“You have chosen better weather than Oakham Mount,” she said at last.
“I had little control over the weather.”
“Yet you look as though you would have negotiated with it if necessary.”
“I considered it.”
“And did the weather prove reasonable?”
“Eventually.”
She laughed softly, and Darcy felt the sound with something like awe. This was what he had nearly lost. Not merely beauty, not merely wit, but this ease that came when she was near him, as though even his solemnity knew how to breathe.
They reached the far turn of the garden, where an old yew and a clipped hedge concealed them from the house without taking them beyond propriety. Darcy stopped there. Elizabeth’s hand slipped from his arm, and she turned to face him, all amusement now quieted by expectation.
For one moment, Darcy forgot every word he had planned.
Then he remembered Georgiana’s counsel.
Sincere.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “two days ago, you told me that if I still wished for your answer, I must ask my question properly.”
“I did.”
“I have thought of little else since.”
“That seems a very great burden to lay upon one small sentence.”
“It was not the sentence that burdened me.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “It was the hope attached to it.”
Her gaze softened, but she said nothing.
“The first time I asked you to marry me, I did so badly. Not because the feelings were false, but because I had allowed fear to bring me to the edge of losing you before I had the courage to speak. I poured out too much, too quickly, and asked you to answer not only my love, but all the confusion that had led me there. You deserved better.”
“Mr. Darcy—”
“You have already forgiven me,” he said gently. “I know. But I would still begin there, because forgiveness does not excuse me from doing better now.”
She folded her hands before her, watching him with that clear attention that had undone him from the beginning.
“I love you,” Darcy said.
The words were simpler than all his planned speeches and truer than any of them.
Elizabeth’s breath caught, just slightly.
“I love your courage,” he continued. “I love your wit, your intelligence, your compassion, and the way you see what others overlook. I love that you argue with books, challenge gentlemen, tend your sister, understand tenants, and can make even a mortifying moment in a breakfast room feel as though the world has not ended but merely become more absurd. I love the strength that carries you through burdens you ought not to have borne alone, and I love the tenderness beneath it.”
Her eyes glistened now, though her smile trembled at the edges.
Darcy stepped a little nearer.
“I cannot promise you a life without difficulty. I wish I could. Pemberley has known enough of difficulty that I would spare you all of it if such a thing lay in my power. But I can promise that I will not meet hardship by turning from you. I will speak when I am afraid. I will listen when you are hurt. I will honor your judgment, protect your heart as far as any imperfect man may, and count your happiness not as separate from my duty, but part of it.”
Elizabeth looked down, and he saw one tear fall before she could hide it.
He longed to take her hand, but waited.
