Page 33 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

The late afternoon light spread like honey over the quiet lawns of Netherfield, spilling into the gravel paths and slipping between the last leaves that clung stubbornly to the hedges and boughs.

The world was hushed, suspended, as if nature itself had paused to witness what would soon unfold.

There was no wind, no birdsong—only the soft crackle of leaves underfoot and the slow, rhythmic purring of the cat nestled in Elizabeth Bennet’s lap.

She sat on a worn stone bench near the herb garden, shawl drawn loosely over her shoulders, her posture relaxed but her thoughts bright and busy beneath the stillness.

In her lap, Sophocles—fierce guardian of the household—was transformed into a fluffy, purring creature of devotion.

Her fingers moved absently through his fur, though her mind was not on him.

Standing nearby, Fitzwilliam Darcy had never looked more at ease, nor more deeply stirred.

His hands were clasped loosely behind his back as he studied the scene before him: the woman he loved, framed in late sunlight, one brow slightly raised in thought, a curl escaping near her temple, the shadow of a smile tugging at her lips.

She was still, yet the very sight of her stirred something in him that refused stillness—something deep and tender and intense.

“I believe your guardian approves of me,” he said at last, nodding toward the cat with a quiet smile.

Elizabeth looked down at Sophocles, whose eyes were closed in perfect satisfaction. “It would seem so,” she replied. “Though I confess he is not easily impressed.”

“Then I am doubly honoured.” He came closer, his voice lower, more intimate. “But if he had not approved, I would still have risked everything to stand here beside you.”

Her smile faltered—not from displeasure, but from the sudden seriousness in his tone. She looked up at him fully now, her expression softening. The light caught her eyes and made them gleam like morning dew.

“I hoped we might speak,” he said, “before the house fills again, before the ball, before the world comes rushing back in with all its noise and expectation. I wished for a quiet hour with you—not to persuade, not to explain, but to… share something I have carried with me for a long while. And your father was so generous to allow it.”

She nodded once, barely breathing.

Darcy sat beside her—not too close, not too formal, simply present. For a moment, neither spoke. His gaze lingered on the way the late light caught in the soft curve of her cheek, the quiet rise and fall of her breath, the steady hand that rested gently atop the purring cat in her lap.

“There is something I meant to give you,” he said at last, drawing a folded paper from the inside of his coat. “It is not one of the letters you have read—though I am grateful you read the others. This one was written later. The night before I left Pemberley.”

Elizabeth looked at him, curious but silent.

“I had just received word from Bingley. He had learned of Wickham’s presence in Meryton, and something in me—something old and instinctive—feared what that might mean. I packed within the hour. But before I left, I sat down and wrote this.”

He held out the letter, and she took it gently.

“I never sent it,” he continued. “There was no time. And once I arrived, there were no words left to write—only things to be done. But I have kept it with me, because... everything it says is still true.”

She looked down at the envelope in her hands, then back at him.

“Will you read it to me?” she asked softly.

Darcy smiled, a quiet warmth behind his eyes. “No,” he said. “You may keep it and read it later—because I have something more important to say. The letter can wait. What I feel cannot.”

He turned more fully toward her, his voice low and certain.

“I wrote those lines because I could not arrive here without telling those words to you, even if you didn’t receive them.

But standing here beside you now, I find that the words I wrote then no longer suffice.

They belong to yesterday. This—what I say to you now—this belongs to everything that lies ahead. ”

Elizabeth’s eyes shone, full of understanding and a deep, quiet anticipation.

“Read it later, Elizabeth,” he said gently. “Alone, when the house is still. It was written for the woman I love, but it is no longer a confession. It is simply... part of the journey that brought me here.”

Her voice trembled slightly as she replied. “Then I will keep it.”

He looked at her, and something in his chest tightened with such fierce emotion that he could not speak for a moment. But then the words came—simple, clear, and steady.

“I love you, Elizabeth. I loved you even when I did not understand you. I loved you when my pride whispered against it, when the world insisted against it. I love you now, with nothing between us but truth and choice.”

She blinked rapidly, and for a moment, she looked down, unable to meet the full strength of his gaze. But then she lifted her chin, and when she spoke, her voice trembled—but only with joy.

“And I love you, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “So much more than I thought I could. I tried to resist it. I thought it imprudent. Ill- matched. Impossible. But you wrote, and I listened—and now I cannot imagine waking tomorrow without knowing I have your heart.”

