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Having arrived to Netherfield the night prior, Darcy really ought to have steeled his nerves before coming to Longbourn with Bingley, for he found, upon his admittance into the drawing room, that he could only blink and stare at Miss Elizabeth, his mind for once unable to conjure anything to say, let alone anything intelligent. His breath caught in his throat as he watched her every movement, every glance, every laugh, every word— she was beautiful as ever, and he was bewitched, as always. And so he remained silent, or at least as silent as propriety would allow him to be.
All eyes were on Bingley and Miss Bennet, in any case, so there was a noticeable lack of attention placed on him in spite of his not being in Hertfordshire for nigh on ten days— nearly all eyes, at least— Elizabeth returned his gaze with some unreadable expression before quickly turning her attention back to Bingley. But her eyes frequently wandered to his person, which sent his heart racing as he pondered exactly how he was going to approach asking after her hand a second time when she'd so rightly refused him previously.
It was a senseless idea, really— no sensible man would present a second suit— a sensible man would accept the refusal and— though perhaps a bit embarrassed, as Darcy was in the weeks initially following it— move on with his life. But Darcy knew he could not, not with this tiny sliver of hope presented before him.
Perhaps the hope was nothing. It was, after all, originating from a second-hand account from a woman who hated Elizabeth, who did not know her beyond the biases that colored her perception. But he had to know— he had to know, for the sake of his heart, for the sake of his future happiness. If she refused him once more, he would, of course, accept it, but he could not live in a world where Elizabeth at last returned his affections but he was too cowardly to confess to her, where they both felt the awkwardness of a mutual love, especially one won after so much animosity, but they could never do anything about it.
"Mr. Darcy?" Bingley looked at him pointedly, a bemused expression on his lips, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Mrs. Bennet asked you a question."
"Apologies, ma'am, I was not attending," he said, clearing his throat, desperately trying to discontinue staring at Elizabeth, but he failed— and she did not share in the amusement his lack of focus might have ordinarily provided.
"Oh, no, no need to apologize, sir!" Mrs. Bennet cried, shaking her head as she nervously looked anywhere but his direction. "Jane and Mr. Bingley desire to walk— and I thought you, Kitty, and Lizzy could join them as chaperones," she explained, then quickly added, "that is, if you are agreeable…"
He made his assent, maintaining his gaze on the object of his affections— perhaps too pointedly, but Mrs. Bennet either didn't notice anything happening between her daughter and a wealthy, single gentleman for once, or she did not care with Bingley present, or she could not believe it. (For once, Darcy was grateful for her sudden lapse in match-making— he was anxious enough without her mother fawning over him to add to his nerves.)
And so, after Elizabeth, Miss Bennet, and Miss Catherine donned their coats, bonnets, and gloves, they all made their way outside with little fuss.
The walk was made in relative silence, only broken up by Miss Catherine asking to call on Miss Lucas. When she made her way down the lane to Lucas Lodge, Darcy glanced behind him— Bingley and Jane were a considerable distance away— Miss Catherine was at last out of earshot— and he was finally alone with Elizabeth, without any need for contrivances. She offered him a small smile, and he forced himself to breath in deeply to calm his beating heart.
There was a small part of him that prayed she would speak all he wanted to hear, declare herself to be in love with him, express all her admiration, tell him her wishes matched his own— but that feeling was fleeting. No respectable young lady would ever dream of doing such a thing, and he was braver than that.
She did not give him the chance to prove it, however, for she quickly took the opportunity of his silence to express her gratitude for his business with her younger sister, her eyes full of courage and determination, almost exhilarated— but steadfast nonetheless. It was a sight to behold— he half-imagined her current appearance rather resembled how she appeared during the abominable conversation with Lady Catherine, that she was just as brave and bold.
"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," he replied when she finally finished her speech, his voice shakier than he desired as he continued expressing his regret over her knowledge. She insisted it was no fault of the Gardiners, that it was purely her own curiosity after Mrs. Wickham betrayed some of the truth that spurred her into writing to her aunt, who was only obliging her request for information.
Perhaps he worried her material change in behavior and attitude had only occurred due to his involvement in the rescue of her sister, that it was mere gratitude, not love, not affection, not admiration that drove her change of opinion. Perhaps he feared this would be the end, that they would part from here as indifferent acquaintances, and he would never again have the opportunity to share with her his own feelings. But every doubt, every fear would inevitably remind him of Lady Catherine's words, and surely— surely— he wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
They halted as Elizabeth explained the source of her knowledge, and Darcy looked at her, really looked at her, trying to puzzle her face out. It was only her shuddering breath as she met his gaze and the lightly blushing cheeks that convinced him to, at the very least, tell her some of the truth: that he did it only for her. That he wished only to ease her pain, to carry her burdens, to lessen all her strife— to make her happy.
Her face warmed even more at this admission, all splotchy and red, and her lips— Lord, her lips— opened slightly in surprise— or perhaps embarrassment.
"You are too generous to trifle with me," he said, finally, his heart racing in his chest, beating against his sternum unbidden. It felt so important yet unmonumental, standing in a dirt lane headed toward nowhere in particular, surrounded by the rolling hill of Hertfordshire, on a walk sanctioned by her mother so that they could act as chaperones for her sister and Bingley. "If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever."
