The words always nestled deeply into his heart as he thought about those he had lost. But this time, the pain was lessened, because of who he hoped to gain.
“You know it by heart,” she said softly, her fingers resting lightly on his arm. “I would not have guessed that poetry spoke to you in such a way.”
Darcy met her gaze, his usual reserve giving way to something more open, more vulnerable. “Wordsworth writes of a kind of loss and hope that I find familiar.”
A gruff voice interrupted from near the window. “Rather poignant. And yet, I cannot help but wonder, Mr. Darcy, if it is entirely wise to burden my daughter with such philosophical musings. Should courtship not involve a touch more levity? Or is this a modern approach?”
Startled, Darcy turned to see Mr. Bennet leaning against the chair he had vacated, watching them with sardonic amusement. Elizabeth bit her lip, clearly suppressing a laugh.
“Papa,” she said with mock sternness, “I believe you have spent too much time in your own company. Perhaps you would prefer to entertain Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
“Rescue him, more like,” her father replied, gesturing toward the lively sounds from the hall. “Let us all go.”
Darcy rose, mortified. But Elizabeth touched the back of her hand to the back of his and gave him an encouraging nod.
It helped.
Mr. Bennet straightened and waved them toward the door with exaggerated solemnity. “Come along, then.” His clap on Darcy’s back was unexpectedly strong. “If you insist upon waxing poetic, Mr Darcy, I shall do my utmost to ensure you do not turn my daughter into a philosopher. I have spent years cultivating her wit—too much gravitas may well spoil the crop.”
It was a strange jest—Mr. Bennet seemed to imply that Elizabeth lacked seriousness, when anyone could see she wasan intelligent woman whochoseto meet the world with warmth and wit. It was part of what he so admired about her.
“Papa,” Miss Bennet remonstrated. “Mr. Darcy will think you are serious.”
Darcy’s discomfort eased as they stepped back into the pleasant whirl of the drawing room. He had never understood his own father’s humour, either. The thought came to him unbidden, and he pushed it away.
2 February 1812
My Dearest Lizzy,
Mr. Darcy has asked to call. What a turn of events! I confess myself intrigued, though not entirely surprised. When we spent time together, all of us in the crowded drawing room at Longbourn, I suspected that Mr. Darcy’s admiration for you ran deeper than appearances might suggest. That he has approached you openly speaks well of him; it shows not only admiration of your person, but the sort of respect you could not be happy without.
You ask whether you should trust your feelings as they are so new. My dear Lizzy, it is precisely because they are new that you must approach them with care but not distrust. Let them grow naturally,without forcing them into certainty or dismissing them out of fear. A courtship is not a declaration; it is a period of discovery. Use it to learn about Mr. Darcy as he truly is, beyond what you have seen in his moments of pride or reserve. Look for consistency in his actions, for kindness toward yourself and others, and for a willingness to listen and adapt when circumstances demand it.
You must also consider your own heart. Do you respect him? Do you admire the man you have come to know? Do you feel at ease in his presence, able to speak your mind without fear of judgment? These are the foundations upon which affection grows into something lasting.
Let his actions guide you more than his words, and do not hesitate to ask questions when you feel the need for clarity. A man worth loving will never shy away from honest discourse.
Finally, my dear, remember that your happiness is as important as his. A marriage founded on duty or expectation alone cannot stand the tests of life. It is only when two people meet as equals, sharing respect, friendship, and affection, that they can build something enduring.
Write to me again soon, and do not hesitate to share your thoughts. You have always had a discerning mind, Lizzy, and I trust that now you have a reason, you will also find your way to the truth of your own heart.
Your loving aunt,
M. Gardiner
Elizabeth folded the letter and placed it back in the drawer of her writing desk. She had read it a dozen times since its arrival a few days past.
Mr. Darcy had been a constant presence over the past week, his daily visits accompanied by his cousin and his sister. Each visit revealed another facet of the man she thought she had known. He had surprised her—delighted her, even—with his quiet attentions and unfailing courtesy, not only to her but to her family. There was no hint of his former stiffness when he addressed her mother, and with her younger sisters, he was kind, though firm in deflecting Lydia's overly familiar remarks.
His interactions with the Gardiners during their Christmas visit had already impressed her. He had not merely tolerated their company but offered every appearance of enjoying it. The easy camaraderie he had shared with her uncle over matters of trade, estate management, and fishing, of course, spoke to a man unafraid to value merit over social status. How wrong she had been to think him insufferably proud. He had only wanted to be put at ease for him to become quite affable. He would never be entirely easy in company, but Elizabeth thought that might be something with which she could assist him.
Elizabeth's thoughts turned to Miss Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. She liked Miss Darcy immensely, and not only because her younger sisters seemed to be improving under her quiet influence. Miss Darcy’s reticence had softened into genuine warmth as they all spent time together. The girl’s admiration for her brother was evident, as was her own growing approval of Elizabeth. Colonel Fitzwilliam, too, had proved to be both witty and insightful as well as clearly fond of his cousins. It was reassuring to think that, should she marry Mr. Darcy, these two would not only support the match but might also become dear friends.
Her aunt’s advice echoed in her mind:Look for consistency in his actions, for kindness toward yourself and others.Had he not already shown her both? His attentions were deliberate and steady. When she spoke, he truly listened, and though he did not always agree, he engaged her with a thoughtful respect that felt as new as it was exhilarating. Over the past days he had even sought her opinion on improvements to Pemberley’s tenants’ cottages, and his honest interest in her ideas was a compliment that gratified her deeply.
But what of her heart? Her aunt’s words encouraged her to trust it, to allow her feelings to grow naturally. Her admiration for him, already established, was rapidly increasing, and the many facets of his character were intriguing to her. Above all, there was a sense that Mr. Darcyvaluedher, which was a more substantial compliment than the studied, flowery praises that some suitors were known to bestow. Mr. Darcy was a serious man. She had never considered, before, how safe, how secure such a man might make her feel.
A soft knock at the door interrupted Elizabeth’s thoughts. “Miss Lizzy,” Hill said as she peeked in. “Mr. Darcy has called. Your mother is receiving him downstairs.”
