“Because of it. It proves you are real, Elizabeth, not a fever-dream I conjured during my illness.”
His words reminded her of their time at Netherfield—the long hours of nursing, the moments of vulnerability as fever stripped away his reserve, and the growing connection that had taken root during those quiet nights. How far they had come since then.
A thought occurred to her, and she reached into her pocket, withdrawing Lady Catherine’s envelope. “I believe this constitutes my dowry. Provided by your aunt, no less. Not the ten thousand pounds she might consider appropriate for the mistress of Pemberley, but a start nonetheless.”
Darcy’s eyes widened momentarily before understanding dawned. A slow smile spread across his features—not the polite, restrained expression he showed to society, but something warmer, more intimate, shared only with her.
“Lady Catherine would be mortified,” he observed drily.
“Precisely.” Elizabeth turned the envelope in her hands, considering its contents. “Though I confess, I feel a certainpoetic justice in the arrangement. She sought to remove me from your life, and instead provided the means for me to enter it more fully.”
“Keep it,” Darcy said firmly. “Consider it a wedding gift from Lady Catherine, though she may not recognize it as such.”
The thought of Lady Catherine’s face should she ever discover the true fate of her money brought a fresh giggle of mischief. “How generous of her. Perhaps we should invite her to the wedding.”
“Perhaps we should elope to Gretna Green ourselves,” Darcy countered, only half in jest. “It would serve her right.”
The suggestion startled another laugh from Elizabeth. The thought of dignified, proper Mr. Darcy eloping like a character in a sensational novel was absurd—and yet, he had just proposed to her in a muddy carriage after fighting Wickham with a walking stick. Perhaps he was not as predictable as she had once believed.
“Can you imagine my mother’s distress? To be deprived of the satisfaction of planning a wedding? It would be cruelty indeed.”
“A valid consideration,” Darcy conceded, though the gleam in his eye suggested he was not entirely opposed to the idea. “Especially considering the many flowers that could speak in our stead.”
“Ah, the language of flowers.” Elizabeth felt a flush of shyness invade her joy. “I do wonder, though, why Jane chose the pink rose for me?”
“Sisterly discretion,” he replied, his expression growing tender. “Remember that dreadful verse comparing a woman’s lips to petals of the reddest rose?”
Of course she did. She’d quoted it in the postscript of the rescue letter. Together, they recited:
Thy lips, like petals of the reddest rose,
Thy cheeks, like apples ripened on the bough,
Thy slender form, which grace and charm bestows,
Before thy beauty, I can only bow!
“I would have chosen the reddest roses,” Darcy explained, “but Jane intervened, insisting pink would be less… overwhelming for someone recovering from nursing a fevered patient.” His eyes held hers meaningfully. “Though I maintain that red would have been more accurate to my feelings.”
“And to your feverish cheeks resembling apples,” she teased, studying his face and marveling at the changes wrought by happiness. The severe lines of his countenance had softened, the habitual furrow between his brows smoothed away.
He looked younger, more approachable, and devastatingly handsome. Her heart gave a peculiar flutter at the realization that this man—this proud, brilliant, complex man—was to be her husband.
The carriage door opened suddenly, admitting a gust of rain and Bingley’s cheerful face.
“I’ve told the driver to turn around,” he announced, oblivious to the moment he had interrupted. “And you’ll never guess who’s just arrived—Colonel Fitzwilliam and Colonel Forster, with half the militia to arrest Wickham.”
He climbed in, settling opposite them with a satisfied expression. “They’ve got Wickham’s accomplices out of the ditch. Quite a sight, I must say—like drowned rats in livery.”
Through the carriage window, Elizabeth caught sight of Colonel Fitzwilliam directing several militiamen as they hauled a raving and frothing Wickham from the muddy road. The sight filled her with a complex mixture of emotions—relief, vindication, and a surprising touch of pity for a man whose life had been shaped by his own worst impulses.
“What will happen to him?” she asked, turning back to Darcy.
“He will face consequences,” Darcy replied. “But that is a matter for another day. For now, let us focus on your return to Longbourn and your family.”
And explaining to them how their second daughter has managed to become engaged to one of the wealthiest men in England while looking like a drowned cat,Elizabeth thought. Her mother would be ecstatic about the match, of course, but the circumstances were hardly what anyone could have anticipated.
“And our future,” Elizabeth added.