For a moment— for a brief, unbearable moment— there was silence, and Elizabeth averted her gaze, and Darcy had half a mind to run, to take back every foolish word he ever said to her, but her presence kept his feet glued to the ground below him, unwilling to move away until she had said her piece. When she opened her mouth, he held his breath until she mustered enough courage, saying, "Please, do not remain silent. I can hardly make sense of it, for my feelings are so— so confusing— and different— but I know I wish for anything but your silence on this subject."
"You— I— different?" he stuttered out, blushing over his lack of composure.
"I hope you do not think me so easily changeable," she said, sighing as the corners of her lips curled ever so slightly up, "but yes, they are quite different…" Her voice trailed off as she stared at the country road ahead of her, her mind seemingly miles away, before continuing in spite of her obvious discomfort, "At the inn in Lambton, when you left, I— I realized quite suddenly my disappointment at your leaving, and I thought perhaps, had you asked again— I thought you might, possibly— at Pemberley you were so kind to me and my relations, when you had no reason to be—"
"But—"
"Please, sir, allow me to speak my heart. I cannot— I do not know how to properly articulate my thoughts. Perhaps it will come out wrong, but it must be said. I have been confused for so long, and I— when you returned to Longbourn, and you— and we did not—" She paused, shaking her head. "It occurred to me at the worst possible moment that my reply would not be the same as it was in April, and I continued to dwell on these imprudent thoughts despite my sister, and then later her marriage… I thought surely you would not wish…" She trailed off again, her countenance full of anxiety and nerves like he'd never seen. "But you still love me? In spite of all that has occurred between us? In spite of— of my reprehensible connections, and—"
"With all my heart," he interrupted, taking her hands in his, and then he began rambling, "Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, you are— you are the delight of my life— the best of women— such a selfless creature to forgive me my transgressions— to so materially change your opinion of me." He paused, breathless, as he watched her face morph from fear and sorrow to one of surprise and hope— not quite joy, as she seemed ever-so unsure of herself, of her feelings— but it was more than he could have possibly prayed for. "You must know that naught but a lack of affection on your part could keep me from you— not any other person or circumstance— nothing. I love you, even more now than I ever thought possible, and—" Upon noticing her head lower, he stopped himself, clenching his jaw as sharply inhaled. "Pray, forgive me for my passion; I like to pretend I'm a sensible man, but I cannot be in your presence."
"Mr. Darcy…" she murmured, her eyes finally meeting his— to think he ever previously thought the way she looked at him betrayed secret feelings for him. But he could not be mistaken now, not when the signs were so obvious.
With a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, he continued, more firm in his resolve, "If you would acquit me of my foolishness, madam, and consent to be my wife, I will surely be the happiest of men. I cannot make any promises that I will be a sensible husband, but I can assure you of my unending affection and admiration."
When she nodded and replied with her acceptance, the fervency of his affection overwhelmed him to such a degree that he felt obliged to draw her hands closer and press his lips to her fingers. Though her lips seemed far more desirable, she deserved better than for her fiancé of a few minutes to accost her in a country lane, so instead, he summoned his restraint and offered her his arm, which she took gladly, glancing up at him with a shyness he'd never been privy to.
They walked on at once and, in relative silence, ambled about with little care or consideration to their destination. It was pleasant for once— the silence. Not distressing at it so often had been.
"Your aunt called on me," she said after a little while, breathing deeply. "It was certainly…" She paused with a sigh. "… an interesting interview."
Darcy's cheeks warmed at the memory of his aunt entering his home in high dudgeon demanding she be listened to and for him to comply— and he was family. He couldn't even imagine how much worse Lady Catherine behaved toward a woman she deemed far beneath her. "I must apologize on her behalf; I suppose her words were not much more pleasant than the ones she shared with me upon her return through London."
"Oh, yes, well, all is forgot." Elizabeth smiled and gestured to their linked arms. "I can't imagine she'll be overly pleased with this development."
"No, I think not," he agreed, shaking his head. "What did she say to you? She detailed it thoroughly, but I'd like to hear it in your own words."
She shrugged. "Her usual demands." When he gave her a pointed look, she raised her eyebrows and asked instead, "What did she say to you?"
"Her usual demands," he said with a smile, then more seriously, "She conveyed to me the content of the interview— out of order, perhaps, for she only mentioned some aspects as she saw relevant to make her case— and expressed a concern that your words retained some hope of the pecuniary advantages of a marriage to me."
"Oh."
"Of course I disabused her of the notion," Darcy added quickly, "but I do not think she was persuaded; she continued to relate to me similar accusations toward your character until the moment she left. I told her she was ignorant of the whole story— she doesn't know that you ever refused me, even now— for the sake of your privacy I would not tell her anything if I did not know she had already heard from you— but she remained convinced her interpretation was correct."
