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Fletcher waited by the wardrobe, holding a brush.

Darcy removed his coat, handing the garment to his trusted servant.

“The household is quite tranquil this evening, sir,” Fletcher said, applying the brush to the fabric. “I understand Miss Elizabeth provided her ladyship with a challenge at the card table. The servants’ hall is abuzz with the news. Martin believes her ladyship met her match.”

“She did,” Darcy confirmed with a wide smile. “Miss Elizabeth played flawlessly and won my aunt’s respect. The matter is settled, Fletcher.”

Fletcher paused his brushing, turning to face his master. “Then the moment has arrived, sir?”

“It has.” Darcy moved to the washstand, the weight of the past two months banished from his shoulders. “I intend to finalise the courtship tomorrow. I shall arrange an excursion, and I shall ask for her hand.”

“I offer my most sincere congratulations, sir,” Fletcher murmured, his tone thick with authentic warmth. “It is a joyous conclusion. Miss Elizabeth will govern this house with great wisdom and much-needed humour.”

“She already governs it.” He poured water into the basin and washed his hands, then dried them briskly on a linen towel. “She just requires the official title.”

“Indeed, sir. Shall I prepare the dark blue coat for tomorrow?” Fletcher inquired, returning to his duties. “The blue projects an aura of reliable devotion, which is appropriate for a proposal of marriage.”

“The blue coat will be perfect, Fletcher.”

Once Fletcher had helped him out of the rest of his clothes and he had put on his nightshirt, Darcy moved into his bedchamber and lay on his mattress, staring at the canopy above. The anxiety that usually plagued his mind was absent. Something in his heart told him that, this time, her answer would be different from the one she had given to his first proposal. Of course, he could never be certain, but he hoped with all the might of his heart. He closed his eyes with a smile on his lips, eagerly anticipating the morning sun, and the reality of his own impending happiness.

Chapter Eleven: The Blue Coat and the Blue Wildflower

The blue wildflower rested between the pages of a volume of poetry. The petals had dried during the past few days, preserving their hue, transforming the bloom from a fleeting piece of lakeside flora into a cherished relic.

Elizabeth sat near the tall window of her chamber, the book resting on her lap. She traced the edge of the pressed flower with the tip of her index finger, mindful of its fragile state.

She had an analytical mind, a faculty she relied upon to navigate the absurdities of the world. Yet, as she observed the dried petals, that same mind presented her with a startling truth: she was measuring her days by when she would next see Fitzwilliam Darcy.

The morning hours held no significance until he entered the breakfast parlour. The afternoons were empty expanses of time unless they involved a phaeton ride or a promenade in his company. The evenings concluded only when he offered his final bow before retiring.

Her sentiments had altered entirely since Hunsford. The gratitude she felt for his efforts to rescue Jane’s happiness, and the admiration she harboured for his reformed character, had merged and blossomed.

She loved him.

She did not merely love the master of Pemberley, nor did she love the consequence his name provided. She loved the man who applied butter to her morning toast, the man who had enough humility to laugh when his own enormous hound knocked him on the grass. She loved his gravity, his hidden wit, and the steadfast devotion he offered her every day.

Elizabeth closed the volume of poetry, securing the flower within the pages, and set the book on the small table near the armchair.

Today held the promise of an excursion. Mr Darcy had arranged a promenade beside the lake for the whole party, a seemingly innocent suggestion that hummed with unspoken significance.

She rose, smoothing the skirts of her gown, and adjusted the brim of her straw bonnet. She drew on her gloves and proceeded to the grand staircase.

The gathering in the primary hall presented a scene of bustling anticipation.

Servants moved over the chequered marble floor, carrying folded blankets and small woven baskets containing refreshments. Lady Catherine de Bourgh directed the footmen with sweeping gestures of her walking stick, instructing them on the angle required for carrying their burdens. Aunt Madeline and Uncle Edward stood near the open doors, content to observe the matriarch’s dictatorial frenzy.

Then, Elizabeth saw Mr Darcy.

He stood at the base of the staircase, conversing with Martin. He wore a coat of deep blue wool, the tailoring accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and his height. The colour suited him, projecting reliability and elegance.

As Elizabeth descended the final steps, he turned.

The conversation with the butler ceased. Mr Darcy’s eyes fixed on her, and he offered a bow.

“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth,” he greeted her, his tone pitched low.

“Good morning, sir.” Elizabeth bobbed a curtsy. “The weather appears suited for an outdoor endeavour.”