Page 79 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“Indeed, sir,” she said. “Mr. Morrison appears more himself. I wonder at his largess in buying a meal at the tavern.”

Mr. Darcy made no reply, but his lips quirked in a manner she read as consciousness. Had he funded dinner for the Morrisons? Mr. Darcy’s surprises never ceased.

They stood quietly for a moment, watching the crowd disperse. The Bennet carriage waited along the courtyard.

“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said quietly, “if you are not required to depart immediately, perhaps you would do me the honour of walking with me? The gardens behind the hall are not without charm, even in March.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “I should be glad of it, sir.”

They walked in silence through the archway into the gardens behind the Shire Hall. The formal beds lay dormant under the March sky, but the paths were well-maintained, and the bare trees created a pleasant enough prospect. Most welcome of all, they were nearly alone.

At length, Elizabeth said, “I had not expected to see you here today.”

“Nor I you,” he replied. “I cannot but be glad of it.”

She glanced at him, his formality unmistakable. “Indeed?”

“Indeed.” He paused, as though weighing his next words. “Miss Bennet, I fear I owe you an apology.”

“An apology?”

“For my conduct when last we spoke. I acted … precipitously. Without proper consideration for your position.”

Elizabeth slowed her steps. “You acted according to your understanding of what was proper.”

“Perhaps. I fear I may have been … mistaken in my approach.”

“Mr. Darcy—”

“I spoke to your father before consulting you. That was … presumptuous of me.”

Elizabeth was silent for several moments, studying the gravel path beneath her feet.

“It was,” she said finally. “However, I owe you an apology of my own for my words that day. We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that encounter. The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable. I know now your intentions were honourable.”

“They were, but perhaps not as well-considered as I persuaded myself.”

She looked up at him then, surprised by the admission. “You have given this matter some thought.”

“I have had little else to occupy my mind these past weeks.”

They had reached a small arbour where a bench sat beneath the bare branches of what would likely be climbing roses in summer. Elizabeth gestured toward it, then seated herself. Darcy joined her, maintaining a proper distance.

“I was grateful for your kindness to Miss Morrison,” Elizabeth said earnestly. “And your assistance with her father.”

“It was no more than any gentleman ought to have done.”

“Was it not?” She turned to regard him more fully. “I believe such conduct speaks well of a gentleman’s character.”

Darcy turned toward her, the intensity in his gaze deepening.

“I fear I have not always been … entirely fair in my judgements, sir.”

“You were not wrong to think ill of me.”

“Perhaps. My judgement has since undergone a considerable alteration.”

The silence endured some minutes, whilst both were given over to reflection. The March wind stirred the bare branches above, and from beyond the garden came the sounds of the town—carriages departing, voices calling farewells.

“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said at last, his voice very low. “Might I be permitted to hope that your opinion of me has … altered?”

Elizabeth’s hands tightened. “It has.”

“In my favour?”

“Considerably.”

He was quiet for several moments, as though weighing her words. “I am glad of it,” he said finally. “I scarcely dared hope for such a change.”

“You have given me cause to revisit every conclusion I once held, Mr. Darcy.”

“Have I?” There was something uncertain in his voice, as though he scarcely believed her words.

“Indeed. I have found that first impressions, however strong, may sometimes prove … incomplete.”

“Miss Elizabeth.” He turned to face her more fully. “I must beg leave to ask something, though I hardly deserve a reply.”

Elizabeth’s heart began to beat more rapidly. She kept her voice steady. “You may ask, sir.”

“When last we spoke of … of personal matters, you made your feelings quite clear. I wondered if … that is, I hoped perhaps…”

He seemed to struggle with the words, and Elizabeth was touched by his uncertainty.

“My feelings,” she said carefully, “are not what they once were.”

“Are they not?” His voice was low and rumbling.

“No, sir. They are not.”

The hope in his expression was carefully restrained but unmistakable. “Then I am indeed fortunate,” he said quietly. “More fortunate than I dared hope.”

“You are not without merit, sir.” Her smile was teasing.

There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “That is … encouraging to hear.”

Elizabeth smiled in return. “I believe you know your own worth, Mr. Darcy.”

“I thought I did, once. Of late, I have doubted it.”

