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Longbourn – Sitting Room – Elizabeth

E lizabeth stood near the window, absently fingering the trim of the curtain.

The morning was brisk and bright, the kind of clear December light that made even bare branches look etched in silver.

Below, the garden lay still. She could hear Kitty moving about in the chamber overhead, the creak of floorboards above giving rhythm to her thoughts.

The sound of Jane’s gentle breathing, a quiet reminder of her presence across the room, had helped, as had their soft conversation in the dark - but sleep had been elusive. Elizabeth’s thoughts had spun between recollections and half-formed hopes.

She was still standing there, heart restless, when Kitty’s voice rang out above her.

“Lizzy! He’s coming!”

Elizabeth startled, her hand tightening on the curtain. She did not need to ask who he was.

In seconds she had crossed the room and slipped into the hallway, with deliberate care - not because of her ankle, though it still ached faintly in the cold - but because her heart was racing far too quickly for any decorum.

She reached the front hall just as Hill was opening the door. Mr Darcy stood on the step, hat in hand. The pale winter sunlight caught the line of his cheek, the dark of his coat, the gleam of purpose in his eyes.

Elizabeth’s breath caught.

“Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

He bowed. “Miss Elizabeth. Might I speak with you?”

Elizabeth nodded, her pulse roaring in her ears. “Of course. The garden is very fine just now, if you do not mind the cold.”

“I do not.”

She reached for her shawl as he waited. Together they stepped out into the morning.

The cold air bit faintly at her cheeks, but Elizabeth barely noticed it. They walked side by side along the gravel path, shoes crunching softly, frost glittering on the last brown-edged leaves.

Mr Darcy said nothing at first, his hands clasped behind his back, head slightly bowed as if searching for the right words.

Elizabeth’s breath clouded before her. Her hand tightened on the shawl.

At last, he turned to her.

“I fear,” he said slowly, “that I can no longer claim to be patient.”

Her breath caught.

“I know you asked for time,” he continued. “And I have tried to give it - truly I have. But after these days… and after yesterday…”

He stopped, searching her face.

“I must speak plainly. Unless you forbid it, I must tell you what I feel.”

Elizabeth’s lips parted, but no sound emerged.

Darcy stepped closer, careful, reverent. “I love you. Most ardently and passionately. I respect you beyond all measure. And I would be honoured - beyond anything I ever thought possible - if you would consent to be my wife.”

The words fell with clarity, without hesitation - yet not without vulnerability.

Elizabeth’s throat tightened - and then, to her own surprise, she laughed, quiet and breathless.

“I was going to tell you,” she said, lifting her eyes to his. “I had been planning it since last night - how I no longer needed time, how I knew what I wanted.”

He stilled.

“I meant to speak first,” she added, a spark of mischief in her tone. “But you, as always, insisted on being terribly honourable and have beaten me to it.”

She stepped closer, her voice softening. “Yes, Mr Darcy. Most ardently, most impatiently - yes.”

A breath escaped him - not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh - and he reached for her hand, drawing it gently into his.

There was a moment of stillness, and then - with careful, reverent certainty - he bent and kissed her.

The world narrowed to the pressure of his lips against hers, warm and steady despite the morning chill. His hands framed her face with such care it nearly undid her.

Her heart surged, a wild, impossible joy blooming in her chest. She had never been kissed before - not like this, not with reverence and promise and such aching tenderness.

“You really are very determined,” she murmured, her voice unsteady but light.

He answered against her brow, “Only where you are concerned.”

The cold nipped at her cheeks - or perhaps it was not the cold at all.

Mr Darcy drew back just enough to see her clearly, his expression softening as he studied her.

“You’re blushing,” he said, low and admiring. “It suits you.”

Elizabeth gave a breathless laugh and looked down, only for him to gently tilt her chin back up with a gloved finger.

“I did not mean to embarrass you.”

“You have not,” she said, though her voice trembled slightly. “At least, not more than I have already embarrassed myself.”

“In what way?” he asked, puzzled.

Her lips curved. “By nearly running to the door. By being so very obvious. By letting you speak first when I meant to-”

He cut her off with a quiet smile. “I would not trade a moment of it.”

Their eyes met again, and something in his gaze made her heart catch - not only the depth of feeling, but the steadiness of it. She had never been so seen. So known.

