He was stiff at first. Physical affection was Jane's domain, not his. Then he softened, and he held on with a fierceness that told her he had been frightened. Not of the scandal. Not of the match. Of losing her.
“I love you, Papa,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“Yes, well.” His voice was thick. “I suppose I had better learn to tolerate Mr. Darcy, in that case.”
She laughed. He blinked rather more than necessary and adjusted his spectacles with hands that were not entirely steady.
“He is a good man,” she said. “Better than he knows how to show.”
“He had better be. I shall reserve the right to be quietly terrifying at regular intervals. It is a father's prerogative.”
When she returnedto the parlor, Mr. Darcy was standing by the window.
He turned the moment she entered, his dark eyes searching her face. She smiled. It was enough. The tension drained from him, and he crossed the room to meet her, his hand finding hers.
“All is well?” he asked, low enough that only she could hear.
“Yes. But Papa reserves the right to terrify you if needs must.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
They stood together by the window for a moment, and she said, “What happens now?”
"Now I go to London. Tomorrow morning." His thumb traced a slow circle against the back of her hand. "I intend to obtain a special licence from the Faculty Office."
"A common license would serve."
"It would. But I would prefer to do this properly." He looked at her steadily. "A special license is what a man of my standing obtains when he wishes to make it clear that his marriage is a matter of choice, not necessity."
"And if the Faculty Office is not accommodating?"
"My uncle, the Earl, has some acquaintance with the Archbishop. I do not anticipate difficulty."
"How long?"
"Four days. Five at most."
Mrs. Bennet, who had been hovering at the edge of the room with the poorly concealed desperation of a woman trying not to eavesdrop, chose this moment to abandon all pretense.
“A special license!” she cried, clasping her hands together. “Oh, Mr. Darcy! A special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury himself! I knew it! I told Mrs. Long not two months ago that you were a man of the very first consequence. Oh, my nerves, my poor nerves, I can scarcely bear the joy of it!”
Elizabeth caught Mr. Darcy's eye and saw the look of a man who was reconsidering the speed of his departure.
Mr. Darcy left at dawn.
Elizabeth saw Charlotte the following day. She came on the pretence of returning a borrowed book, picking her way up the lane in pattens with her skirts held clear of the slush. They settled in the window seat of the upstairs sitting room while Collins held forth in the parlor below about the superior shrubberies at Rosings, and Charlotte listened to the entire story with the quiet attentiveness that had always made her the best of confidantes.
When Elizabeth finished, Charlotte was silent for a long time.
“You are happy,” Charlotte said at last, and it was not a question.
“I am.”
“I am glad.” Charlotte tucked her arm through Elizabeth's, and they walked a few steps in silence. “Mr. Collins has been most attentive since yesterday evening. He called at Lucas Lodgeto express his condolences on the unfortunate end of his attachment to you and stayed for two hours to enumerate the qualities he now finds most admirable in a clergyman's wife. Apparently, a sensible disposition and an appreciation for the domestic arts rank considerably higher than he had previously supposed.”
Elizabeth looked at her friend. Charlotte's face was calm. Practical.
“Charlotte.”
