Mr. Bennet began his eternal ritual of cleaning his spectacles, the soft scritch-scratch of silk against glass filling the silence until it was nearly unbearable.
“I said no.”
Her jaw dropped. Of all the possible outcomes she had rehearsed, this had not so much as crossed the threshold.
“But, Papa, you did not ask my opinion.” A cold numbness crept into her fingers.
Her father gazed at her, shaking his head. “You left Longbourn despising him. You were angry that he would be your trustee, and you determined to be rid of him as soon as you could manage your own affairs. You told me he was the most disagreeable, insufferable monument of pride in England.”
“But… that was…” Elizabeth’s voice cracked, a jagged, broken sound. “That was before?—”
“Before or after Nettle soundly bit him?”
Nettle, hearing her name, gave a resounding yip. Her affirmation of a conversation she did not understand.
“No, Papa, after. You must have noticed he is best friends with Nettle now.”
“I have seen the joy your terrier gets with his vigorous throwing arm; however, I am puzzled by your response.” Mr. Bennet leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “What has changed, Lizzy? Something you have not told me?”
Elizabeth regarded her father, her mind darting to Hunsford—the proposal she had spurned, the letter that had upended her certainties, and the months in which Darcy had quietly, persistently, proved himself. She thought of the garden at Grosvenor Street, of mud and laughter and a lifetime ofarguments, and of how fervently she had wished he would seek her father’s consent.
“I was wrong about him, Papa.” Her voice steadied, though her heart galloped. “I was wrong, and proud, and prejudiced, and I have spent the last month learning just how mistaken I was. He is not disagreeable. He is not insufferable. He is—” She faltered, words failing to contain the feeling. “He is the best man I have ever known. If you have refused him for my sake, you have done me a great disservice.”
Mr. Bennet’s expression softened, and he sighed, rubbing his eyes. “You would welcome his addresses, then?”
“I would welcome them, Papa. I would welcome them with all my heart.”
“Then it appears you have a difficulty, Lizzy.” Mr. Bennet’s mouth curved into that particular smile reserved for the misfortunes of others. “For I have refused the gentleman, and he has departed, and if you wish to amend my error, you must do so yourself.”
“Myself? But Papa! A woman cannot… it is not proper for a woman to…”
“You have never concerned yourself with propriety before. Why begin now?” Papa raised his glass of port in a toast. “Besides, Mr. Darcy mentioned that he will be returning tomorrow morning to take your dog for a walk. Something about Nettle requiring proper exercise that only a gentleman can provide.”
Elizabeth stared at her father. Then she laughed—a wild, helpless sound that was half joy and half terror.
“He is coming tomorrow?”
“At nine o’clock, according to his extremely precise announcement.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled. “I suggest you be in the garden, Lizzy. Wearing something that can survive mud. Andperhaps…” He paused, considering. “Rehearse your wit. You shall need it.”
Elizabeth rose from her chair. She bent to kiss her father’s cheek—something she had not done since she was a child.
“Thank you, Papa.”
“Do not thank me yet. I have done nothing except refuse a wealthy gentleman and instruct my daughter to pursue him like a hoyden.” But he was smiling. “Go to bed, Lizzy. Tomorrow will require your full faculties.”
And so it would. She would have to speak first, for a gentleman refused twice is unlikely to risk a third. As for what she might say, she had not the faintest notion. Her wit must lead her home, and she could only hope Jane had been right all along.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE HEDGEROWS
Darcy arrivedat Longbourn a few minutes before nine o’clock. He had checked the knot in his cravat four times, a desperate attempt to impose order on a man who felt entirely untethered. But as he stood at the garden gate, the rhythmic racing of his heart mocked his composure.
The first thing he heard was the scrabbling of paws as Nettle darted from behind a cluster of overgrown hydrangea. She barked and leaped, her eyes fixed on him with the intensity of a devotee.
Darcy didn’t wait. He opened the gate and drew the worn leather ball from his pocket, then threw it high and wide, sailing over the budding rose bushes. It bounced, rolled, and stopped beneath an elm tree.
Nettle reached the ball, examined it with the seriousness of a magistrate, and then, in flagrant disregard of their recent accord, seized it and ran on. No backward glance, no triumph—she scrambled through a gap in the fence and vanished onto the lane.
