Of course, there were those who thought she ought to be embarrassed as well, people like Pamela Harrington, who had snidely remarked, “Really, Eliza, I do not know how I would be able to hold my head up, should a man make such a spectacle of himself before God and the entire neighbourhood, overme.”
“I should not worry too much about the necessity of planning for the occasion,” Elizabeth had replied cheerfully, to the sound of much laughter from the other young ladies. No, she felt noembarrassment whatsoever—ought she to, when a man of great wealth and property—a man whom nearly everyone had believed so far beyond the reach of any local lass that no one had ever seriously considered the possibility—deigned not only to offer for her, but to do it so publicly? Was it an insult, that he had decided nothing else mattered except reaching her in time to make that interest known before it was, as he had believed, everlastingly too late?
But love? That was another thing entirely. Still, with every intelligent, fascinating conversation, she had felt more deeply entranced—he was not conceited, but self-assured. His sense of humour was dry and droll. Long walks together had resulted long talks in favourite paths and places—the hermitage at Longbourn, and the rose garden at Netherfield, amongst others. They were, ostensibly, always supposed to be under the watchful eyes of Bingley and Jane—most conveniently, the worst chaperons in the history of chaperonage.
Mr Bingley’s carriage pulled up the drive, and she felt her heart beat harder as his footman pulled down the step and opened the door.
To her thorough disappointment, only Bingley emerged.
“But where is Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth asked him, once he had been shown in.
To her surprise, Jane’s smile was distinctly conspiratorial.
“Ah, as to that,” Mr Bingley said, bowing most dramatically. “I have been tasked with delivering you this.” With a flourish, he removed an envelope from an inner coat pocket and handed it over to her.
Her name was written in forthright handwriting across the front of it—Mr Darcy’s writing. Curiously, she unfolded the missive.
A walk ended, a fresh beginning commenced…here.
She was certainly confused. Slowly, an incredible idea began to form. She looked up from the letter-paper. “Is this…is this a Treasure Hunt?” she asked, referring to the popular party game of searching out clues.
Jane smiled. “Perhaps something like!”
Mr Bingley bowed. “My carriage is at your disposal, should your searches lead you any great distance.” He and Jane exchanged sly grins.
A walk ended, a fresh beginning commenced…here.After the scene at the church, she had agreed that Mr Darcy might call; to her surprise, the very next day he had arrived at Longbourn. The first visit was somewhat awkward, but it had not remained so. The next day he arrived with Mr Bingley in tow. They had gone for a walk together, the four of them, which had quickly diverged paths. She and Darcy had stayed in Longbourn’s gardens and then she had shown him the hermitage. The hermitage! Where they had talked for an hour that passed in mere seconds.
Hurriedly she abandoned Jane and Mr Bingley, to race for her coat and an umbrella.
CHAPTER SEVEN
An hour later—after a short drive in Mr Bingley’s carriage—Elizabeth found herself at the foot of Oakham Mount, looking about for the next clue. None of them had been too difficult to find thus far. In her coat pocket, three others resided, all of which she would save forever. And then, just as she was out of sight of the waiting carriage, a man emerged from a stand of trees.
For a moment, just a moment, she marvelled—how was it that this tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man in exquisitely cut coat and gleaming Hessians, should behere, smiling ather? He had devised this whole exercise for her intrigue and amusement; how had she ever thought him dull?
He bowed; she curtseyed, smiling back at him.
“Miss Elizabeth, what a surprise,” he said, his low voice causing a little thrill to chase up her spine. “What brings you out in nature on a wintry December afternoon?”
“As it happens, Ihavemisplaced something. A small note card, about so big.” She brought her fingers up in an approximation of the clue paper size.
“Ah. I might have noticed something of the sort. I may have picked it up. One ought not to be so careless as to leave papers lying about.”
“One certainly ought not,” she said, twinkling up at him.
Mr Darcy made a show of patting his coat pockets. “Hm. Now what did I do with it? I could swear it was…” He reached up, feeling along the back of his shoulder, as if it could possibly be there, then twisted around as if feeling for it.
There was the note card, pinned to his coat in the very centre of his back, ‘Elizabeth’ written in his bold, firm hand and she giggled. Stretching for it, she laughed again when he turned in a circle as if trying to see for himself—keeping the clue just out of reach. In trying to grasp it, somehow she found her arms around him, and his went about her, and his lips descended to meet her laughing mouth and she discovered a whole new realm of feeling, of passion, of wonder in the pressure of it, the intensity of the exchange. He was the first to pull away, while she could only remain standing, looking at him, dazed and trembling and astonished.
It was a kiss such as she had never even dreamt nor imagined. Abruptly, she wished he had not ended it—worlds opening up before her eyes.
Slowly he turned, presenting her with his back. With unsteady hands, she unpinned the note card and read the words within.
Oh to be Shakespeare, to possess any idea how one might expertly express the wishes of my heart. Alas, I am only a man, inspired but not inspiring, one who is truly, deeply in love for the first time in his life. If it is too soon for you to return my feelings, I understand. Advise me to wait. Say that I ought to withdraw, and I will. Only…do not tell me that I must give up hope. Anything but that.
FD
Slowly, he turned back around, looking into her eyes as if he could read her tremulous thoughts. Then, he dropped to one knee.