Darcy’s hand reached out slowly, as if asking permission before touching her own. When her fingers met his, it was as though something invisible and long-awaited had finally fallen into place.

“I do not deserve you, Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “But I will spend my life trying to be a man who does.”

Elizabeth laughed gently, wiping at one eye with her free hand. “You already are.”

He held her gaze, then released her hand only to kneel—gracefully, reverently—before her. “Elizabeth Bennet, would you do me the infinite honour of becoming my wife?”

The world contracted into that single breathless moment. Her hand came to rest against his cheek, warm and certain.

“Yes, Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she whispered, smiling through tears. “Yes, a thousand times, yes.”

Not loud, not dramatic—but absolute.

Darcy stood, slowly, not releasing her hand. His other hand reached to cup hers between his own, reverently. They stood together beneath the amber sky, the hush of the garden enveloping them.

“I believe,” he said after a pause, glancing down at Sophocles—who, though pretending to sleep, had one eye half-open—“that he approves of my choice at last.”

Elizabeth gave a watery laugh. “He has impeccable taste.”

They did not speak of the ball. They did not speak of London, or Meryton, or any of the troubles that had shadowed the past weeks.

They spoke instead of books they might read together.

Of rooms at Pemberley she had not yet seen.

Of quiet winters, long walks, and shared silences.

Of a future filled not with grand declarations, but with the soft, daily intimacy of two souls who had finally found home in one another.

And Sophocles, thoroughly pleased with the state of affairs, stretched, turned in Elizabeth’s lap, and promptly fell asleep again.

***

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon by the time Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy returned from the garden.

The walk had been quiet, each step echoing with the shared certainty of their future.

At the front door of Longbourn, Elizabeth paused only to kiss Jane’s cheek in passing, whispering, “Wait up for me,” before she and Darcy made their way to the study.

Mr. Bennet was alone, as he often was in the evenings, seated near the fire with a small glass of port and a large book open on his knee.

He looked up, mildly surprised to see them enter together—more surprised still to see the stillness between them, the contentment that spoke of something already decided.

“Sir,” Mr. Darcy began, bowing slightly as they stepped inside. “May I speak with you privately?”

“You may,” Mr. Bennet said, then, glancing at Elizabeth, added with a quirked brow, “though I suspect the lady would prefer to remain.”

Elizabeth smiled. “If you allow it, Papa.”

Mr. Bennet nodded and closed his book. “Very well. Sit, both of you. I have a suspicion I shall not be able to return to my Greek verse after this, in any case.”

Darcy remained standing. His hands were folded in front of him, his posture respectful but unflinching.

“Mr. Bennet,” he said with calm solemnity, “I am here to ask your permission to marry your daughter Elizabeth. She has done me the honour of accepting my proposal, but I would not move forward without your blessing. I give you my word that I love her deeply and will strive always to be worthy of her trust.”

Mr. Bennet leaned back slowly in his chair, regarding the young gentleman before him with thoughtful silence. There was no disapproval in his expression, only the subtle surprise of a father whose suspicions had just become certainties.

“And she returns that feeling?” he asked softly.

Elizabeth answered for herself. “Yes, Papa. Entirely.”

“I see.” He set down his glass, laced his fingers together, and studied them both. “I cannot say I had foreseen this match. But I have seen enough these last weeks to know that your regard is not born of impulse, Mr. Darcy—and that my daughter is not, thank heaven, easily won.”

He stood slowly. “Then you have my blessing.”

And at that precise moment, as if summoned by invisible cues of drama and approval, Sophocles leapt silently from the windowsill onto Darcy’s shoulder, curling his tail with proprietary elegance around the gentleman’s neck. No one had seen him enter.

Darcy startled, then laughed—the sound brief but genuine.

Mr. Bennet blinked at the sight, then gave a long, theatrical sigh. “Well. It seems I can offer no real dowry, Mr. Darcy—only a cat who apparently insists on moral excellence and personally delivers his seal of approval.”

Elizabeth laughed, her cheeks flushed with joy. “He is a creature of taste.”

“He is a tyrant,” Mr. Bennet said dryly, “but one who has chosen well.”

He stepped toward them, extended a hand to Darcy, and shook it firmly. “Welcome to the family, sir.”

