Page 81 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

T hree days later, Mr. Darcy arrived at Longbourn at an hour calculated to satisfy all the forms of propriety—neither so early as to seem overeager, nor so late as to inspire comment.

The parlour had been prepared with care.

A fire burnt steadily in the hearth, a tea tray was in evidence, and Mrs. Bennet had arrayed herself in lavender silk—all nerves and expectant delight.

Only Mr. Bennet seemed unchanged by recent developments. He greeted his guest with a studied nonchalance and waved him toward his study.

Mr. Bennet settled into his own seat with the amused expression of a man about to enjoy a private entertainment. “Proceed, Mr. Darcy,” he said, adjusting his spectacles, “I shall try to appear surprised, for form’s sake.”

Darcy bowed. “Sir, I come to—”

“I rather suspected as much. Lizzy was here not an hour ago, cautioning me to conduct myself properly. A sure indication that something momentous was at hand.”

Darcy permitted himself a faint smile. “She need not have concerned herself.”

“No, but she often does. It is one of her more trying virtues.” He steepled his fingers. “Very well, Mr. Darcy. Let us hear it.”

Darcy’s voice steadied. “I would ask for your blessing, sir, to marry your daughter.”

There was a long pause.

Mr. Bennet was quiet for a moment, observing the younger man over the rim of his spectacles. Then: “My daughter is fond of you.”

Darcy’s voice was low. “I have reason to hope so.”

“Well, then.” Mr. Bennet leant back. “It would be idle to pretend this is a surprise—but then, much of my acquaintance with you has confounded my assumptions. I recall you once approached me without her knowledge, full of consequence and entirely certain of your own rightness.”

Darcy said nothing.

Mr. Bennet’s mouth twitched. “To your credit, you did not make the same mistake twice.”

A pause followed.

“Now it seems you have spoken to her first—and, astonishingly, she did not send you packing.”

“She did not,” Darcy said quietly.

Mr. Bennet gave a slight nod. “Very well. I am not in the habit of refusing my daughters what they most earnestly desire. Nonetheless, I suspect she will still contradict you frequently.”

“I should be disappointed if she did not,” Darcy said, and a small smile escaped him.

“Then you are already wiser than I was.” Mr. Bennet’s voice softened just perceptibly. “You have my blessing, Mr. Darcy. Make her happy, or you shall answer to me.”

“I intend to make her happiness my first care,” Darcy said, and there was no artifice in it.

As he rose and thanked Mr. Bennet with the solemnity the moment deserved, the elder gentleman added, “It seems I must now treat you as family. I hope you will bear it bravely.”

Darcy’s lips twitched. “I shall endeavour to do so.”

When they emerged from the study, the parlour presented a tableau of barely restrained anticipation.

Mrs. Bennet sat perched on her chair, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white through her lace gloves.

Mary looked up from her book with studied indifference, though her eyes lingered meaningfully on Mr. Darcy’s countenance.

Kitty fidgeted with her embroidery, and even Lydia had abandoned her usual restless energy to fix her attention upon the gentlemen.

Jane smiled knowingly at her beloved sister.

Elizabeth, seated by the window, untouched needlework in her lap, rose as they entered. Her eyes met Darcy’s across the room, and the faintest flush rose in her cheeks.

“Well?” Mrs. Bennet demanded, her voice pitched higher than usual. “I mean to say—” She caught herself and assumed an expression of maternal dignity. “I trust your conversation was satisfactory, Mr. Bennet?”

Mr. Bennet surveyed the room with amusement. “Indeed, it was, my dear. Most illuminating.” He paused, savouring the moment. “It seems we are to have another wedding.”

For a heartbeat, the room was perfectly still.

Then Mrs. Bennet shrieked.

“Oh! Oh, my dear Lizzy! My sweetest girl! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Mr. Bennet, did you ever think—but of course you must have known—such a match! Such a fortune! Oh, my nerves! Mary, ring for the smelling salts! No, ring for wine! Ring for everything!”

She sprang from her chair and descended upon Elizabeth with such force that she was nearly knocked from her feet. “My dearest child! I always knew you were destined for greatness! Did I not always say so? Mr. Darcy, you cannot know what happiness you have brought to this house!”

