She raised her eyes to his. “We ought to speak.”
“I am sorry…I am mad… But I had first to be certain you are truly mine.”
“I am.” Her voice trembled with both shyness and trust in a delicious combination.
He breathed deeply and released her gently, though his hands lingered at her waist, unwilling to part.
“Why did you stop?” she asked, her new impatience making him happy beyond anything he had ever imagined.
“You said we must talk,” he smiled, and she smiled too—a smile that seemed to promise that words might wait a little longer.
“Kiss me. Please kiss me,” she whispered.
He bent and kissed her—lightly upon her lips—a kiss that held neither haste nor demand, only gratitude and love.
“Again,” she entreated, “like before!”
But he laughed and kissed her lightly on the tip of the nose.
“I wish to see you while we speak,” he said.
They sat down upon the narrow sofa, as if made for two lovers, yet he did not take her in his arms. The time had come to speak their love in words, and before all else, he looked into her eyes.
“I love you, Elizabeth Bennet.”
Her cheeks glowed, yet without hesitation she answered, “I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
They were silent for a long while, for there was no need for further declarations. From without came distant sounds—the world returning to life, guests gathering for the wedding breakfast—but he felt sure that no one enquired after them. And even if anyone had, they would have found themselves before Mrs Bennet, who would have defended her daughter’s peace and solitude with her very life.
“Who shall begin?” she asked at last, then added playfully, to show him that even if they unveiled painful things from the past, they no longer brought suffering, “You must begin, Mr Darcy—you created all this confusion, and you must set it right.”
Darcy kissed her hand. It was true. He had been mistaken from the very first moment he had asked her to be his wife, and with every word that followed, everything had proceeded upon that same false path.
“I am changed,” he said, and Elizabeth assented. She had noticed that change each time they met, and after every meeting, their parting had become increasingly difficult.
“But tell me,” he asked, “if I had simply declared my love then, would you have said yes?”
“I do not know.” And he appreciated the sincerity in her voice, and that small crease formed upon her brow, a sign that the question had no answer even for her. “Since discovering that I love you, that question has often haunted me. Yet it is certain that, had things continued as they were on that first evening—at the dinner at Rosings—my interest in you would have deepened. Yet…I was at fault too—”
Darcy silenced her with a gesture. In truth, it no longer mattered.
“Stop,” he whispered. “You said I had to begin.”
And she nodded like a sage girl inviting him to speak.
“I shall say it but once, and then we shall forget all that is not love.”
“Agreed,” she smiled.
“I left the Parsonage in anger and humiliation. I had been certain you would accept me—”
“You were certain? Good heavens, why?”
“Because I had been reared to believe that whatever I desired was my due. I had always possessed whatever I wished for—”
“I was not a possession.”
“Exactly. Yet I behaved as though you were.”
