it was his first inclination to do so. He bit down hard on his lip, and cast a dithering sigh, for he was not to be discouraged in having to wait a few minutes more. He had wanted so desperately to shake Mr. Bennet's hand as a show of accord between gentlemen, and as a courtly display for the transfer of the lady's welfare from one good man to another.

Perhaps it was prudent that such a gesture did not come about. Darcy recognized that the palms of his hands were still damp, and if anything remained of his dignity in offering up what had to be the commitment of a lifetime, it would be that at least Mr. Bennet had not known him to sweat. In the place of any observable show of success, or of disappointment, Darcy stood up, lowered his gaze, and tipped his chin in respect.

"Tell Elizabeth to come and see me," requested Mr. Bennet; and without looking up from his venerable bow the young man ventured the most legitimate smile of his natural days, and said that he would.

Elizabeth was aware of solitary footsteps coming from the hall, and she already knew them to be the lengthy gait of her beloved Mr. Darcy. He stepped into the drawing room, though he did not go to her directly as he found it necessary to take a moment to clear the thoughts in his head. His pleasing stride in due course took him close to where Elizabeth sat beside Kitty, and as he made an effort to smile and admire her needlework, he expressed to Elizabeth in a whisper, "Go to your father; he wants you in the library."

While Elizabeth was gone, Darcy would not be easy. He could not sit down, nor could he pace the floor anxiously in front of Mrs. Bennet and her daughters, as he could at Netherfield. He did venture to walk by Bingley once and they exchanged looks of conjecture; both wondering to what end the evening would bring.

Darcy could think of nothing of sense to do, and he was having regrets that he had not taken the second book as offered by Mr. Bennet. He promptly devised a plan, and stood before the lady of the house, bowing with the utmost deference for her station.

"Madam," he said, "Pray forgive me, but I am in need of some outdoor air."

"If it pleases you, Mr. Darcy," Mrs. Bennet condescended to say, though unwilling to look him directly in the eye or inquire as to his health. "Hill will bring your hat and coat."

Darcy was gone to the hall in an instant, and once his coat and hat were brought out, he hastily pulled them on and quit the house. October days were fair though short, and the nights were growing long and brisk. Darcy's quick breaths hung in the air as he felt the liberty to tread the pathway from one corner of the house, and back to the other.

He was thankful to be out in the cold, by himself, although he wondered if Elizabeth had returned, and if she would know just where to look for him. While he had always found some consolation in being left to himself, Darcy detested being without Elizabeth at that very moment.

Darcy could not know that Elizabeth had felt the same. When she had convinced her father of her love for Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth had gone away to her room.

Her mind was overcome with reflections of her knowing Mr. Darcy, and of what state being a wife was to bring. She had to own that in some ways it frightened her, although she did honestly realize that any distress did stem more from the expectation of love and of marriage, rather than from any honest dread of belonging to a man. She kept to her room, until her yearning to see Darcy was so ardent that she hurried down the stairs in a whirl of skirt and petticoat, stopping once again by her father's library.

In Darcy's state of mind, he was not aware that he had paced to and fro, nor that an hour had almost passed by. He became annoyed that things had not been easily settled between he and Elizabeth's father; he grew upset with himself.

His eyes and this throat burned as he brought to mind recollections of Elizabeth's refusal at Hunsford, George Wickham's falsehoods regarding his conduct and character, and his own conceit and ill manners. It was all so difficult to let go, until he heard Mr. Bennet call his name.

Elizabeth's father addressed her suitor, and benevolently extended his hand. At last, Darcy was given his due as a man betrothed. Pride was a fetching sentiment on his face at that instant, and joyful mirth overcame Elizabeth's fears as she witnessed her father and her lover come to collective harmony. It was agreed between the three of them that Darcy would have Elizabeth, and that Mr. Bennet, and all within his household consent to the match.

The humbled father, having given his blessing, offered his daughter's dutiful hand to the young gentleman. With their hands now clasped together he smiled at his daughter and her young man, for Mr. Bennet had to wonder that they had not gotten this far on their own before now; and he said his final peace on the matter.

"Make your plans, and set the day of your wedding my child," he spoke warmly to Elizabeth; and to his son-to-be he said, "Shall we come to know one another better, Darcy? Let us decide the future of our Elizabeth over some sport. Come and shoot partridge with me tomorrow morning; and Mrs. Bennet and her cook will fix them up well for our dinner."

"I will, sir," Darcy thought it apt to smile, and to breathe easily; and when he looked at Elizabeth he noticed her cheeks color for having been teased.

"Very good," Mr. Bennet chuckled as he returned to his old ways, and made for the house, "I will tell Jane's fellow to come as well."

When her father had gone, Elizabeth felt the heat and affection of Darcy's hand in her own, and her blush persisted. "It will all be different now," she said as if it was a revelation to them both. "Every person shall know how we feel."

Darcy nodded at Elizabeth's assertion, his own color rising at the grasp of a moment that seemed so long and so far from reach; and he brought her body near to his, and her hand and her bashful cheek came to rest lovingly on the lapel of his woolen coat.

Such familiarity would be as natural as two lovers ought to feel as time went on, but for the time being there was room for patience, and it was something that Darcy did observe, for he had come to respect Elizabeth nearly a year ago, and her family now, more than he had ever thought possible.

"I wish you could know what I feel, Elizabeth," he said to her, alone.

Elizabeth held him tighter, the passions of her heart pleading for such knowledge. "It is what I have wanted," she willed herself to speak candidly, "for quite some time."

"You are what I have wanted," Darcy whispered, "all my life."

Elizabeth smiled; she laughed at the ordeal of such a day, and she wept a happy tear of liberation. Mr. Darcy was hers, and her life and her happiness from this time forward belonged to him, and she was indeed ready and willing for it to be so.

"Come into the house," she glanced up at him, her eyelashes fluttering away any remaining tears, and her hand easily slipped back into his; and they walked in concert as two lovers properly engaged to one another. As they came to the hall, their hands reluctantly parted when Mrs. Hill came to collect Darcy's hat and coat.

Darcy followed Elizabeth back to the drawing room, and to the astonishment of both, Mr. Bennet had brought himself to compromise by sitting and reading a book, directly between two smitten lovers and his house full of ridiculous women. He must have wanted to take in the scene on such an assemblage as this, and he must have wanted to know for himself just how two other lovers did get on.

The rest of the evening passed peacefully; and only once was Mr. Bennet heard to chuckle with expectation as he considered the effect on his wife when she was told such news. This night, Mrs. Bennet was again to be made a happy woman, and what pleasure Mr. Bennet would receive when his wife would learn that it was Mr. Darcy, of all men, who indeed was to blame for the making of their joy.