She drew in a breath, then touched the edge of his lapel. “We should go back soon, before someone comes looking.”

He did not move. “A few more moments.”

She relented at once.

They stood there as the mist shifted faintly over the fields, the garden quiet around them save for the rustle of the breeze.

Elizabeth glanced up at him again, her cheeks still warm, her heart still racing. “You really meant it?”

He nodded, eyes searching hers. “Every word.”

She smiled then - wide and unguarded. “Then so did I.”

Mr Darcy looked at her for one long moment more, then leaned in again - slower this time, more deliberate. Elizabeth’s breath caught as her eyes fluttered shut, her heart a wild, joyful rhythm.

The second kiss was deeper. There was no hesitation, only reverence and quiet intensity. One of his hands came to rest at her waist, the other rising - not quite touching her face, as though he dared not yet - but hovering, tense with held-in desire.

Elizabeth leaned into him, her fingers curling instinctively at the front of his coat. He was warm beneath her hands, and solid, and his scent wrapped around her - linen and leather and a hint of the cold air, and something else she could not name but already knew she would crave.

The kiss deepened again, and her pulse surged - and suddenly, Mr Darcy broke away.

He stepped back with visible effort, his chest rising with unsteady breaths, gaze averted.

Elizabeth stood very still, her lips parted, her cheeks aflame.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice rough-edged. “I… forgot myself.”

Elizabeth swallowed, warmth thrumming in her blood. “I did not mind,” she said softly, though her colour betrayed her.

Mr Darcy met her gaze then, and something in his expression made her heart trip again - that look of reverent awe, as though he could scarcely believe she was real.

“You are flushed,” he murmured, unable to stop himself from smiling .

“So are you,” she replied, the corners of her mouth tilting despite herself.

He laughed then, low and quiet, and took her hand gently in his. “I should like to walk a little farther,” he said. “Unless you need to return?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No. A few more minutes.”

They turned together down the path, arm in arm, their shoulders brushing now and then. The world seemed hushed, as if it too were holding its breath.

Elizabeth said nothing more - but as they walked, her heart danced with a thought she dared not speak aloud:

It boded very well indeed.

By the time they returned to the house, Elizabeth’s cheeks were pink from the cold - and from more than the cold - though she did her best to compose herself as they stepped into the hall. Hill’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly, but she said nothing beyond offering to take Mr Darcy’s coat.

From the drawing room came the low hum of conversation and the unmistakable sound of Jane’s laugh - soft, warm, and unmistakably happy.

Bingley was already inside, seated with Jane near the hearth. He looked up at their entrance and smiled broadly. “Ah! There you are. I was beginning to think Darcy had waylaid you into a philosophical ramble through the hedgerows.”

Mr Darcy only inclined his head, but there was a subtle warmth in his eyes as he replied, “Something like that.”

Jane’s smile deepened. She stood to greet her sister, a knowing look exchanged between them in a single glance. Elizabeth, acutely aware of the warmth still in her cheeks, managed a composed nod to her sister as she crossed to her chair.

Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley sat with them above an hour, and were both in remarkably good spirits. Though Mr Darcy’s conversation remained proper and composed, there was a lightness in his manner Elizabeth had not seen before - and perhaps, a shared understanding in every glance exchanged between them.

Before the hour was out, Mrs Bennet with Lydia returned from their errand to Meryton and was delighted to find the gentlemen at Longbourn. She declared it a most fortunate occurrence and insisted - with what she imagined was artful casualness - that they must stay to dine.

Mr Bingley accepted at once, and Mr Darcy, after a brief glance at Elizabeth, did the same.

Elizabeth’s heart lifted - even as she carefully masked it behind a composed smile. Jane met her eyes for a moment, and Elizabeth read the same awareness there - quiet joy, and something like disbelief that it was all truly happening.

Mrs Bennet, now in high colour and high spirits, fluttered about the drawing room, calling instructions to Hill for extra place settings and pressing Lydia to help find her best table linen - though Lydia, still breathless from the walk back from Meryton, had yet to remove her bonnet.

Kitty trailed after them with half-hearted interest, but Elizabeth remained seated, hands folded in her lap, heart still racing.

She had not let go of the moment. Not entirely. It clung to her like the memory of a dream - vivid, breathless, impossible.