As they walked out into the cold courtyard, Robert turned to Darcy.
"She is magnificent," Robert declared. "She is a force of nature. I adore her. She offered to knit me a scarf."
"She is... enthusiastic," Darcy conceded.
"And the father?"
"He wants his five guineas from your father. An old bet, don't ask."
Robert laughed. "Classic Father. Well? Did we get it? The permission?"
"We have permission to court," Darcy said, mounting his horse. "The rest is up to the ladies."
The ride back to London was a battle against the elements. The temperature dropped as the sun lowered, turning the world into a landscape of blue shadows and biting wind.
They rode in silence for the most part, heads down, collars up. But there was a difference in the silence now. It wasn't the silence of anxiety. It was one of resolution. They stopped once at an inn to water the horses and drink hot cider that burned their throats.
"You realize," Robert said, cupping the mug with shaking hands, "that we are now committed. There is no going back."
"I do not wish to go back," Darcy said.
"Neither do I." Robert stared into the fire. "Jane... she is worth the frostbite, Darcy. She is worth the mother. She is wortheverything."
"She is."
"And Elizabeth?"
Darcy looked at the flames and saw her eyes, the way she defended her sister. He saw the way she had looked at him accepting his truce.
"She is the only thing that makes sense in this world," he said.
They remounted. The final stretch into London was gruelling. Their horses struggled, but did not disappoint them. The lights of the city appeared on the horizon like a promise of warmth. When they finally clattered onto the cobblestones of Mayfair, it was full dark. They were stiff, frozen, and exhausted. They parted ways at the corner of Grosvenor Square.
"Good luck for tomorrow," Robert called out, his voice hoarse.
Darcy laughed. "Let her come."
He rode the last few yards to Darcy House. He dismounted, handing the reins to a groom who looked horrified by the state of the master's horse.
Darcy walked up the steps. He entered his home, allowing the warmth to envelope him. He was tired, his legs ached, and his face was windburned. But as he stripped off his gloves and looked at the pile of mail on the hall table—no new letters from Rosings, thank God—he felt a fierce, burning calm.
He had faced the snow, the Bennets, and his own pride. He was ready for the twenty-seventh. He was ready for the battle.
And more importantly, he was ready to win.
Chapter Thirteen: The Cherry Tart Ultimatum
The morning of December twenty-seventh arrived with the grim inevitability of a tax collector. The sky was a flat, unapologetic grey, and the air inside Darcy House was thick with the kind of tension usually reserved for the moments before a duel.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was pacing. He had worn a groove in the carpet of the morning room that was becoming quite distinct. Every time he turned near the window, he checked the street. Every time he turned near the fireplace, he checked the clock.
"William," Georgiana said from the doorway. She was holding a book, but she wasn't reading it. She was clutching it like a shield.
"I am fine," Darcy said, pivoting on his heel. "I am perfectly calm."
"You are vibrating," she observed. "Mrs Crauford says the silver is rattling in the pantry."
"Mrs Crauford exaggerates."
