“Perhaps not quite so soon as that,” she replied, laughing gently. “But you may write to me if you like. I should be delighted to receive letters from such an accomplished correspondent.”
Ambrose brightened at this prospect. “I shall write every day! I shall tell you about my lessons, the birds in the garden, and whether Miss Francesca has scolded me for getting my clothes dirty.”
“I look forward to every letter,” Elizabeth assured him, pressing a kiss to his cheek before rising. The farewell proved more difficult than she had anticipated; somewhere during the past weeks, this motherless child had wound himself around her affections with silken threads she had not even perceived being spun.
The journey home in Mr Bingley’s comfortable carriage afforded too much time for reflection. As the familiar countryside rolled past the windows, Elizabeth wrestled with the uncomfortable realisation of how thoroughly Ambrose had claimed her devotion. When had his welfare become so central to her peace of mind? When had the prospect of his eventual departure from Hertfordshire—for surely Mr Darcy would return to his own estate soon—begun to feel like an impending loss?
She pressed her fingers to the glass, watching a flock of starlings wheel across the autumn sky. Mr Darcy was not a man to neglect his responsibilities indefinitely. Pemberley required his attention, his business affairs demanded his presence, and when duty called, he would take Ambrose to Derbyshire. The thought of the little boy disappearing from her life as suddenly as he had entered it created an ache in her chest that she was reluctant to examine too closely.
How foolish to grow so attached to a child who was not hers, who could never be hers. Yet the alternative—maintaining careful distance to protect her own feelings—seemed equally impossible now that she had experienced the particular joy of being needed by someone so innocent and trusting.
Longbourn’s familiar chimneys appeared through the trees, and Elizabeth forced herself to set aside such melancholy reflections. Her family would expect cheerful accounts of her adventure, not maudlin confessions of attachment to other people’s children.
“Lizzy!” Lydia’s shriek of delight announced her arrival before the carriage wheels had fully ceased their turning. Her youngest sister burst from the house like a cork from a bottle, followed more sedately by Kitty and Mary, and finally by Jane,whose serene smile conveyed welcome more eloquently than any amount of noise.
“How brown you have grown!” Mrs Bennet declared, subjecting Elizabeth to intense maternal scrutiny. “All that walking about in the fresh air, I suppose. Still, you look well enough. Come, you must tell us everything immediately. Did Mr Bingley’s sisters treat you civilly? Was the food to your liking? And what of this mysterious little boy we have heard so much about?”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be swept into the familiar chaos of family life, answering questions through carefully edited accounts that emphasised the amusing rather than the poignant aspects of her stay. She described Miss Bingley’s elaborate morning toilettes, Mr Hurst’s dedicated pursuit of the best cuts of meat at dinner, and Ambrose’s endearing habit of conducting elaborate conversations around the garden statuary.
“And Mr Darcy?” her father enquired from his corner chair, his keen eyes suggesting he perceived more than her measured tone revealed. “I trust he proved a tolerable companion during your extended visit?”
“Mr Darcy is a complex gentleman,” Elizabeth replied carefully. “Not always easy to understand, but devoted to the child’s welfare.”
“How romantic!” Lydia sighed dramatically. “A mysterious gentleman caring for an orphaned child. It sounds like something from one of Mary’s improving novels.”
“There is nothing romantic about it,” Elizabeth said more sharply than she intended. “It is merely a man fulfilling his obligations.”
Jane’s perceptive gaze lingered on her sister’s face, but she said nothing, for which Elizabeth was grateful. The lastthing she needed was to endure well-meaning questions about her thoughts regarding Mr Darcy when she was not entirely certain of them herself. He remained an enigma—a man whose arrogance could infuriate her one moment, yet whose devotion to Ambrose moved her the next.
The conversation eventually turned to local news, and Elizabeth learned happily that Mr Bingley’s attentions to Jane had grown markedly more particular during her absence.
“He has called three times since you left,” Jane confided later when they had gained the privacy of their shared chamber. “Each visit lasted longer than the previous, and yesterday he brought flowers from his own hothouse.”
“That sounds most promising, dearest. He would be a fool not to recognise your worth.”
Jane’s soft blush spoke eloquently of her growing attachment. “I dare not hope too much, yet I confess I have never met a gentleman whose company I enjoy more thoroughly.”
“Mr Bingley strikes me as an honourable man,” Elizabeth said, squeezing her sister’s hand. “I believe his intentions towards you are entirely serious.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Mary’s announcement that a gentleman had arrived and requested a private audience alongside Elizabeth. The unusual formality of the request sent curious glances flying between the sisters, though only Jane seemed to guess at the caller’s identity.
Elizabeth descended to the parlour, her pulse quickening rapidly. Mr Darcy stood near the window, his tall figure outlined against the fading afternoon light. He had changed from his morning dress into formal evening attire, lending an air of ceremony to his unexpected visit.
“Miss Bennet.” He turned as she entered, executing a precise bow. “I must thank you for receiving me at such short notice.”
“Not at all, sir. I trust Ambrose was not too distressed by my departure?”
“He bears it admirably, though he has already begun composing his first letter to you.” A brief smile softened his austere features. “He wishes to inform you that he has successfully taught one of the peacocks to eat from his hand.”
Despite her growing nervousness, Elizabeth felt her lips curve upward. “A significant achievement indeed. I shall respond with all due gravity to such momentous news.”
Silence fell between them, weighted by unspoken purpose. Mr Darcy’s hands were clasped behind his back in his characteristic pose, yet she detected a tension in his bearing that suggested carefully controlled emotion.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, then stopped, seeming to struggle over his words. “I find myself in the unusual position of needing to speak plainly about matters that convention would dictate be approached more… delicately.”
Elizabeth’s heart began to beat more rapidly, though she could not have said why. “I appreciate plain speaking, sir. It prevents misunderstanding.”
“Very well.” He drew a deep breath, his dark gaze fixing on her face intensely. “I have come to ask for your hand in marriage.”
