Page 54

Mr Darcy sat across the room now, in quiet conversation with Mr Bingley and Mr Bennet. His expression was composed, his voice low - but now and then, his gaze flicked back to her, and in those fleeting glances, Elizabeth felt the truth of it all over again.

He loved her.

And she had said yes.

The reality of it settled around her like a warm shawl - slightly too large, slightly too unfamiliar, but welcome all the same .

Jane, ever calm and composed, slid into the seat beside her with a quiet smile. “You seem very quiet,” she murmured.

Elizabeth glanced at her sister, unable to hide the smile that curved her lips. “Do I?”

Jane tilted her head. “You do. Though not unhappy.”

“No,” Elizabeth whispered. “Not unhappy.”

Their gazes met, and Elizabeth gave the slightest of nods. Jane’s hand reached for hers and gave it a gentle, wordless squeeze.

The moment did not last long. Mrs Bennet swept back into the room, followed closely by Hill bearing a tea tray. “Jane, Lizzy - help me serve, will you? The gentlemen must be kept comfortable!”

Elizabeth rose, grateful for the movement, and helped her mother pour out cups of tea and offer slices of cake with practised ease.

Mr Bingley accepted his with bright cheer, and Mr Darcy, when Elizabeth offered his, bowed his head and murmured his thanks - his fingers brushing hers ever so lightly as he took the cup.

The touch sparked through her like a secret.

Mrs Bennet, for her part, was nearly giddy with delight. “Such a happy accident!” she kept repeating. “And on such a fine day too. Why, it must be a good omen!”

Elizabeth caught Mr Darcy’s eye then, and for a moment they shared an expression of mutual endurance. It was not quite amusement, not quite affection - something in between, stitched with familiarity.

The afternoon passed with unusual swiftness.

Mr Bingley remained animated and attentive, his conversation bouncing easily between Mr Bennet and Jane.

Mr Darcy, though quieter, joined in with more ease than Elizabeth had ever seen from him before.

There was a lightness to his manner, a comfort - as though, now that the hardest part was past, he could begin to let the rest of it unfold.

Dinner that evening passed in a strange kind of dreamlike ease.

The table was bright with candlelight, the silver gleamed, and even Mrs Bennet had managed to rein in her enthusiasm to a tolerable hum.

She did not mention weddings. She did not call Elizabeth over to arrange flowers or fuss over Mr Bingley’s chair.

She merely beamed and offered second helpings with fluttering satisfaction.

Mr Darcy, seated beside Elizabeth, was composed but watchful - she could feel it in every pause, every glance, every deliberate act of care.

His voice was low and steady, his answers considered.

He spoke mostly with Mr Bennet, who seemed in a droll mood and took great interest in recounting the misadventures of their latest tenant.

Mr Darcy listened with that intense attention that always struck Elizabeth as both formidable and flattering - though now, she suspected, it warmed her father as well.

Across the table, Mr Bingley laughed freely, his ease restored. Jane, glowing quietly, hardly took her eyes off him.

It all felt oddly normal - and impossibly not.

When the meal ended and the ladies rose, Elizabeth hesitated for a fraction of a second. She could feel Mr Darcy’s gaze even before she looked at him. Her fingers brushed the back of her chair as she rose - no longer unsteady, but aware.

He stood with the other gentlemen, silent as the room shifted around them. As Elizabeth followed Jane and the others from the room, her hand at her side, she felt a whisper of warmth where his had rested not long before.

In the drawing room, the conversation resumed - not lively, but pleasant. Kitty talked about ribbons; Mary read a passage aloud with minimal prompting. Lydia was unusually quiet, perhaps still worn from her exertions earlier, or perhaps calculating something about the ball. Elizabeth could not say.

She was not attending closely to any of them. Her ears were trained on the soft murmur of voices from the dining room, where the gentlemen remained.

Her eyes strayed again and again to the doorway.

He would come soon. He must.

She folded her hands tightly in her lap and waited.

At last, the door opened and the gentlemen returned.

Elizabeth looked up immediately. Mr Darcy followed Mr Bingley into the room, composed and attentive. Their eyes met across the distance, and though no one else might have noticed, she saw it - the softening at the corner of his mouth, the quiet question in his gaze.

She gave the smallest nod. Yes.

Mr Bingley went directly to Jane, as if no time had passed at all. Darcy lingered near the fire, speaking a few words to Mr Bennet before his gaze returned to her.