“Mama,” Elizabeth managed, extricating herself from her mother’s embrace with as much grace as she could muster. “Perhaps we might—”

“Ten thousand a year!” Mrs. Bennet repeated, as though the sum might change if not frequently confirmed. “And Pemberley! Oh, the carriages! The jewels!”

Darcy, who had remained perfectly still throughout this effusion, now looked rather as though he wished to retreat behind the nearest curtain.

“Such weddings as we shall have!” Mrs. Bennet continued, pacing about the room with her hands pressed to her temples. “The breakfast alone will require weeks of planning! And your wedding clothes, Lizzy! We must go to London immediately! Not a moment can be lost!”

“Mrs. Bennet,” Darcy began carefully, “I hope you will not—”

“Oh, but you are too modest, sir! Too modest by half! Mary, do leave off that reading and attend to what is important! Your sister is to be mistress of Pemberley!”

Elizabeth’s gaze met Darcy’s, and panic flickered in his expression. Without hesitation, she moved to his side.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said with admirable composure, “I believe you mentioned wishing to see the prospects from our upper meadow? The light is particularly fine at this hour.”

He took the excuse with gratitude. “Indeed, Miss Elizabeth. If you would be so kind as to show me the way?”

“Oh, but surely you cannot wish to walk now!” Mrs. Bennet protested. “There is so much to discuss! The settlements! The date! The trousseau!”

“All in good time, Mama,” Elizabeth said firmly, already moving toward the door. “Mr. Darcy has travelled a considerable distance today.”

“But—”

“We shall not be long,” Elizabeth assured her, and all but pushed Darcy from the room.

As the door closed behind them, they could hear Mrs. Bennet’s voice rising to new heights: “Oh, my poor nerves! Kitty, fetch my vinaigrette! This is more than I can bear!”

In the blessed quiet of the hallway, Elizabeth turned to Darcy with an expression that was equal parts mortification and amusement.

“I do apologise,” she said. “I fear my mother’s joy has rather—overwhelmed her sensibilities.”

Darcy’s mouth quirked upward. “I understand your urgent need for fresh air, Miss Bennet.”

“Indeed. Shall we make our escape before she remembers the settlements and comes after us with pen and paper?”

“By all means,” he said, offering her his arm. “Lead the way.”

They slipped out through the side door and walked briskly across the lawn, Elizabeth guiding them toward a path that led through a small copse of oak trees.

The route took them well away from the house and, more importantly, from the view of any curious eyes that might be drawn to the parlour windows.

“Here,” Elizabeth said when they had reached a clearing surrounded by ancient trees, their bare branches creating a natural shelter. “I think we are safe from observation now.”

Darcy looked back toward Longbourn, which was now hidden entirely by the grove. “Your mother’s enthusiasm is … considerable.”

“That is a remarkably diplomatic way of describing it,” Elizabeth said with a rueful laugh. “I fear she has been planning our advantageous marriages since we were in leading strings, though I doubt even her most ambitious dreams ….”

“I had not quite prepared myself for such a vigorous reception.”

Elizabeth’s eyes danced with mischief. “Oh, but this is nothing, sir. Wait until she begins planning the wedding breakfast. I believe she will want to invite half the county.”

Darcy’s expression suggested this prospect held little appeal. “Perhaps we might consider a smaller affair?”

“I shall do my best to moderate her enthusiasm,” Elizabeth said, then added with a smile, “though I make no promises. The temptation to introduce you as ‘my dear Mr. Darcy of Pemberley’ to every acquaintance she meets may prove irresistible.”

“Heaven preserve me,” he said with feeling, though his eyes were warm with amusement.

They had stopped walking now, standing close together in the dappled shadow of the trees, the urgency of their escape giving way to a more intimate quiet.

Darcy turned to face her more fully, his expression growing serious. “Elizabeth, after witnessing your mother’s … extensive plans, I am inclined to suggest we obtain a special licence and marry within the week.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. “A week, sir?”

“The prospect of months of wedding preparations fills me with considerable alarm,” he said with feeling.

“Sir, you are practically suggesting we elope.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “Though I suspect your father would object most strenuously.”

