Page 55

Longbourn – Breakfast Room - Elizabeth

T he breakfast room was unusually quiet.

Perhaps it was the clear December light spilling through the windows, or perhaps it was the residual calm left by the previous day’s unexpected harmony - but even Lydia seemed subdued, stirring her tea with unusual thoughtfulness.

Only the steady clink of cutlery and the occasional murmur disturbed the peace.

Elizabeth, seated beside Jane, felt her thoughts drifting once more to the garden, to the frosted path and the quiet joy of yesterday’s walk. Her hand curled slightly at the memory of his - gloved, warm, reverent - brushing hers.

Then Hill entered with the morning letters.

“There is one for you, Miss Elizabeth,” she said, placing the sealed note carefully beside her plate.

Elizabeth blinked, then recognised the handwriting. Her heart gave a traitorous leap.

She had seen that hand before - firm, precise, and slightly slanted - in the margins of books left open in Mr Darcy’s room at Netherfield, when she had been recovering there. Notes written in a mind sharpened by reflection, always in pencil. Somehow she had known, even then, whose hand it was.

Jane’s eyes widened slightly. Across the table, Mr Bennet looked up from his newspaper with mild interest - which sharpened considerably as he noted the seal.

“Well, well,” he said. “Recognised the hand, did you?”

Elizabeth’s fingers trembled slightly as she broke the seal, but she said nothing. The room hushed as she unfolded the paper - though Lydia leaned conspicuously, trying to read over her shoulder until Kitty elbowed her back into place.

Elizabeth read quickly, her cheeks flushing.

Mrs Bennet, eyes narrowed with curiosity, could contain herself no longer. “Well, Lizzy? Who is it from?”

Mr Bennet set down his teacup with deliberate care. “It is from Mr Darcy,” he said, voice droll. “And before anyone faints or drops their toast, I may as well tell you now: he has asked for Lizzy’s hand - and I have given my consent.”

The room erupted.

Mrs Bennet gave a cry of delight that nearly startled Mary into spilling her tea. “My dearest girl!” she cried, half-rising from her chair. “To be mistress of Pemberley! Oh, I knew it - I always said it - such a noble man, such a fortune! Oh, Lizzy-!”

Kitty squealed. Lydia gasped, then scoffed. “And you did not tell us? I should have known something was going on - you have been mooning about for days!”

Mary, recovering her composure, offered solemnly, “A prudent alliance is the foundation of female security. I trust, Lizzy, that you will conduct yourself accordingly.”

Elizabeth could not speak at first - only glanced at Jane, whose eyes were bright with quiet happiness. Jane reached for her hand beneath the table, and Elizabeth squeezed it with trembling fingers.

Mr Bennet, still seated, looked at his second daughter with an unreadable expression. “He wrote to you, then?” he said, voice quieter now.

Elizabeth nodded, lowering the letter slightly. “Yes, Papa.”

He nodded once. “Then I believe I shall send for a bottle of the good port tonight.”

Mrs Bennet dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her emotion rapidly shifting into action.

“Hill! Where is Hill? We must send word to Meryton! And Pemberley - I must find the map. Lizzy, you will have to learn to order a proper household - not that you have done so badly here, but everything must be improved! I knew it would happen from the moment I saw how he looked at you in church-”

Elizabeth turned again to Jane, a quiet laugh escaping despite herself.

“May I read it?” Jane asked softly.

Elizabeth nodded and passed her the letter, trying not to smile too obviously as her mother continued to issue declarations and instructions across the table.

And so the day began - not with pomp or fanfare, but with a letter passed over tea and toast, and an entire future quietly set into motion.

A rap at the front door sounded not long after the table had been cleared. Elizabeth, still lingering in the breakfast room with Jane, looked up sharply.

The sound of Hill’s brisk footsteps crossing the hall was followed by muffled voices - and then the soft creak of hinges as the door opened wider.

“Miss Elizabeth?” Hill reappeared, slightly breathless. “Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley are arrived - the carriage is waiting.”

Jane flushed, her hands stilling on the linen she had been folding. Elizabeth’s heart gave a curious flutter - not nerves, exactly, but something quieter and steadier, like the feeling just before stepping into sunlight.

Mrs Bennet’s voice rang out from the drawing room. “The carriage? Oh, gracious - Hill! Fetch Lizzy’s best bonnet! And her gloves - the pearl-coloured ones, not the plain! She must look presentable , she is to be mistress of Pemberley!”

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, smiling despite herself.