They sat in companionable quiet for several minutes, the weight of unspoken understanding settling between them. Finally, Darcy spoke again, his voice very low.

“Elizabeth, might I ask … do you think it possible that, in time, your feelings toward me might become… warmer than mere approbation?”

She lowered her gaze to her hands. “I believe they already have, sir.”

“Have they?” His voice was barely audible.

“Indeed.” She glanced up at him through her lashes. “It took me some time to recognise the change.”

“Then perhaps,” he said carefully, “you might not be entirely opposed to … that is, if I were to hope for…”

“For what, Mr. Darcy?”

“For a future in which we might … understand each other better still?”

Elizabeth met his eyes directly. “I should not be at all opposed to such a hope, sir.”

The words hung between them in the crisp March air.

A blackbird called from somewhere among the bare branches above, and the sharp sweetness of frost was giving way to warmer air of spring carried on the cool breeze.

His face betrayed a transformation—the careful restraint giving way to something more deeply felt. .

“These past weeks … I have thought of little else but our last conversation. How you looked at me when I left. The certainty that I had lost you entirely.”

A sudden tightness rose in her chest at the pain in his voice.

“I told myself I deserved nothing better,” he continued quietly. “That I had acted so poorly, presumed so much, that any hope of your regard was foolish beyond measure. And yet…”

He paused. His gaze suddenly focussed on her with startling tenderness.

“And yet I could not wholly abandon hope. Surely not when you sit beside me speaking so kindly.” His thumb brushed gently across her gloved knuckles.

“Elizabeth,” he said, her name a whisper that seemed to hold all his hopes. “I must be certain you understand - I would not have you accept me from a sense of obligation, or mere compliance unaccompanied by true esteem. I would rather suffer your loss than bring you misery in marriage.”

She searched his face, seeing the earnest concern there, the genuine care for her happiness above his own. “Do you not perceive it, sir?”

“Perceive what?”

She drew a soft breath, surprised by her own words. “That I have come to admire you, despite myself. That I once believed you proud and insensible, and I was utterly mistaken.”

He said nothing, but drew her hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her hand as though her words were almost too precious to believe. His warm breath reached her even through the kid of her glove.

“I am not easily swayed, Mr. Darcy. Yet I have been swayed. You have changed me.” Her voice wavered. “I have erred in my understanding of you. I can only be grateful for the correction. It has altered everything.”

“Elizabeth,” he said, her name rough with emotion. “I had feared … that is, when we last spoke, you were so angry…”

“I was so foolish,” she said softly. “It took me some time to understand my own sentiments.”

“And now?”

“I am now convinced that it was never dislike at all, but something far more … complicated.” She met his eyes with a small, tremulous smile, then added with quiet candour, “I begin to see that my happiness is bound up in yours.”

The words struck him with their simple honesty. He lifted his free hand as though to touch her face, then checked himself, remembering where they were.

“You have borne my reproofs, my anger, my misjudgement, and still, you are here. Perhaps that makes you the most exceedingly patient man in England.”

A soft laugh escaped him, though his eyes glistened. “Patient or merely stubborn beyond all reason.”

“Perhaps both.” She smiled through gathering tears.

Darcy’s countenance, so often impassive, now bore the full weight of emotion long-held at bay.

When he did move, it was not with his customary reserve.

He rose—then, with sudden resolve, lowered himself to one knee upon the frost-hardened earth, his dark coat a stark silhouette against the pale, crystalline ground.

“My dearest Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low but unwavering, “you offer me hope where I had thought all lost. If I have ever known happiness, it is in this moment.”

Her hand rose to her throat. Her breath was shallow with astonishment.

“I have no eloquence left—no careful phrases, no proud declarations. Only this: that I love you with all that I am. That my heart has belonged to you since well before that night in the music room. If you will do me the honour of accepting my hand, I shall devote my life to proving myself worthy of it.”

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with fervent affection. “There is no obligation in this, no duty, no repayment of imagined debts. Only love, and the ardent wish to call you mine.”

Her breath trembled on the air. She reached for him, her fingers light against his face.

“If love is all you ask of me,” she said, her voice low and steady, “then you shall never want for it again. Yes, of course I will marry you. Because you are everything I could wish for in a husband, and far more than I ever thought to find.”