A few minutes later, as Mary closed her book and the room’s energy settled into a softer quiet, Mr Darcy approached.

“If it would not trouble you,” he said quietly, “might I request a piece?”

Elizabeth looked up from her chair near the pianoforte, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “You wish to hear me play?”

He nodded once. “Very much.”

She smiled, rising at once. “You must know I am not accomplished.”

“Then I must disagree with you twice over,” he said, and offered his arm to guide her to the instrument.

She took it, her fingers resting lightly at his sleeve. They said nothing more as she seated herself. He sat beside her, close but careful not to crowd - and he could see her hands on the keys.

Elizabeth began to play a gentle piece, something familiar and light. Her fingers moved easily, the melody low and steady, a thread of calm winding through the evening.

Mr Darcy sat quietly for a moment, watching. Then, as her hands moved through a particularly delicate passage, he said, low enough that only she could hear, “Your father gave his consent.”

Her hands faltered just slightly before she recovered.

“I gathered as much,” she murmured, still playing. “You returned looking far too composed for a man turned away.”

He let out a soft breath of laughter. “You must promise never to frighten me like that again. After you asked for time.”

Elizabeth’s fingers continued without hesitation. “You were not frightened.”

“I assure you, I was.”

She glanced sideways at him - and he was smiling.

“So,” she said after a moment, her tone light but her heart full, “we are engaged.”

“We are.”

She let the final chord linger before lifting her hands from the keys. “Well,” she said, voice soft, “it feels very much like the beginning of something.”

“It is,” he said, rising slowly to stand beside her.

There was a pause - not heavy, but full. She looked up at him, and he reached down, his fingers brushing hers lightly.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For making me the happiest man alive.”

Elizabeth laughed softly, her cheeks warm.

Before they could speak again, Mrs Bennet’s voice rose from across the room - asking something about second helpings or the state of the pudding - and the spell was gently broken.

Mr Bingley checked his watch and stood. “We should go,” he said, with clear reluctance. “The air is already turning.”

Mr Darcy inclined his head, though his gaze remained on Elizabeth.

Jane walked them both to the door, and Elizabeth followed a moment later. Hill brought their coats, and the usual courtesies were exchanged.

But before Darcy turned to leave, he caught her hand once more. He did not raise it to his lips - not here, not now - but his thumb brushed over her knuckles with quiet affection.

“Until tomorrow,” he said.

Elizabeth met his gaze, her smile answering his. “Until tomorrow.”

They stepped out into the night. The door closed behind them.

And Elizabeth, standing just inside the threshold, felt the warmth of that final touch still lingering in her hand - the shape of a future beginning to form.

As soon as the door closed behind the gentlemen and Hill had seen them off with her usual efficiency, Mrs Bennet turned from the window with an expression of undisguised triumph.

“Well!” she declared, clapping her hands together. “I cannot imagine a more successful morning. Did you see the way Mr Bingley looked at Jane? And Mr Darcy-! So very attentive! I declare, he barely took his eyes off you, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth, still standing near the hearth, glanced at Jane. Her sister’s cheeks were pink, her eyes bright with quiet delight. Bingley had indeed seemed entirely wrapped up in Jane, and Jane - Jane had not tried to hide her happiness.

“I thought he looked remarkably well,” Mrs Bennet continued, bustling toward the tea tray. “Quite improved since the last time, though I always said he was a fine-looking man, if a little too serious. But now? Positively glowing. And such manners!”

Kitty giggled. Lydia, who had returned from Meryton in high spirits but found little interest in the domestic scene, made a vague noise and wandered off toward the staircase.

Elizabeth sat, hands folded in her lap, trying not to look as though she were listening too closely.

“And he is staying to dinner,” Mrs Bennet said pointedly, pouring herself another cup of tea. “You mark my words, Lizzy - if he does not propose before the year is out, I shall be amazed.”

Elizabeth’s fingers curled faintly around the fabric of her skirt.

She ought to feel mortified. She ought to hush her mother, or roll her eyes, or retreat behind a book. But instead, she found herself smiling - small, secret, irrepressible.

If he does not propose…?

He already had.

Not before the year was out, but before the morning was.

Jane caught her gaze and gave a knowing look - warm, steady, and just amused enough to ease the thrill rising in Elizabeth’s chest.