“Bingley, you have called at Longbourn a dozen times without requiring support.”
“This is different.” Bingley ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in wild tufts. “This time I mean to—that is—if the opportunity presents itself—” He stopped, took a breath, and met Darcy's eyes with surprising steadiness. “I will ask for Miss Bennet’s hand.”
Darcy's heart clenched.
Going to Longbourn meant seeing Miss Elizabeth. Meant facing her before he had properly prepared his words, before he had rehearsed what to say about Wickham, before he had steeled himself against the force of her presence.
But he could not refuse Bingley. Not when his friend stood before him with hope and terror warring in his expression, asking for support in the most important moment of his life.
“Very well,” Darcy said. “I will come.”
Bingley's face split into a relieved grin. “Excellent! We leave immediately.”
They rode through the frosty fields in companionable silence, the horses' breath fogging in the cold air. The countryside glittered with winter's harsh beauty—bare trees etched against a pale sky, frost-covered hedgerows, the distant spire of Meryton's church catching the weak December sun.
As they traveled, Bingley asked the question Darcy had been expecting.
“Do you truly approve? Of my intentions toward Miss Bennet?”
Darcy considered his answer carefully. A month ago, he would have counseled caution. Would have pointed out the deficiencies of the Bennet family, the dangers of an unequal match, the importance of considering all factors before committing one's heart.
Now, watching his friend's earnest hope, remembering Jane Bennet's gentle grace and obvious devotion, he found he had no reservations left to voice.
“Bingley,” he said, “I believe you could not make a better choice.”
Bingley beamed as though Darcy had handed him the sun.
They arrived at Longbourn to find the household in its usual state of cheerful chaos. Mrs. Bennet greeted them with enthusiasm that bordered on hysteria, ushering them into the sitting room with a stream of observations about the weather, the roads, the excellence of their coats, and the certainty that they must be famished after their ride.
Darcy endured it with what patience he could muster. His attention was fixed on the doorway, waiting for Miss Elizabeth to appear.
She did not.
Bingley requested a private word with Jane, and Mrs. Bennet—displaying a tactical awareness Darcy had not credited her with—immediately cleared the room of younger sisters, leaving Bingley and Jane alone on the pretense of fetching tea.
Darcy found himself stranded in the front parlor with Mrs. Bennet, who attempted to engage him in conversation about carriage horses and Christmas puddings. He responded withmonosyllables, his ears straining for any sound from the hallway.
And then he heard her voice.
Soft, musical, coming from somewhere deeper in the house. His pulse jumped.
Footsteps approached. The door opened.
Miss Elizabeth entered just as Bingley and Jane rejoined the gathering, their expressions radiant with barely contained joy. They had not made any announcement—not yet—but their happiness was evident to anyone with eyes.
Darcy barely noticed.
His attention was fixed entirely on Miss Elizabeth.
She wore a simple morning dress, her hair pinned loosely, her cheeks flushed from whatever task had occupied her. She looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful. But today there was something different in her expression—a warmth, an openness, that made his breath catch.
She saw him and smiled.
Darcy rose automatically, the movement so instinctive he did not realize he had done it until he was already standing.
“Mr. Darcy.” Her voice was warm. Warmer than any previous moment between them. “I did not expect to see you today.”
“Bingley wished to call. I—” He stopped, painfully aware of how inadequate his words were. “I am glad to see you well.”
