Darcy did not release her at once.
Nor did she wish him to.
When at last he drew back, it was only far enough to look at her, his expression altered in a way she had not yet seen—relieved, almost, though the word did not fully encompass it. There was joy in it, unmistakable and unguarded, and something deeper beneath it still, a kind of reverence that made her breath catch anew.
“You are certain,” he said, though it was not a question.
“I am,” she replied, her voice steadier now, though no less full. “I have never been more so.”
A smile touched his lips, one that did not fade as easily as others might have done.
“Then I shall endeavor,” he said softly, “to make you as happy as you have made me in this moment.”
Elizabeth laughed lightly, though there was emotion in it still. “You have set yourself an impossible task.”
“I think not,” he returned. “For I have already seen how little it requires to please you—only honesty, and a refusal to misunderstand you.”
She tilted her head, considering him. “And you believe yourself capable of both?”
“I do,” he said.
“Then you may succeed after all.”
They stood thus for a moment longer, the peace of the room no longer a space of uncertainty, but of shared understanding. At length, Elizabeth glanced toward the door, where the sounds of celebration—voices, laughter, Lydia’s unmistakable exclamation—filtered faintly through.
“They will wonder at our absence,” she said.
“Let them,” Darcy replied.
She smiled. “They will not be satisfied with wondering.”
“Then we must give them something better.”
He offered his arm.
She took it.
The return to the drawing room might have felt overwhelming under other circumstances.
It did not now.
Elizabeth entered not as she had left it, uncertain of her place within the shifting expectations of others, but with a new steadiness that altered everything. She was aware, of course, of the attention that turned toward them as they crossed the threshold—of Lydia’s immediate gasp, Kitty’s widening eyes, Mrs. Bennet’s eager scrutiny—but it no longer unsettled her. It was, instead, part of the moment, something to be acknowledged rather than endured.
Darcy did not release her hand at once.
Nor did she withdraw it.
That alone was enough.
Mrs. Bennet rose with an exclamation that could not be mistaken. “Well?”
Elizabeth could not suppress her smile.
“Yes, Mama,” she said. “Mr. Darcy has done me the honor of asking for my hand, and I have accepted him.”
If the room had been animated before, it was nothing to what followed.
Mrs. Bennet’s delight surpassed even her earlier enthusiasm, her exclamations overlapping one another until they lost all distinct meaning and became, instead, a general expression of uncontainable joy. Lydia threw herself upon Elizabeth with such force that Darcy instinctively stepped closer, though he did not interfere, and Kitty followed scarcely a moment later, her congratulations breathless and sincere. Mary, more composed but no less pleased, offered her felicitations with a warmth that spoke of genuine affection.
