“That is, if she accepts me,” Darcy pointed out. He was more nervous than ever at the thought of asking for her hand. While he had been reading, days had passed since Elizabeth had made her confession. Had she taken his silence for judgment of the worst kind? “It is my hope that she will forgive my being an utter dolt. I did not realise the depth of my prejudice until I read her books.”
“And I did not realise my stupidity until then, either. Mr Wickham was to blame for many things when it came to the incident at Ramsgate. But I was so naive. More than that — so purposefully blinded. I did not want to see the truth that was staring right at me from Mr Wickham’s eyes.” Georgiana hung her head. “I was so desperate to find love that I nearly gave up my family for him.”
“But you did not.”
“Only because you came and rescued me.” Georgiana said. “And despite my mistakes and weaknesses, Elizabeth’s books have shown me that no one is beyond redemption.”
“I am not so sure about Wickham,” Darcy replied.
“It is up to Mr Wickham whether he repents and changes his ways. It is not my job in life to see that he does or does not. But I hope he does, someday.”
Darcy was stunned by his sister’s ability to forgive. He was not sure he was ready to be so magnanimous.
But there was no need to dwell on the subject. “Wish me luck, Georgiana. I have never asked a woman to marry me before.”
“I should hope not!” Georgiana exclaimed, laughing. Suddenly, she pinned him with a knowing stare. “You are not nervous, are you?”
“How could I not be?” Darcy said. “The entire course of our lives will depend on her answer. And I could not blame her for being angry with me. I have kept her waiting all these days while I have been reading her books. Who am I to say that she should forgive me so quickly?”
Georgiana smiled and took his hand. “Do not worry. If I know Elizabeth at all, and I am sure I do, she would never let petty anger get in the way of true love.”
Chapter 29
Elizabeth threw her quill down with a loud sigh of exasperation. The words simply would not come.
She turned around on the stool pulled up before the little vanity-turned-writing-desk, smiling wryly at the room around her. Perhaps it was no wonder she could not write in so small a space — not to mention so loud a cottage. Lydia’s voice could be heard even through the closed door, giggling with Kitty over their most recent glimpse of the militiamen. Jane was as considerate of her writing as anyone well could be, but it was her room, too, and in the absence of any other private space in the cottage, she could not always leave it for Elizabeth’s sole use. Then there was her mother’s fretting and matchmaking — and her suggestions that, with the new printing of her novel or at least when the next was published, they ought to move into a house as large and grand as dear old Longbourn.
Perhaps it would be best for everyone if she returned to London. With the renovation of the house on Gracechurch Street complete, the Gardiners’ home was made even a little larger and finer than it had been before. She could once again have her own bedroom, quiet and homey, in which to write. All at the cottage would benefit from sharing the space among five women instead of six, and she would gain blessed privacy in which to nurseher heartbreak. Meryton was the place she had told Mr Darcy everything, the last place they would ever meet as friends, and for that, she could not forgive it. No wonder she could not seem to write so much as a page.
There was a chance, of course, that London would fix none of her problems. She might very well be stuck with writer’s block for the rest of her life, wondering what might have been between her and Mr Darcy, in another life. If he could have forgiven her, or if she had been brave enough to tell him sooner. If her father were alive, so that she had never needed to have a secret life at all.
But that was foolishness and would come to nothing. If Mr Darcy had wished to see her again after her confession, surely he would have done so. Days had passed without even the slightest word. He had spared her his recriminations, it seemed, only to sentence her to a silence still more awful.
Elizabeth bit her lip. How could she blame him, after all her lies? Painful as it was, she deserved it.
“Such melancholy thoughts do no one any good,” Elizabeth reproached herself aloud. “I will be sensible. I will find a way to go on.”
With that, she stood up from the desk decisively. For once, she was at home alone. Her mother and sisters had gone to Meryton to visit her Aunt Phillips. Elizabeth, though invited to go likewise, had intended to take advantage of precious quiet time to write.
Thathad certainly proved less successful than she had hoped. Elizabeth sat back down and plopped her head into her hand, looking at the meagre scribbling of ideas she had compiled for her next book. She had a good idea now of what her readerswanted. Even so, inspiration eluded her. Would she be doomed to write the same hero again and again, in the image of Mr Darcy? Her readers would no doubt get bored with her and move on to the next young, bright author. And then her family would be destitute, forced to give up the cottage and live with her uncles, as a burden.
She let out a frustrated sigh and put her quill down again, getting up to pace at the foot of the bed her mother and Jane shared. “Forget him!” she said aloud to herself. “There is nothing to be done! You must not let your heart run away with your good sense!”
For fully a quarter-hour, she tried to convince herself of the benefits of what had happened. She would not have to live in fear of her secret coming to light, for it was already known. Mr Darcy certainly could not accuse her of cowardice. She had done what she knew was right and told him the truth. If he could not bear up under that truth, that was no fault of hers.
And still, her heart throbbed with a dull ache. She sat back down and buried her face in her hands. “What am I to do?” she whispered aloud.
A second later, a voice sounded behind her, startling her so much that she nearly upended the chair she had been sitting in and would have landed on her backside if she had not gripped the edge of the vanity. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”
“Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth breathed, hating the desperation in her voice. She gripped the edge of the vanity to keep herself upright. “What are you doing here?”
“Your cook let me in,” he explained, looking rather ill at ease. “Please forgive me for the intrusion. I saw no one insideand walked on until I found you. I wonder if you might allow me a private audience?”
“Well, as there is no one else in the house, that can be arranged,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Although perhaps we might go down to the little parlour?”
“Of course,” he said, and stepped back, allowing her to lead the way. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. What did he have to say? Her heart soared with hope, but Elizabeth forced herself to remain calm. Perhaps he had come to give her a tongue-lashing before leaving forever. If he could not stand to be in the same county as her, she could hardly blame him. Elizabeth took a steadying breath as they entered the drawing room and turned to motion for him to take a seat. “Please,” she invited. “Shall I call for some tea?”
“This will be brief,” he said, as solemn as she had ever seen him.