***

Ten minutes later, Mr. Bennet entered the drawing room with the same expression he wore when requesting fresh ink—mild, unreadable, and only faintly amused.

The family was gathered: Jane and Mr. Bingley were speaking near the pianoforte, Mary sat stiffly with a hymnal on her knees, Kitty embroidered listlessly by the window, and Lydia was draping a ribbon around her wrist with a sigh of exaggerated boredom.

Mrs. Bennet sat fanning herself near the fire, remarking on how very tiresome gentlemen were when they remained too long in their studies—and how improper it was for supper to be served late.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “My dear Mrs. Bennet, I believe you should sit properly.”

“Why? What is it now?” she asked, already half-rising in alarm. “Has something happened? Are we ruined again? Not that we ever were, I mean.”

“On the contrary,” he replied. “Mr. Darcy has just asked for Elizabeth’s hand in marriage. She has accepted.”

For a moment, no one breathed.

Then—chaos.

Mrs. Bennet gasped, clutched the arm of her chair, staggered halfway to her feet, and dropped back down again, pressing her hand to her chest.

“Mr. Darcy? Our Mr. Darcy? Elizabeth? Oh, good Lord in heaven! I must sit—no, I must stand—Jane! Kitty! Water! No, wine! Oh! Oh, what a day! What a thing has happened in this house!”

She surged upright and clutched Elizabeth, who had just entered, by both shoulders.

“My dear child—my dearest Lizzy! Mr. Darcy of Pemberley! Ten thousand a year—perhaps more—he may very well be richer than Mr. Bingley! And all yours! Oh, my sweetest, most obstinate girl—I always said you would marry well! Always! Oh, Lord, I must lie down—no, I must run and write to my sister Philips this instant! She must hear it from me, not from the Meryton butchers!”

“Better sit, Mama,” said Jane, laughing and guiding her to the nearest chair.

“But I cannot sit—I must prepare! We shall need lace—yards of it—and a new gown for myself, of course. I cannot be seen at Pemberley in anything I own. And think of the wedding breakfast! Oh, heavens, Lizzy, you shall ride in a carriage with four horses! And perhaps Georgiana will be bridesmaid—such a sweet girl—I can hardly wait for the Netherfield ball to meet her! We shall have roses and ribbons and rhubarb tart!”

“Rhubarb?” murmured Kitty, puzzled.

“Everything grand, my love, everything splendid! Oh, and you must write to Aunt Gardiner. Let her rejoice that we marry into families of consequence!”

Elizabeth, flushed and smiling, could only nod as her mother seized one of her hands in both of hers and began to weep dramatically into a lace-trimmed handkerchief.

“To think I once called him proud—proud! And now, our son! I shall call him Fitzwilliam! Oh, how grand that sounds! I must learn to curtsy lower. And you shall have balls at Pemberley—and perhaps a fountain—and a portrait! There must be a portrait, Elizabeth! And a pianoforte in every room! No—every two rooms!”

Mr. Bingley—who had shaken Mr. Darcy’s hand with boyish enthusiasm—now stood beside Jane, watching the scene with a dazed sort of delight.

Lydia, who had remained uncharacteristically silent until now, finally burst out, “But Lizzy never even flirted with him! I never saw it coming.”

Mary cleared her throat and said with serene gravity, “The worthiest unions are often silent in their growth and rooted in the exchange of minds.”

No one listened to her.

Mrs. Bennet, now pacing in triumphant circles, dabbed at her forehead.

“Mr. Bennet! Are you listening? We shall be connected to Derbyshire! To Pemberley! To ten thousand a year! I must find my smelling salts. I am quite overcome with joy. I knew it would happen—I said so from the beginning, did I not? I always said Lizzy had spirit. Such a girl deserves a prince—though Mr. Darcy will do nicely!”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Bennet from behind his hand, barely restraining a laugh. “It is a rare thing to see my wife so happy without a single bottle of Madeira.”

Sofocles, unbothered by the noise, leapt onto the windowsill and gave Elizabeth a slow, regal blink. The household would shout and dance and dream all through supper—but he had known the outcome all along.

And so, with a cat on her lap, a letter in her pocket, and the man she loved by her side, Elizabeth Bennet stepped into a future she had once thought impossible—one built not of pride or prejudice, but of understanding, affection, and the gentlest kind of joy.

THE END