Page 45 of Conundrums & Coincidences

“Goodness! Whatever did you say to him?”

“That,” said Mr Darcy, shaking his head, “was one of the most distressing communications I ever have had to impart to someone.”

Not knowing what to expect, Elizabeth clasped her hands in front of her. All concern and anticipation, she prepared for the worst. “Will you tell me of it?”

He offered his arm, and they walked towards a small, walled garden. “If you insist. But prepare yourself for something very dreadful.” The nudge Mr Darcy gave her prompted a remembrance of her own words at Rosings.

Then he was all seriousness again. “I had to inform your ardent admirer he could not marry you. The age difference, you see. Now, though, I have distressing news to impart to you.”

“Humph,” Elizabeth said. “I no longer know whether to believe your solemnity. Remember, sir, I already remarked on your commendable theatrical talents. But go on, then. Tell me this distressing news of yours.”

“I am sad to report that the loss of Jimmy’s matrimonial aspirations, due to the age difference, was borne with stoic resignation. He was, however, utterly heartbroken to realise his source of comforts would depart on the morrow.”

Mr Darcy stopped at the garden wall and gazed into Elizabeth’s eyes. “On the other hand…” He kissed her gloved fingers, and his voice was a husky whisper. “A mere seven or eight years is not a great age difference between husband and wife. Is it, Miss Bennet?”

Is this the moment? Is he going to make me a⁠—

A giggle erupted from somewhere very close, followed by, “Oh, Mr Monroe!”

22

LONG & SHORT ANSWERS

‘One wedding, the proverb says, begets another.’ That quote—from John Gay’s ‘Wife of Bath’—was Darcy’s first thought upon waking on Thursday morning from a pleasant dream in which Elizabeth Bennet was his bride.

The previous afternoon, he and she had come upon Miss Rigby and Mr Monroe on a gravel path just beyond the garden wall. Standing face-to-face, holding one another’s hands, the chaperon and the attorney had been engaged in an earnest and, perhaps, amorous conversation. Had their closeness not been sufficient cause for suspicion, the faces of both would have told it all. Upon being discovered, they had moved away from one another as though burnt.

The older couple’s situation had been awkward enough, but Darcy suspected his and Elizabeth’s was worse still. For a long moment, not a syllable had been uttered by any of them, and he had been about to turn away and go when Mr Monroe cleared his throat.

“Miss Rigby and I have an understanding.”

“Indeed, we do,” said the smiling chaperon. “We are engaged to be married. Neither of us thought such a future was, as they say, on the cards. But here we are. And at our age!”

Upon their happy announcement, heartfelt congratulations had been expressed and graciously accepted. That had been the moment Darcy had first thought of Gay’s quote.

Thus, after the sun made its first appearance of the day, he leapt from bed with a smile upon his face. Such uncustomary alacrity was ascribed to Elizabeth’s agreement to meet him early that morning. Hoping to have a private conversation with her before joining the others for breakfast, Darcy did not bother to ring for either Alfred or Christopher. Using tepid water from a pitcher, he soaped a cloth and performed his morning ablutions with uncustomary haste.

Only a few servants were about at that hour to witness either the quick tap of his walking stick upon the marble floor or his hastily tied cravat as he crossed the vestibule and opened the front door.

Birds chirped as he strode across the dew-covered lawn, and morning’s soft light had already grown stronger and warmer. As promised, Elizabeth awaited him at the archway leading to the walled garden. To Darcy she was like daybreak, instilling in him the hope of a new beginning and better things to come.

People, men and women alike, always wanted so much from him—his time, his advice, his wealth, his very soul. He had become wary, jaded, and reticent. But with her by his side as Mrs Darcy, he could be himself and once again enjoy life to the fullest as he had done before the deaths of his beloved parents.

When he first had proposed in Kent, Darcy had thought his affection for Elizabeth was sublime, but each moment spent in her company had him falling more violently in love. He would broach such thoughts aloud if he thought she would welcome them, for his mind overflowed with inspiration.

As they softly greeted one another, her dainty hand wound round his proffered arm, and he noticed her fingers were bare. “Where are your gloves?”

“In my rush, I left without them. Perhaps I should return and⁠—”

“Do not do so on my account.”

They set off then, with no particular destination in mind. “Even now,” she said, “I scarcely can believe this entire place will be mine. I am enraptured by Oakwood’s beautiful gardens.” Her free hand trailed along lavender tops as she walked and talked.

It seemed to Darcy that Elizabeth enjoyed physical contact with the world around her, and he longed for her touch. “My father often said that if a person had a garden and a library, they had everything they needed.”

“That is Cicero, is it not? Papa often repeats that quote…except he purposely omits the garden part. I understand from Miss Bingley that you are always buying books and that Pemberley has a delightful library.”

“Most of the credit belongs to my ancestors.” Hopefulness lent fervency to his voice, and he came to a standstill. “But if you could see it, I believe it would be your favourite part of the house. Pray tell, who is your favourite author?”