And Mr. Collins? She did not care how he responded, as long as he turned his attention towards Mary. Her sister deserved that chance at happiness.
Elizabeth lowered her hands and stared at the canopy above her. Until last night, she had not truly known her middle sister atall. She had thought Mary awkward, pedantic, buried so deeply in her books and sermons that she rarely noticed the world around her. How wrong she had been. Mary, who had probably been lonely for years while Elizabeth laughed with Jane and ignored her completely, who loved Mr. Collins, had never said a word. Instead, she risked everything to help her sister escape. What a marvel she was. What a sister.
Elizabeth would write, when it was safe. They deserved to know she was well, even if she could not yet tell Jane where she was or what was to come.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of hot water, along with a maid who introduced herself as Annie. Behind her came another young woman carrying a tray with tea and sandwiches.
Annie said cheerfully as she poured water into the basin, “I must say, Miss Bennet, Miss Darcy is ever so excited to meet you, miss. She has been asking about you since the express arrived this morning, and her aunt read it aloud.”
Elizabeth wondered whether the many compliments Miss Bingley paid to Miss Darcy were true to her character. If so, she would be a fearsome creature. Yet Mr. Darcy spoke of his sister with unparalleled tenderness. Surely, she was a lovely young lady.
Grateful for the chance to remove some of the dust of travel, Elizabeth allowed Annie to help her change out of her wrinkled garment and into a shift and dressing gown that had been laid out on the bed.
“Rest now. I shall wake you to dress for dinner in plenty of time, Miss Bennet,” said Annie.
Without hesitation, Elizabeth sank onto the bed.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had been preparing for the Netherfield ball, worried about nothing more pressing than avoiding Mr. Collins. Now she was hiding from her own fatherin the home of an earl and countess who clearly thought her unworthy of their nephew.
Three weeks until she turned one-and-twenty. Three weeks until she would stand before God and become Elizabeth Darcy—wife to one of the wealthiest men in England, mistress of an estate she had never seen, responsible for a household she could not begin to imagine.
Three weeks to decide if she had made the right choice.
5
Asoft knock at the door announced Mr. Darcy, now changed into evening clothes. Elizabeth gasped. She had seen him in formal attire at the Netherfield ball, but her view of him was different now—the severe black coat fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders, his cravat, an immaculate fall of white linen at his throat, his dark hair brushed back from his face. He appeared every inch the gentleman of consequence that he was.
And she, in her simple cream muslin with its modest embroidery, felt suddenly, acutely plain.
But then his eyes found hers, and his expression warmed at once. “Elizabeth,” he said, his voice holding a note of wonder. “You are lovely.”
The sincerity in his tone lent her strength.
“Thank you,” she managed. “You are very kind.”
“I am truthful,” he corrected gently, offering his arm. “Shall we?”
Elizabeth took his arm, though her hand trembled against his sleeve. She felt the disparity between them keenly now—his wealth and consequence, her country simplicity.
They had taken only a few steps down the corridor when Mr. Darcy paused and studied her face. Without a word, he guided her into a small alcove.
“You are apprehensive,” he whispered. “Do you need reassurance?”
Elizabeth met his eyes and saw genuine concern there. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Darcy cradled her face in his hands, just as he had in the library at Netherfield, and lowered his head to press a brief, tender kiss to her lips. It was over in a trice.
When he pulled back, she smiled. “I shall have to remember your cure for nerves for future occasions.”
He grinned. “I am at your service, whenever you require it.”
They continued down the stairs, both clearly pleased with each other in a way that made Elizabeth feel less like a stranger in a foreign land and more like a woman embarking on an adventure with a willing partner.
They reached the drawing room to find Lord and Lady Matlock already present. With them stood a solidly built man in his late twenties with an effortless smile and a young woman with dark hair and Mr. Darcy’s fine features.
“Ah, there you are,” Lord Matlock said, his eyebrows rising. “You both seem in good spirits.”
Elizabeth could not keep from blushing. If only they knew about their nephew’s cure for anxiety.
