He had faced Parliament’s hostility toward Catholics without flinching. He had stood firm before men who regarded his faith as an antiquated loyalty best surrendered for convenience. He had endured Cambridge’s sly mockery and London’s polite suspicion.
Yet he had not spoken one necessary sentence to Elizabeth Bennet.
The past days had been… easy.
More than easy. They had been bright.
Walks across frost-tinged fields. Conversation that moved from wit to reflection without effort. The warmth in her eyes when she listened. The liveliness in her expression when she challenged him.
In her presence, the world seemed ordered—balanced—almost inevitable. She had laughed—at him, with him. There had been no tension between them save that which arose from mutual delight.
He did not wish to introduce gravity where lightness presently reigned.
But now it has already been disturbed, has it not? Bingley courting, Miss Mary engaged…
Darcy turned slightly upon his pillow. Time was moving whether he acknowledged it or not. A courtship could not remain suspended indefinitely. If he intended marriage—and he did—then the question must be faced before matters advanced further.
He did not fear Elizabeth’s displeasure.
He feared her refusal.
He exhaled slowly.
Bingley had mentioned a ball during the ride home—spoken of it with bright enthusiasm. A public celebration. An occasionthat would fix expectations more firmly in the minds of the neighborhood.
What if Lady Anne and Georgiana came for the ball?
Yes, that was it! If his sister and stepmother were in Hertfordshire, he could know better what to do, what path to take. Seeing Elizabeth with two of the women he loved best in the world—observing how she spoke, how she listened, how she regarded them—might give him guidance where it felt like none existed.
Yes, I will have them come.
He would write in the morning. Invite them to Netherfield for the ball. Bingley would not object. Indeed, he would likely be delighted.
If I go to London to fetch them, I could have a marriage settlement drawn up. Just in case.
Darcy lay still for several minutes, turning the idea over in his head. The longer he considered the plan, the more he felt comfortable with it.
The conversation with Elizabeth could not be delayed forever.
But perhaps it need not occur tomorrow.
That was sensible, right?
It was not avoidance. It was information.
Still, he knew it did not absolve him. The conversation could not be postponed indefinitely. If he delayed too long, he would deserve the title he had privately assigned himself.
At last ready for sleep, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. In the dark, he lifted his hand and made the sign of the cross—forehead, breast, shoulder to shoulder—quiet, habitual, without flourish.
He did not pray for certainty.
He prayed for steadiness.
Then he closed his eyes.
Sleep came slowly, but without further argument.
Chapter 23
