Bingley smiled, though there was a keen interest beneath it.
“In that you have declared Miss Bennet one of the handsomest women of your acquaintance,” he said. “Which, coming from you, is no small thing.”
Darcy did not attempt to evade the observation.
“It is no less than the truth.”
Bingley studied him. “And nothing more?”
Darcy was silent for a moment. Then, with a steadiness that surprised even himself, he said, “I cannot deny that my regard for Miss Bennet extends beyond mere admiration.”
Bingley’s expression brightened at once. “I thought as much.”
Darcy allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile. “It came on gradually,” he said. “So gradually that I did not at first perceive it for what it was. But I see it clearly now.”
“And what do you intend to do?” Bingley asked.
Darcy did not hesitate. “I intend to ask for her hand,” he said. “If she will accept me.”
Bingley laughed outright then, the sound warm and unrestrained. “Well,” he said, “then we are in perfect agreement.”
Darcy raised a brow. “You feel the same?”
“I do,” Bingley replied. “As to Mrs. Collins, I mean. I have never been more certain of anything.”
Darcy regarded him with sober approval. “Then we are both resolved.”
Bingley’s grin widened. “Caroline will have her wish, after all,” he said.
Darcy’s expression shifted slightly. “In what sense?”
Bingley laughed again. “We shall be brothers.”
Darcy allowed himself a brief pause, then said dryly, “Just not in the manner she intended.”
“Precisely.”
The ease between them returned, though it carried now a different weight—one of shared purpose rather than simple companionship.
Outside, the day had fully taken hold, the earlier chill giving way to a steadier warmth. Within, something had settled. There was no uncertainty, no hesitation. Only resolve. And finally, after the previous day’s misunderstanding, Darcy felt that he stood not at a disadvantage, but at the beginning of something he fully intended to see through.
Chapter Sixteen
Though the path from Oakham Mount to Longbourn was neither long nor difficult, she found her steps slowing more than once, her attention turning inward in a way she could neither entirely prevent nor wholly regret. The air retained a trace of the morning’s coolness, softened now by a pale brightness that had begun to break through the cloud, and she drew it in deeply as she walked, as though it might steady the thoughts that pressed too insistently upon her mind.
She had not expected to see him. More than that, she had not expected what had passed between them.
The memory of their conversation lingered with unusual precision—not merely the words themselves, though those returned readily enough, but the manner in which they had been spoken. There had been no hesitation in him, no softening of his meaning for the sake of comfort. He had spoken directly, and more than that, he had listened. Truly listened, in a way that left her with no easy means of dismissing what he said.
I do not pity you.
She had believed it. Something in his tone, in the steadiness of his manner, had resisted her instinct to reject the assertion outright.
Elizabeth reached the edge of the garden and paused, resting one hand lightly upon the familiar curve of the gate before pushing it open. The path beyond led toward the house, bordered by beds that had only just begun to show the earliest promise of the season. She had walked this way countless times, had known each turn and uneven stone without thought, and yet this morning, it felt altered—not in form, but in feeling.
Something had shifted. As of yet, she was unsure of its designation.
The house received her without ceremony.
