Elizabeth gave no reply at all this time, but Miss Bingley would not be put off.
“Be assured, I know him to be honourable. Let me advise you, therefore, that you must not let it upset you that some people will question his commitment.”
“Very well, I shall not.”
Miss Bingley pursed her lips. “Although, nobody could blame you for being unsure of his regard. I should be most put out if my betrothed prioritised a house over me.”
How glad Elizabeth was that Miss Bingley had never succeeded in inveigling herself into Darcy’s affections, then! It would have been tragic indeed had he ended up with a wife who understood so little what Pemberley meant to him.Sheunderstood, and Darcy’s letter proved that he knew it. It made her value more his insistence on her choosing the new housekeeper, for she supposed it was his way of asking her to share Pemberley’s custodianship. Comprehending that only made her wish to be there more, instead of here at Longbourn, listening to Miss Bingley’s snide remarks and Mrs Bennet and Mrs Hurst’s debate on wedding dates.
“It cannot be before Michaelmas,” Mrs Hurst said in a vexed tone.
“Why not?” replied Mrs Bennet indignantly.
“Because that is next week!”
“Well? They can marry by licence.”
“I do not think there is any harm in waiting for the banns to be read,” said Miss Bingley. “There is no particular rush in this case, is there?”
Bingley took up Jane’s hand, smiling at her warmly. “I am not going anywhere, and I have nowhere I should rather be.”
“October then,” Mrs Bennet said impatiently.
“It cannot be October,” Mrs Hurst replied. “Mr Hurst and I will be in Northampton for most of next month.”
“Oh, well, November is a nice month for a wedding,” Mrs Bennet persisted. “Not too cold, not too close to Christmas.”
“Close to Christmas would be ever so romantic,” Kitty opined. “Especially if it snowed.”
Elizabeth could not fathom the serenity with which Jane was watching everybody talk her wedding into next year. She leant to whisper to her quietly. “You ought to say something if you wish to be married before you are old and grey.”
“I have no objection to fitting in with everyone else’s plans, Lizzy. There is no rush.”
Elizabeth straightened once more in her seat. No rush? What were they waiting for? Did they hope to stumble across a more passionate attachment while they ambled their way towards the altar? This gentle, unhurried affection bore no resemblance whatever to the ardent feelings that raged like a permanent storm in her heart. Whether born of their particularly arduous passage to understanding or an extraordinary, natural affinity, her feelings for Darcy were more profoundly urgent than any sentiment she had experienced before, or any she could perceive in those around her. She needed him—just as he needed her at Pemberley with him.
She excused herself, claiming a headache, and set herself up in private with a pen and ink. Without thinking too much about what she would write, she addressed it to Darcy and then allowed her feelings for him, already overflowing, to spill onto the page. First, an admission of her struggle to be reasonable when he said he must go home—that she had not wished to add a teary-eyed lady to his troubles, but that she had been one sob away from begging him not to go. Next, a confession to not being troubled in the least by his aunt’s absurd visit, only by the difficulty of pretending for the second time that her heart was not breaking to say goodbye. Then, that she could not think why she had ever let him leave without her. That she wished he would come back for her, take her home with him to Pemberley, put an end to both their suffering, and make her his wife. She dared not read it back to herself, lest that stole the courage required to send it. She sealed it and begged her father to send it express, having entirely run out of patience for anything slower.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX
CERTAIN FELICITY
Darcy waited at the window in Netherfield’s saloon, too focused to concentrate on any of the chatter behind him. Bingley made a remark about his poor company, but he only smiled vaguely. Miss Bingley said something teasing, and he ignored it entirely, for a carriage had pulled through the gates, and he was already halfway out of the door.
He met Elizabeth’s eye through the carriage window and could barely constrain the exultation that threatened to spread itself stupidly all over his face. With impatience he hoped did not show, he handed Jane down and offered his congratulations on her engagement. Then he took Elizabeth’s hand and without a word, but with a look that he trusted she understood perfectly, pulled her away from the house, towards the formal gardens.
He took her as far out of view as his endurance allowed, which was probably not as far as propriety would have preferred, then tugged her hand to bring them face to face. He almost crowed at the eagerness with which she welcomed him. Need drove him forward, walking her backwards several steps before her ardour caught up, and she pressed herself with equal force against him. Her passion was exhilarating, her soft warmth beneath his hands, intoxicating. This was his life now—this woman, this passion, this unfettered joy! This was why he had raced back at her beck and call, for what man would not gladly submit to this ecstasy?
“You did not mind that I wrote, then?” she whispered.
“It was the finest letter any man, past or present, has ever received. I have been out of my senses since I read it.” He kissed her again, briefly, but with considerably less reserve, to demonstrate it. “Are you sure you are ready to leave Longbourn, though? I would not like you to regret the haste.”
“More than ready.”
He inhaled deeply, relieved to hear her confirm that which doubt had whispered might be but the impetuous outpourings of frustration. “That is fortunate, for I brought some things with me that would have been entirely wasted had you changed your mind.”
“What things?”
“Come. I shall show you.”
