Page 20 of Time Stands Still

Darcy saw his sister straighten slightly in her chair. “I… I am very fond of Clementi,” she offered. “His sonatas are so… expressive.”

“I do not know them well,” Elizabeth admitted freely. “My own knowledge is sadly limited. You must tell me which I ought to listen for. The ones that are most expressive, as you say.”

And so, Georgiana, with gentle encouragement from both Bennet sisters, began to speak with greater ease. She spoke of the pieces she was learning, of the particular challenges of a certain passage, of the way a shift in key could alter the entire mood of a composition. Darcy listened, astonished and deeply moved. He had heard his sister speak this way to her music master, but never, not once, in a social setting with new acquaintances. He compared the scene before him with the countless excruciating dinners he had endured with Miss Caroline Bingley, sister to his friend, who would lavish Georgiana with gross and obvious flattery about her “exquisite talent” before turning the conversation immediately back to herself. Miss Bingley sought to impress; Miss Elizabeth sought to know. In that simple distinction, he felt, a whole world of character and worth was revealed.

He saw it then, not as a passing thought, but as a profound and immutable truth. His need for Elizabeth Bennet in his life was no longer a matter of inconvenient affection or a desire for a suitable wife. It was a necessity for the peace of his own heart. She possessed an intuitive understanding of the heart that was as sharp and penetrating as her wit, and she used it not for manipulation, but for connection. She was making his sister feel seen and valued in a way no one else ever had. The knowledge of how poorly he had once understood this woman, how he had dismissed her and her family, struck him with the force of a physical blow. This strange and terrible enchantment now appeared to him in a new light. It was a space to be explored, rather than a curse to be broken. A chance to show her the man he truly was, and a chance to win the heart of a woman he now knew, with a certainty that defied all logic, was the only one in the world who could ever make him truly happy.

After dinner, the party adjourned to the drawing room together. He waited, his patience a thin veneer over a taut wire of purpose, until Miss Bennet, Georgiana, and Mrs. Annesley were engrossed in a quiet conversation over a book of prints. This was his moment.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice carrying just enough for the room to hear, “as you are an admirer of books, perhaps you would grant me the honour of showing you my library? Ladies,” he added, his gaze sweeping to include his sister, her companion, and the elder Miss Bennet, “I should be delighted if you would all join us.”

He felt a surge of gratitude when Miss Bennet, with a gentle smile, declined, professing a desire to discuss the book of prints with his sister. Mrs. Annesley, seeing her charge so pleasantly engaged, also begged to be excused.

He led Elizabeth to the library, leaving the door slightly ajar to satisfy the most basic demands of propriety. She stood just inside the doorway, her hands clasped, her expression one of genuine awe.

“It is a magnificent collection, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice soft with reverence.

“It is the work of many generations,” he replied, watching her. “The heart of the house, my father used to call it.”

“A very fine heart indeed,” she murmured, her eyes tracing the lines of carved mahogany up to the vaulted ceiling. Her gaze fell upon a particularly dense section of shelves. “I see your section on local histories is as extensive as your aunt’s.”

The mention of his aunt’s library, and their shared purpose there, brought them back to the reality of their situation. “It is,” he said. “A vast repository, yet I confess I hold little hope that the precise answer to our predicament lies within these volumes.” He paused, then continued, his voice low. “Nevertheless, should we find ourselves in Kent again tomorrow, after the clock strikes midnight, we must continue our search. We have a plan, and we must see it through.”

“Yes,” she affirmed, her voice clear and firm. “We must.”

“But while our research is one path,” he began, forgoing any preamble, “I confess my thoughts have turned upon another. I have begun to wonder if we have been looking at our situation from the wrong perspective entirely. The recurrence of the day began for you after my proposal. It did not begin for me until I acknowledged the justice of your accusations, and you, in turn, acknowledged that you may have misjudged me.”

He watched her face intently, saw the flicker of understanding in her eyes. “You believe the two events are connected.”

“I do,” he said. “What if this situation is not some random celestial event, but something centred entirely upon us? Upon my own blindness, and upon your, you must forgive my boldness, misjudgment. It was when we both began to yield that the rules of the enchantment changed. It was then that I was drawn in with you.”

She did not speak, but her gaze was fixed upon him, her mind clearly working through the logic of his theory.

“If that is the case,” he continued, “then fighting against it, seeking external cures, may be a fool’s errand. Perhaps the only way out is through. Through a better understanding of one another.”

She did not speak, but her gaze was fixed upon him, her expression one of profound, unguarded openness. He took an involuntary step closer, his hand rising as if of its own accord. The urge to close the remaining distance, to cup her cheek, to kiss the lips that had so recently challenged and delighted him, was a physical force, a desperate, aching need. But he stopped himself. It was too soon. He would not, he resolved, take advantage of this strange intimacy.

He let his hand fall, taking a steadying breath to master the sudden tumult in his blood. “Therefore,” he began, his voice a little rougher than he intended, “I propose we alter our plan for the day. We shall meet in the grove near Hunsford as we have planned, and we may certainly go to the library to pursue our research. But let us not be only conspirators. I propose we also begin a courtship, to discover if we may truly suit. Let us proceed as a gentleman and a lady seeking to know one another’s heart and mind, with the eventual aim of marriage.”

Elizabeth’s eyes, those fine eyes that had indeed bewitched him, widened. A slow blush rose on her cheeks, but she did not look away. He saw in her expression not alarm or revulsion, but a profound and thoughtful consideration.

“A courtship,” she repeated softly.

“Yes,” he affirmed. “Let us use this time, whether it be one more day or a hundred, to discover if we may truly suit. Let us build something real in the midst of this unreality.”

A long moment passed. The ticking of the grand clock in the hall was the only sound. “Very well, Mr. Darcy,” she said at last, her voice clear and firm. “I agree to your proposal. Let us begin a courtship.”

A wave of relief so potent it nearly staggered him washed through his frame. He had secured her consent. He had a path forward.

The evening continued pleasantly after that. When they rejoined the others, he was pleased to see his sister speaking with an unusual animation to Miss Bennet.

After escorting the ladies to their carriage and seeing it safely on its way, he returned to the drawing-room to find Georgiana waiting for him, a hopeful, expectant look on her face.

“She is a wonderful woman, Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana said, her usual shyness gone, replaced by a sincere enthusiasm. “Miss Elizabeth is everything you said, and more.”

Darcy felt a slow, warm smile spread across his face. “She is, is she not?”

“From your letters from Hertfordshire, I confess I had begun to suspect…” she began, a blush rising to her cheeks. “You wrote of her with such… spirit. But to see you bring her here, to our home… Oh, Fitzwilliam, I am so very happy for you.”