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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Darcy

M y great-grandfather purchased a famous painting of William the Conqueror, sword raised in triumph, during the battle of Hastings.

It hangs in the formal entryway at Pemberley.

I thought of the painting with the trace of a smile as I made my way in stately haste from Meryton back to London.

The settlement papers were tucked securely in a case beside me, and I had in my pocket three dates given to me by the rector of Elizabeth’s parish.

The first banns would be read on Sunday, and my nerves thrummed steadily, certain I had made a magnificent choice of a bride.

In the morning, I whistled as Carsten and I went through the ritual of dressing.

“You are in spirits today, sir,” he said.

“I am. Have my tailor visit me, will you?”

This would alert the entire house I was on the verge of something.

That I went willingly to Cheapside every day since my return from Kent must have sparked a few wild theories at least, but my tailor coming would tell all.

From the butler to the lowliest kitchen maid, the whole house would come to the correct conclusion in the space of five seconds, for I had not made any attempt whatsoever to disguise my interest in my sister’s new acquaintance when she came for tea.

When I was turned out, I went to the music room. I stood in the doorway while Georgiana finished her piece before I asked Mrs Annesley for a moment with my sister.

I took Georgiana to the library and said, “You had better congratulate me.”

“Have you done it? William, have you?”

“You may fully expect to have your Season cut in half. The Countess of Matlock will know soon enough. Do not fool yourself that there will be no unpleasantness.”

“But I am equal to anything now.” She took my hands and cried out with pure joy. “Let them gnash their teeth at me.”

“Brave talk, nurseling. I am going to Cheapside.” What a happy sentence that had turned out to be. “Will you come?”

Mr and Mrs Gardiner made everything effortless for me.

Elizabeth, a picture of demure womanhood, sat at a table on the far side of the room, pretending to do needlework, and after a few tidy greetings, I found myself ushered over to take my tea with her.

Meanwhile, Mrs Gardiner took Mary and Georgiana into a deep conference over a periodical, and I saw that Elizabeth’s uncle meant to read his newspaper.

This afforded me sufficient privacy to look warmly into my love’s eyes and say, “Well, fiend? How have you fared?”

“Was it awful?” she asked with her eyes alight.

“Dreadful. But simple enough.”

“Simple? Papa did not give you fits and starts?”

“He did not have the opportunity to do so.”

“How can that be? He knew you were coming. I wrote to him.” She looked puzzled. “I expected him to pretend not to understand you for a quarter of an hour or to claim he had promised me to a tenant farmer or some such.”

“He may have wished to quiz me, but I did not relish the prospect. And so I went first to wait on your mother.”

“Mama? You went to wait on her?”

“Hm,” I said with enraging casualness. “I told her—quietly, I add, for your sisters were visiting your aunt Philips, and I found her alone for once—that I had come to see Mr Bennet about marrying her second daughter.”

She laughed aloud, the sound straining the capacity of the other occupants of the room to ignore us, but which settled me into a sort of quiet joy. I could live my life on the sustaining sound of Elizabeth Bennet’s laugh.

“You are a devil, Mr Darcy,” she said, subsiding back to a quiet murmur appropriate to our conference.

“Your father had less than five minutes with which to raise his brows at me and to hem and haw before Mrs Bennet burst into the room and demanded he sign whatever I brought to be signed.”

“Was she very loud?”

“Deafening. She sent a child at a run to collect your sisters, ordered up a punch with which to toast me, dragged your sister Jane down the stairs as well as the servants up the stairs, and even detained the post boy, who happened by at the wrong moment.”

Elizabeth clasped her forehead and so I said, “I did passably well, I thought. After half an hour of it, I took your mother’s hand and kissed her cheek and pleaded the need for haste to return to my many affairs in London.”

“You kissed my mother?”

“You will own the genius of it. She stood mute for half a minute which enabled me to get away. But here,” I said, pulling out of my pocket the dates I had held so close. “Reverend Wharton says any of these will do.”

“We shall marry before Jane!” she gasped.

“Your mother did not demure, nor did your sister. She looked surprised but willing to be happy. You have written to her?”

“Yes, yes. But so soon?”

“I am used to getting what I want when I want it, you know. I hope to be bumptious and carry you off with arrogant determination.”

“To Pemberley?”

“I thought perhaps we could go on a tour of the lower counties. Would you like to go to the seashore? Anywhere you like, so long as we are in sufficient proximity to return for your sister’s wedding.

From there, we shall go to Pemberley with the Gardiners and anyone you would like to bring.

I was hoping Mary would agree to go with us because she and Georgiana get on very well.

In any case, I am amenable to your wishes.

Think on it and tell me so that I can make arrangements. ”