Elizabeth nodded as she listened, her lips thinning into a line as she drew her brows together in thought silence. He tilted his head to get a better view, and when she met his eyes, she startled a little, letting out a laugh as she shook her head. "Forgive me, sir, I was attending, but…"
Once again her voice trailed, and he was left to fill in the spaces, "You mustn't give any credence to what she said, my dear." He put a hand on hers, hoping to reassure her. "I certainly did not. I believe Lady Catherine wished me to— to use my own resentful nature against me— but… it had the opposite effect." He smiled in recollection of when it first occurred to him that Elizabeth might return his affections. "You cannot know what it meant to me, hearing your words through my aunt— it taught me to hope, as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before."
The rest of the walk consisted of discussing their past grievances— it was surprisingly easy to divulge his heart knowing she took his word in good faith, knowing she now admired him, knowing she was to be the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. He felt no scruples in sharing every despicable instance of pride and vanity he indulged in the weeks leading up to his first proposal, in relating to her the change of character he'd experienced, in expressing his gratitude for her words.
"What time is it?" Elizabeth eventually asked. "I hope it hasn't been too long; it is too nice a day, and the company is far too agreeable, to return indoors just yet."
The implication that she wished to be alone with him for a little while longer struck him more than he cared to admit— in fact, Darcy had half a mind to pretend he didn't bring his pocket watch, but that would be a deception— an obvious one, at that— she could probably see the chain of it sticking out of the front pocket of his waistcoat. So he pulled out the pocket watch and looked down at it, sighing. "Half-noon."
"Surely not—" Shaking her head, she took it from his grasp and realized the truth of his words. "But we— we've hardly spoken at all. I thought—" She rummaged through her reticule and pulled out her own pocket watch to compare. "Oh."
"It is half-noon," he repeated with a sad smile.
"We ought to return," she suggested, reluctantly returning the pocket watch to him. "I suppose decorum demands it soon."
"Yes, your family would worry, I think, if Misses Bennet and Catherine left you to your own devices with a strange man and you did not return for some hours."
"Not strange, Mr. Darcy, merely…" She tapped her chin, as if searching for inspiration. "Oh, I do not believe a single word encapsulates your being. You are such a man, sir."
He raised an eyebrow. "I am?"
"Well, I—" She paused, blushing furiously. "It— I did not mean…"
"You are uncomfortable."
"But an hour ago, if I had declared every single silly and ridiculous thought I had about you, it would have been unseemly, but suddenly I am perfectly within my rights to announce my feelings because you have announced yours?" She shook her head. "You must understand for ladies it is different."
He smiled. "You are not uncomfortable because of my attention."
"No, of course not! Certainly not anymore— and if you are to be my husband—" She colored once more, seeking to avert her gaze in her embarrassment. "Oh, Lord, this is impossible— let us talk of other things, please. I cannot— not now— it is too much— too new— for me at present. You are too well acquainted with my feelings to require me to profess them further today, in any case."
"Of course," he agreed, "What other topic interests you?"
Elizabeth looked ahead of her at the couple a good distance away, walking arm in arm in the direction of Longbourn. "My sister is very happy."
"As is Mr. Bingley. Ever since he told me of it— he wrote me the moment he arrived at Netherfield from Longbourn after his proposal— he has spoken of nothing but his dear, beloved fiancée," he said. "I am more than happy to indulge him, of course, especially now knowing he may do the same for me."
With some questions from her here and there, he explained the whole affair that brought about the engagement, ending finally on, "He has heartily forgiven me now."
For a moment, she just looked at him, with such a strange expression on her face that he narrowed his eyes, unnerved by her trained gaze and unreadable emotions. (He'd never quite learned the art of reading the various facial expressions of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and though he could only pray he'd learn enough in the coming weeks to intimately familiarize himself with those of Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, at present the hope was of no comfort.)
Then she opened her mouth, as if to speak, before closing it and shaking her head, as if pushing away some imprudent thought she decided against sharing. "I am glad to hear of it," she said instead— with a reassuring smile, at least. "They will be a most happy pair."
"Their happiness could not compare to ours," he argued, and she blushed and assented as they neared Longbourn, their time together alone— for possibly the last time before their marriage— coming to a close.
Before she went inside, and he made his way over to Netherfield, Darcy pulled Elizabeth aside and bestowed a kiss on her gloved hand, at which she blushed and shook her head. "Are you… certain?"
"Of my choice?" she asked, almost aghast, "You must know me well enough to know that I would not torment you like that, Mr. Darcy. No, your heart is much too dear to me; with your permission, I would very much like to keep it."
"It is yours to do with what you wish."
"I'm very pleased to count it amongst my possessions, then. I promise to take good care of it." She smiled. "Goodbye, Mr. Darcy. Until tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, I pray," he replied with his free hand on his heart. "Parting is such sweet sorrow."
"So many references to tragic heroes!" she cried, letting out a laugh, "Do you wish us any happiness at all?"
"Bestowing on me the gift of your hand gives me all the happiness I require. I do not look to Macbeth and Juliet for anything other than pretty words."
"Ah, I suppose I will have to allow it if that is your only intention." She then squeezed his hand and repeated, "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
He escorted her to the front door, where they parted without further ado, and with much reluctance on his part, he got on his horse and rode back to Netherfield, his heart much lighter in his chest than this morning.