“Indeed, he would. And Mama would never forgive us—she has been dreaming of wedding clothes since Jane was born.” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “However, I am rather inclined to agree with you.”

Relief flooded his features. “Do you?”

She laughed. “Well, not precisely. As romantic as that sounds, I fear we ought to find a compromise. I would be devastated to miss my sister’s wedding.”

His face brightened. “Jane—of course. Bingley mentioned they wed within the month. Perhaps we might…”

“A double wedding?” Elizabeth’s eyes lit up with the possibility. “Four weeks hence?”

“Precisely. Your mother would have her grand occasion, your sister would be present, and we would not be subjected to months of … preparation.”

“Brilliant,” she said, rising on her toes to kiss him soundly. “You are occasionally quite clever, Mr. Darcy. I shall break the news to Mama gradually, lest the shock prove too much for her constitution.”

He stepped closer, emboldened by their shared conspiracy. “Elizabeth, may I say that your practical nature is one of your most admirable qualities?”

“You may, though I suspect you would find it less admirable if I were to insist upon the six-month engagement Mama will undoubtedly propose.”

“Fortunately, that particular trial is not before us,” he said, reaching for her hands. “I am rather impatient to make you my wife.”

The warmth in his voice stirred a familiar thrill within her. “Are you indeed?”

“I am.” He drew her closer until she could feel the warmth of him through her pelisse. “These past months of uncertainty have taught me the value of claiming happiness when it is offered.”

She looked up into his eyes, seeing the tenderness there, the barely restrained desire. “Then let us claim it, Fitzwilliam.”

He needed no further encouragement. His arms came around her, and she melted into his embrace with a soft sigh of contentment.

Here, hidden among the ancient oaks with winter sunlight filtering through the bare branches, she was perfectly, completely at peace.

His lips found hers in a kiss that was both gentle and possessive, speaking of promises and a future that suddenly seemed wonderfully, tangibly real.

He groaned softly and returned to her mouth, kissing her with a passion that left them both trembling. She had known, abstractly, that married people experienced physical intimacy, but she had never imagined it would feel like this—heat and wonder entwined, fierce and unfamiliar but welcome.

His hands moved from her waist to her back, pressing her closer still, and she discovered new sensations - the sensation of his body through their clothing, the way her body pressed against his chest, the firmness of his embrace as he held her.

“I…” she began, then stopped, having no words for what she was feeling.

“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice rough, his forehead resting against hers. “Good God.”

When they finally separated, both were breathing raggedly, and Elizabeth’s legs felt unsteady beneath her. Elizabeth’s bonnet had come awry, and Darcy’s usually perfect appearance was decidedly rumpled.

“Four weeks,” he murmured against her forehead.

“Four weeks,” she agreed, her voice infused with joy.

“I fear it shall feel like an eternity.”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “Then you had better prepare yourself, sir. For I suspect Mama will ensure they are the longest four weeks of your life.”

That night, Elizabeth retired with far too much energy to sleep.

The memory of his body beneath her hands, solid and warm and unmistakably male, sent a wave of that strange, restless heat through her.

This only quickened her pulse and banished all hope of sleep.

To settle her thoughts, she returned to her usual acrostic poem.

Elizabeth allowed her mind to drift dreamily over each imagined letter, her heart thrilling at the thought of him. She felt no need to guard herself now and permitted her heart its freedom.

D—Desire. A warmth rose swiftly to her cheeks, and she smiled softly. Could she deny how deeply she longed for him, or the tenderness of his gaze that told her he shared the same ache?

A—Adoration. Yes, adoration—pure and boundless. He loved her with every fibre of his being, as a man might honour the rarest treasure in the world.

R—Reverent. His gaze upon her was as if she were sacred, precious beyond measure, filling her heart with a tenderness so exquisite it nearly overwhelmed her.

C—Captivating. Every glance, every quiet touch of his hand had the power to set her pulse racing. She had never imagined she could be so bewitched.

Y—She lingered here, smiling ruefully at the challenge. Yet after a breathless moment, she sighed in happy triumph and murmured softly to herself: “Yours.” Utterly and entirely yours. Her heart soared at the sweetness of surrender.