“I daresay I never imagined such a household,” he said, amusement still in his eyes.
“Oh, it is never dull,” Elizabeth replied with a twinkle.
She sipped delicately from her glass of watered wine, the white soup still warm in her bowl. A gentle contentment settled over her. He was not the man she had once misjudged. He was so much more.
Eventually, the guests retired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port and conversation.
The room was bathed in golden candlelight. Elizabeth took a seat beside Jane as Miss Bingley, after a moment’s preening, rose from her place.
“Miss Mary,” she said with an insincere smile, “would you be so good as to favour us with a song?”
Mary, looking pleased and composed, took to the pianoforte. Her choice was a familiar one—a quiet, pleasing melody that warmed the room without demanding attention. Her playing had improved of late, and Elizabeth watched her with newfound appreciation.
Miss Bingley soon followed with a display of her own, choosing a technically difficult piece. Her fingers danced with practised elegance, but the music had no soul. It felt cold, like the glass on the chandeliers—gleaming, but distant. When she rose, she beckoned to Elizabeth next, who agreed without hesitation.
She sat, and her hands found the keys with ease. She chose something gentle, a tune her governess had taught her as a girl. It was a song about longing and discovery, and as she played, her thoughts drifted—not to the notes, but to the man who stood near the doorway, watching her with unwavering attention.
Darcy. Her Mr Darcy.
She could feel his gaze like sunlight on her skin. As she finished, silence settled for half a breath before soft applause stirred the air. Miss Bingley clapped delicately, her expression stiff. Elizabeth stood, heart fluttering, and returned to her seat just as the gentlemen rejoined them. Darcy passed close to her, murmuring just loud enough for her alone to hear:
“If it were appropriate, I would claim every set.”
She turned her head, meeting his eyes, and her heart swelled with something both wild and settled—like the first time one sees spring after a long winter.
The dancing resumed, and though Elizabeth danced with others, her mind remained tethered to Mr Darcy.
Then, just before the final set, Mr Bingley approached Jane, smiling with uncontainable joy. He took herhand.
“My friends, if I may—Miss Bennet has done me the greatest honour. She has accepted my proposal. We are to be married.”
A hush fell, followed by a flurry of movement. Everyone rushed to offer congratulations. Mr Bennet clapped his future son-in-law on the back, and even Mr Collins seemed momentarily speechless.
Jane was glowing. Her eyes found Elizabeth’s, and the sisters embraced.
“She said yes!” Bingley beamed, embracing Jane’s hand with such reverence Elizabeth thought she might cry.
Elizabeth’s heart burst with happiness for her sister. “Mama would be so pleased,” she whispered aloud, almost without thinking.
Beside her, Darcy took her hand and raised it gently to his lips, brushing her knuckles with a kiss. “Though I never knew her, I believe she would.”
The last set was danced with a sweet melancholy, as if no one wished the evening to end. Mr Fitzwilliam partnered with Charlotte Lucas, much to the latter's pleasure. The Bennet ladies all stood up as well. Alas, the evening must come to an end, and as the candles dimmed, guests began to make their goodbyes.
Outside, the sky had turned violet with the early touch of dawn. The air was damp and chilled, and Elizabeth shivered as she approached the Bennet carriage.
Darcy stepped forwards, hand outstretched to help her in. “Ten o’clock,” he whispered as he steadied her.
She nodded, warmth blooming in her chest.Oakham Mount. Tomorrow.
Chapter Thirty-One
The drawing room at Longbourn was unusually quiet for the morning after such a grand occasion. Sunlight slanted in through the windows, pooling in warm gold across the rug. A tea tray sat on the sideboard, steam curling from the spout of a freshly brewed pot, and the mingled scents of toast and late autumn hung pleasantly in the air. Jane, still pink-cheeked and beaming from the previous night’s proposal, sat beside her father, who looked—as Elizabeth observed with amusement—altogether too smug for a man who professed to loathe society.
Kitty attempted to embroider a handkerchief but kept glancing at Jane with dreamy eyes, and even Mary, usually buried in a book at this hour, sat with folded hands and an attentive expression.
It was into this peaceful scene that Mr Collins, upright and passive as ever, entered the room. His expression bore the unmistakable marks of a man with an important task at hand.
“Mr Bennet,” he said, bowing awkwardly, “Miss Mary.”
