Elizabeth floated through the remainder of the day. She wondered whether Darcy—knowing she was in no danger of marrying anyone else—might wish for more time to consider his suit. But he was adamantly opposed to waiting, declaring his intention of speaking to her father at once. Thus, he accompanied her back to the stile, lifting her as he seemed to enjoy, but instead of immediately setting her down on the other side, he kissed her passionately.
“I have wanted to do that for so long,” he murmured roughly. “I shall never tire of it. I will see you later this morning.”
When he released her, Elizabeth was not certain the ground was steady beneath her feet.
By day’s end, she was engaged, and the planning for the wedding clothes began. Mrs Bennet was beside herself with joy, Lydia and Kitty were pressing for a ball as well as a wedding breakfast, and only Mary calmly commenting, “Your betrothed does not seem elderly to me,” with a knowing look that told Elizabeth she had figured out much more than had been revealed to her.
Her father seemed resigned. After Darcy departed, he called her into his book-room. “Why did you not tell me Mr Darcy was in love with you?”
“I did not know it,” she replied. “I suppose it was only hearing of my possible betrothal to another that helped him determine his feelings for me were serious.”
He considered her for some moments, and she wondered whether he would ask all the questions he must surely have.
“Will you forgive me for forcing the betrothal to Goulding upon you? I shall always feel that it was not the cruelty you took it to be, but in retrospect, I can see how, in the haste with which I acted, it must have seemed so.”
It was not enough, a mere nod to her feelings of loss and loneliness. “For what am I to forgive you?” she said sharply, asking the question for the second time that day. “For ordering me to marry without warning, without discussion, without choice, to a man I consider an uncle? For your disingenuous account of our family’s ruin if I did not?” Her anger faded, her voice softening as sadness replaced it. “Or for your sudden refusal to be the papa I have always known, the man who has always protected me, reasoned with me, valued, trusted, and stood by me. I thought you always would.” A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she impatiently wiped it away.
Mr Bennet opened his mouth as if to protest, but then he closed it again. For some moments, the only sound was the mantel clock’s measured beat in the silence. Elizabeth would not fill it; she had said her piece.
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I deserve your anger, I think,” he said quietly. “I do not know how I shall earn your understanding or forgiveness. I cannot seem to manage it for myself at the moment.”
* * *
On Sunday, the village church was turned upon its ear when the banns were called forbothMr Bingley and Jane and Mr Darcy and Elizabeth, the vicar having fortunately agreed to change the name of one of the grooms upon very short notice. The two gentlemen took full advantage of their new status as family members to spend the Sabbath at Longbourn, and Elizabeth rejoiced in planning a future which had suddenly grown bright.
Monday morning, nearly the entire family—including Mr Bingley and Darcy—awaited the arrival of Mr Collins in the drawing room. Mr Bennet absented himself, refusing to either encourage or discourage Mary’s choice, which was rather hypocritical, Elizabeth felt. Kitty and Lydia were giggling with each other, ignoring everyone else, and Mary was, for once, at the centre of her mother’s attention.
“Do not quote scripture to him, Mary—unless it is one of the ‘wife, submit to your husband’ verses. Gentlemen love those.”
“Mama, you take those verses out of context if you do not explain the greater obligations of the man towards—”
“I am trying to explain how to hold a man’s interest, not hold a Bible study—”
“I apologise for my family,” Elizabeth whispered to Darcy. “Mary and Mama often speak at cross purposes. Usually they just ignore each other.”
“You look beautiful this morning,” he whispered back, and Elizabeth realised he could not care less about the bickering. She gave him a brilliant smile.
Mr Collins was expected to arrive on the morning post; Mr Bingley had kindly sent his carriage into Meryton to await the honoured guest. To their collective surprise, instead of Mr Bingley’s vehicle, an unfamiliar chaise-and-four pulled up the drive, drawing the attention of everyone to the windows.
Mr Bingley looked puzzled. “Who can that be? It is too early for visitors.”
The ladies began conjecturing, but it was Darcy who answered, his words clipped. “It is my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. It appears that Mr Collins has not come alone, though I do not understand why she felt it necessary to accompany him.”
“My dear Miss Bennet,” Mr Bingley announced, leaping to his feet, “Were you not going to show me the hermitage this morning?”
“Oh, I did not—” Jane said, but he clasped her hand and practically dragged her from the room.
“Ah,” Mary said. “Mr Collins’s esteemed patroness. I suppose I shall gain first-hand answers to my questions regarding her disposition. This ought to be interesting.”
“You have no idea,” Darcy muttered.
Elizabeth looked at him; he was standing behind her chair, his attention drawn to the windows, looking thunderous.
“Darcy?” she murmured, a sudden frisson of nerves making her shiver.
He placed a hand upon her shoulder, and she covered it with her own. Although his expression remained grim, his eyes crinkled as he looked down upon her—his version of a comforting smile.
A few moments later, Mr Collins entered the drawing room accompanied by a large, tall woman who might once have been handsome.
