Hope.
Chapter Twenty
Thecarriagewheelsrattledover the rutted lane that led to Longbourn, each jolt sending a fresh wave of anxiety through Darcy’s chest. His hand moved to his waistcoat pocket for perhaps the hundredth time that morning, confirming the presence of Elizabeth’s letter to her father. He should have felt confident. Instead, his throat tightened with each turn of the wheels.
“Mr. Bennet, I have come to request the honour of your daughter’s hand in marriage.” No, too formal. “Sir, your daughter Elizabeth has done me the great honour of accepting my proposal.” Better, perhaps. Though the whole business felt backwards, speaking to the father after the fact. But Elizabeth had insisted that she had already sent a note ahead informing her father, and that his visit was merely a formality.
The carriage lurched over a particularly deep rut, and Darcy’s carefully constructed sentences dissolved. Through the window, Longbourn’s modest house came into view, its brick façade warm in the afternoon sunlight. The grounds showed signs of careful but economical maintenance. A far cry from Pemberley’s grandeur, yet Elizabeth had grown here, had formed her strong character in these modest surroundings.
The carriage rolled to a stop. Darcy descended with movements he hoped appeared confident, his boots striking gravel. The housekeeper appeared, took his card, and showed him into a small entrance hall that smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender.
“Mr. Darcy, sir,” the housekeeper announced, returning. “Mr. Bennet will see you now.”
Darcy stepped into a room that looked as though it had been assembled to confound any sense of order. Books overflowed from shelves onto tables, chairs, and even the floor. Papers covered the desk in layers. The air carried the musty scent of old leather and aging paper.
Mr. Bennet sat behind the desk, grey threading through dark hair and spectacles perched on his nose. He looked up from the book he had been reading, marking his place before setting it aside. His expression suggested curiosity rather than eagerness.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone carrying dry amusement. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Though I confess, had my daughter not written ahead to advise me of your intentions, I would describe it as the biggest shock of my life.”
Darcy felt heat rise in his face. He executed a bow that came out stiffer than intended. “Mr. Bennet. Thank you for receiving me.”
“Well, I could hardly refuse, could I?” Mr. Bennet gestured to a chair. “Please, sit. Move those volumes anywhere you like.”
Darcy transferred the books to a nearby table and lowered himself into the chair. He withdrew Elizabeth’s letter from his pocket and held it out toward Mr. Bennet with a hand that trembled only slightly.
“Sir, I have come to formally request permission to marry your daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She has done me the very great honour of accepting my proposal, and has written this letter to you explaining her reasons.”
Mr. Bennet took the letter with eyebrows already rising. He unfolded it slowly, adjusted his spectacles, and began to read. Darcy watched his face cycle through expressions that ranged from surprise to bewilderment to something that might have been alarm. Mr. Bennet adjusted his spectacles twice more, looked up at Darcy, then returned his attention to the letter.
“This is most unexpected,” Mr. Bennet said finally. “I was under the impression that my Lizzy held you in some dislike. She spent the better part of the autumn declaring you the most disagreeable man of her acquaintance.”
The words struck Darcy like a physical blow, confirming what he had half feared. Elizabeth had disliked him. Yet she had accepted his proposal with eager enthusiasm, without hesitation. The dissonance created an ache in Darcy’s chest.
“People’s opinions can change,” Darcy said, the words emerging more stiffly than he intended. “I hope that I have demonstrated qualities since our initial acquaintance that altered Miss Elizabeth’s initial impression.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Bennet replied, his tone suggesting doubt. He set the letter on his desk and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His eyes, sharp behind the spectacles, studied Darcy with uncomfortable intensity. “Tell me, Mr. Darcy. What are your intentions toward my daughter? And please, spare me the platitudes. I wish to know what you actually intend.”
Darcy shifted in his chair. “I intend to make her my wife. To provide her with every comfort Pemberley can offer. To honour her as mistress of my estate and mother of my future children.”
“That tells me what you will give her,” Mr. Bennet said. “It does not tell me how you will treat her. Will you allow her to read what she chooses? To speak her mind freely? To walk three miles through mud if the fancy takes her, or will you insist she maintain dignity appropriate to your station?”
The questions revealed depths to Mr. Bennet’s character that Darcy had not anticipated. He had expected perfunctory inquiry about settlements. Instead, Elizabeth’s father probed at the heart of what marriage would mean. Darcy found himself grudgingly respecting the man.
“I would never attempt to cage her spirit,” Darcy said, and meant it with fierce conviction. “Her independence, her willingness to speak her mind, her refusal to be impressed by rank are among the qualities I most admire in Elizabeth. I have no desire to change her, only to spend my life with her as she is.”
Mr. Bennet’s expression softened slightly, though wariness remained. “Pretty words, Mr. Darcy. I hope you mean them. My Lizzy is the cleverest of my daughters, the one most like myself in temperament. I would hate to see that cleverness dulled by a husband who valued compliance over character.”
“You will not,” Darcy promised, though even as he spoke, doubts whispered in the back of his mind.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the ticking of a clock and the distant sounds of the household. Mr. Bennet adjusted his spectacles one final time, then nodded with visible reluctance.
“Very well,” he said. “You have my consent, though I confess myself entirely bewildered by this match. I look forward to having a few words with my daughter about her sudden change of heart. And as for this hasty wedding in London – well, myFanny is quite upset about the matter, but if it is what Elizabeth wants, it is what she shall have.”
Darcy rose from his chair, executing a bow. “Thank you, sir. I will endeavour to prove myself worthy of your trust.”
“See that you do,” Mr. Bennet replied. “And Mr. Darcy? If you make my Lizzy unhappy, you will discover that country gentlemen with modest fortunes can be remarkably creative when properly motivated to revenge.”
The threat was delivered with such dry humour that it took Darcy a moment to recognise it as genuine. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, then turned toward the door.
