***
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 moveforward 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!”