“Lizzy, do not dawdle!” her mother called again. “Lord knows what a man like Mr Darcy is used to - everything polished and perfect. You should have worn your blue gown, but that’s not time to change it now. Oh, I do hope the roads are not too rough. Hill! Tell them to send word if the horses slip!”

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a look that was equal parts amusement and exasperation.

“I suppose it begins,” Elizabeth murmured.

Jane smiled, adjusting Elizabeth’s cloak with gentle hands. “You look lovely. He will think so too.”

Within minutes, they were in the hall, cloaked and gloved, the morning air crisp as they stepped outside. The barouche waited at the edge of the gravel sweep, its polished panels gleaming despite the grey morning, the horses stamping gently in the chill.

Mr Darcy stepped down as they approached. His hat was in his hand, and he inclined his head in a motion that might have seemed stiff from another man - but Elizabeth saw the warmth in his eyes.

“Miss Bennet. Elizabeth.”

“Mr Darcy,” Jane said with a polite curtsy, while Elizabeth offered him a smile that lingered at the edges of her mouth.

Mr Bingley arrived beside him a moment later, visibly delighted, though with the slightly dazed air of a man whose dreams had not only come true, but arrived punctually and asked him to step inside.

“Ladies! A fine morning for a drive, is it not? The roads are a bit icy, but the view from Mount Oak is quite something in winter.”

Elizabeth could not help a small laugh. “Have you been already, Mr Bingley?”

“No - Darcy suggested it. He said…” He paused, suddenly uncertain.

Mr Darcy’s gaze met hers, steady and unreadable. “I thought you might like the view.”

Elizabeth felt the breath catch in her throat, but she nodded, her fingers tightening slightly around her reticule.

They climbed into the carriage - Jane and Mr Bingley on one side, Mr Darcy and Elizabeth on the other. It was, Elizabeth thought, just the sort of arrangement her mother would have loudly protested - had she not been too overwhelmed with joy to remember to chaperone them properly.

As the carriage pulled away, its wheels crunching over the gravel, Elizabeth glanced out at the hedgerows limned in frost, the fields silvered with morning light - and then turned back to find Mr Darcy watching her.

Inside the barouche, the cold was held at bay by thick lap blankets and the faint heat of warming bricks tucked beneath their feet. A flask had been thoughtfully packed - hot chocolate, rich and spiced - which Mr Bingley had cheerfully handed round before they set off.

Elizabeth cradled the small tin cup in gloved hands, its warmth seeping through the wool. The wind bit at her cheeks, but she did not mind.

Mr Darcy sat beside her, his coat brushed with frost from the morning air. His gloved hand rested on the seat between them - not quite touching hers, but near enough to feel.

“I liked your letter,” she said quietly .

He turned at once. “I hoped you would.”

She glanced at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You used my name.”

Mr Darcy’s voice was low. “I could scarcely bring myself not to. It has been… difficult, not to say it.”

“You may now. I give you leave.”

“Then I shall not waste it. Elizabeth.”

He said it like a vow.

She looked down, breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Her fingers shifted slightly beneath the blanket, brushing his.

Outside, the fields rolled on beneath the pale sky, and the high crest of Mount Oak began to rise ahead.

The carriage slowed as the road climbed, wheels crunching over a thin crust of frost. Mount Oak was not high, but it rose gently above the surrounding countryside, offering a view that stretched far across the pale fields and hedgerows below.

They halted near a low copse, where the trees stood bare and black against the sky. A narrow path led to a rise just beyond.

Mr Darcy stepped down first and turned to assist Elizabeth. His hand closed around hers, firm and steady.

She hesitated. The ground was uneven, and though the worst of her injury was behind her, she had not yet stood unaided on unfamiliar ground.

Mr Darcy did not speak - only offered his other arm and waited.

With a breath, she let him guide her down. He braced her gently as her boots touched the earth, and kept her steady as she found her footing.

“Will you walk with me?” he asked softly.

Elizabeth nodded. “If you do not mind the pace.”

“I will match it. ”

Behind them, Mr Bingley was offering his arm to Jane, already launching into a cheerful speculation about snow before Christmas.

The path was edged with frost and carpeted in old leaves. Mr Darcy adjusted his stride without being asked, his hand at her waist just firm enough to steady, never pressing.

When they reached the crest, they paused. The view stretched open before them - wide, still, and untouched - a world without ceilings or corners.

“I thought you might want to be out,” Mr Darcy said. “You have been… too long indoors.”

Elizabeth turned toward him, caught between laughter and tears.