“I cannot accept a proposal made in the heat of your fear that I might marry Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said. “I cannot be the answer to that panic, even if your feelings are sincere.”
“They are.”
“I know.”
His expression altered, not quite relief, but something less desolate.
Elizabeth drew a breath. “But I can accept a courtship.”
Darcy went perfectly still.
“A courtship?” he repeated, as if the word were too fragile to trust.
“Yes. If you still wish it when you have had time to think. If you can bear to proceed more slowly. We may speak openly, learn one another better, and discover whether affection can stand beside duty without one devouring the other.”
“Yes,” he said at once.
The immediacy of it nearly made her smile through her tears.
“Mr. Darcy—”
“Yes. At whatever pace you choose. However you wish it. I ask for nothing more than the chance to prove that I can do better than I have done. That I can be honest. Steady. Worthy of the trust I damaged.” He swallowed. “You are giving me more than I deserve.”
“You are giving me a great deal of power over your happiness.”
“You already had it.”
The words were soft, and her heart, traitorous creature, warmed at once.
Elizabeth looked away before feeling overcame sense again. “Then we must use more wisdom than either of us has shown recently.”
A faint, almost broken smile touched his mouth. “I shall try.”
“So shall I.” She gathered courage for one more truth. “And I do forgive you. I do. I understand why you were troubled. I understand your concerns for Pemberley and Georgiana. I understand fear more than you may imagine.”
His face softened. “Thank you.”
“But,” she added, meeting his eyes again, “I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Do not say that too quickly. You do not yet know what I shall ask.”
“Then ask, and I shall consider it with all the gravity it deserves before saying yes.”
That was nearly a jest. A careful one, uncertain of its welcome, but a jest all the same. Elizabeth felt something in her chest loosen.
“I need you to be open and clear with me,” she said. “If you are troubled, tell me. If you fear something, tell me. If you believe adifficulty lies before us, do not look away and leave me to invent a hundred reasons in your silence. Those days at Netherfield were…” She stopped, searching for a word that did not reveal too much and found none that was honest without pain. “They were very disturbing.”
Darcy’s expression darkened with remorse. “I know. I am sorry.”
“I felt off-balance. Foolish. As though I had imagined every kindness between us.”
“You did not.”
“I know that now. I did not then.”
He stepped a little nearer, still carefully, as though every movement required permission. “I promise. I cannot promise never to err, but I can promise not to hide behind silence again. In another life, had I moved only in polite society, I might think delicate subjects better left untouched. But five years in the militia taught me otherwise. Men have been injured, friendships broken, duties neglected, and reputations damaged because someone feared an awkward conversation more than a dangerous misunderstanding. Silence is not always restraint. Sometimes it is negligence.”
