Page 49

Elizabeth accepted the letter, surprised. “A curious instruction. We are just on our way to church.”

“No matter, miss. I shall wait,” James said earnestly.

Elizabeth glanced to her father, who merely raised an eyebrow in bemusement.

Without further delay, she broke the seal and read.

“There, James—I have read it. What was the urgency?”

“No urgency, miss. I was simply told to ensure it reached you and had been received properly. Now, I may be off.”

Mr. Bennet slipped a coin from his pocket. “Wait a moment, my boy. Here—you’ve earned this.”

“Thank you, sir—but it’s a bit much,” James protested.

“Nonsense. Special services deserve a fair reward,” Mr. Bennet said.

James bowed low, grinned, and turned smartly on his heel.

Mr. Bennet closed the door behind him.

“It is from Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said softly.

“Curious indeed. And rather wonderful,” Mr. Bennet replied.

Another knock sounded.

“That boy forgot something,” Mr. Bennet muttered as he opened the door.

But it was not James.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Bennet,” said Mr. Darcy, with a light in his eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet greeted him, a surprised look on his face. “Do come in. What wind brings you here?”

Darcy stepped inside, his gaze already fixed upon Elizabeth.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Bennet,” he said gently. “It seems to me you owe me an answer to a question.”

“Then we shouldn’t stay here in the hall, Mr. Darcy. Do come in in the parlor.

They entered the parlor and Mr. Darcy, still holding his hat, addressed Mr. Bennet with grave courtesy.

"Sir, if I may be permitted—this matter concerns your daughter as well as yourself."

Mr. Bennet, alert now and with an almost imperceptible nod of understanding, gestured to the nearest armchair. "Then let us not linger in riddles, Mr. Darcy. You have the word."

Darcy turned not to Mr. Bennet but to Elizabeth, whose heart gave a start she could not disguise. He set his hat carefully on the table, straightened, and met her gaze with a quiet earnestness that stilled every whisper in the room.

"Miss Bennet," he began, his voice deeper than usual but steady, "from the moment I left Hertfordshire, your words have echoed through every part of my days.

Your letters—gracious, candid, and more generous than I deserved—have only confirmed what I have long felt: that my happiness, my peace, my very hope, depend entirely upon your answer. "

Elizabeth’s breath caught. The fire seemed louder for a moment, or perhaps the silence in the room more profound.

"You must know," he continued, with a fervor tempered by reverence, "how much I admire and love you. Your wit, your spirit, your goodness—they have claimed my affection utterly. If you would do me the honor of becoming my wife, it would be the greatest joy of my life."

He paused, as though even the air itself must hold still for her reply.

Elizabeth’s eyes shimmered, and though her breath trembled slightly, her voice, when it came, was clear, warm, and full of feeling.

“I do not know the moment it began,” she said softly, stepping forward, “but there is no part of my heart now untouched by you. I once believed I knew myself—and then you showed me more. If you still wish it, Mr. Darcy… I would be honored—truly honored—to become your wife.”

There was no dramatic gesture, no sweeping embrace—only a stillness between them, profound and glowing, as though each had just found a missing part of themselves.

Behind them, in the threshold Mrs. Bennet gave a sudden, sharp cry and dropped faintly onto the settee, catching only the edge of her shawl for support. From behind Jane rushed to her side.

"Oh! Gracious heavens! Elizabeth! Mr. Darcy! Oh—oh, I shall never recover! Mr. Bennet, fetch the salts—Jane, the lavender water!" she gasped between fluttering breaths, though one eye remained stubbornly open.

Mr. Bennet, after a moment of blinking astonishment, turned away to hide a smile.

Mary, far more composed, reached across the tea tray to pour a glass of cordial and offered it to the matron with practiced calm.

"Come, Mama. Surely this is cause for rejoicing—not alarm."

Elizabeth, unable to suppress a laugh, looked once more at Mr. Darcy. His gaze was soft, his expression barely concealing the depth of feeling he would soon put into words again—but later, in quieter moments.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and gave his daughter a look of solemn affection.

"Well, Lizzy," he said, his voice low with emotion. "I believe you have chosen most wisely—and most bravely."

The fire crackled; the snow continued to fall gently against the windows.

And so it was.

The long-guarded affections, the misunderstandings, the silences and pride—all of it gave way, in that single evening, to joy, to laughter, and to the promise of something enduring.

The future stretched ahead, full of letters still to be written, dances yet to be danced, and a love well earned, well kindled—and, at last, freely given.

As a matter of some surprise, among the documents Mr. Darcy received as part of his marriage settlement with Elizabeth Bennet, there nestled a bank draft for precisely ￡1,020—the very sum Mr. Bennet had once claimed to have won in an honorable game of cards.

Whether Mr. Darcy smiled at the sight or merely raised an eyebrow, no one could say for certain.

But the quiet satisfaction with which Mr. Bennet handed it over suggested that, in the end, a gentleman may settle his debts as neatly as he arranges his daughters’ futures.

THE END