“Indeed, sir, her words must have wrought some remarkable transformation. Was it her trip to Derbyshire when you saw her again, and renewed your offer? I can think of nothing else to account for your valiant rescue of my youngest daughter.”
Darcy’s eyes widened. “Sir, it was not my desire that any in your family be made uncomfortable. I had intended that none should know of my involvement with your younger daughter’s affairs.”
“Ho! If you wished for that, Mr Darcy, you failed to account for my Lydia’s utter incapability of holding her tongue. I am afraid we all know of it, though mercifully that knowledge is limited only to our own family.”
Darcy felt a sickening knot in his stomach. Her family’s gratitude he could bear, but was it possible that Elizabeth’s own feelings had turned on the hinge of his actions to save her sister? His eyes fell to the floor and his face became warm. Surely, they had long since passed doubt and resentment, but was it merely obligation that had weighed her heart during those months when he had been gone?
“Mr Darcy,” Mr Bennet interrupted his thoughts, “when was it, exactly, that you became engaged to my daughter? If it was before your disappearance, then my curiosity is settled on a number of points.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed curiously. “How so, sir?”
Mr Bennet cleared his throat. “Sir, if you know my Lizzy, and if you had seen her last winter, you would have thought her heart ripped from her chest. I have never seen anyone so altered. She suffered nightmares, shunned the company of those she loved, and found no pleasure in anything. I began to fear exceedingly for her health, and Mrs Bennet went so far as to suggest sending for a famous surgeon from London. I rather thought her lonely, and suggested marriage to a very agreeable fellow, but she would not hear of it. Now, if she had accepted you in Derbyshire, and simply had not the opportunity to share the news before her younger sister eloped, I have some better understanding of her despondency.
“If, however, there was no previous connection, and you first met one another again less than a fortnight ago at Pemberley, matters become mysterious again. One wonders if her acceptance is the work of a moment, born out of pity for your ordeal and admiration for your fine home. If you please, sir, I would like to know the truth.”
A smile had begun to warm Darcy’s face. “Sir,” he sighed, his pleasure broadening to encompass his whole expression, “I can answer truthfully that my connection, as you describe it, to Miss Elizabeth has endured many months. During the time I was away, I carried her with me in my heart. My only fragment of hope was that she still held me as well, and my greatest torment was the fear that I might never see her again. My life is hers, sir, and I gladly lay all that I am at her feet in humility, that the one I adore could love me in return.”
Mr Bennet sat stunned into silence for a moment, his face awash in sentimental wonder. He blinked, cleared his throat, and began to lay aside his book. “Well-spoken, Mr Darcy. I daresay if I do not grant my blessing, you will both do as you please without it. Very well, I withdraw my misgivings.”
Darcy released the tense breath he had been holding. “I thank you, sir. I shall have settlement papers drawn up at my earliest opportunity, for I wish to wed Miss Elizabeth immediately.”
Mr Bennet tipped his head forward, peering over his spectacles at Darcy. “I shall not be anticipating two premature grand-children, shall I?”
“No! Sir, I would never dishonour Miss Elizabeth so,” he objected.
“Very good. I shall be taking my daughter back to her uncle’s house this evening. I have no doubt that Lydia is faring well enough that she may do as well without her. As for the wedding date, I expect you may have other matters which must come first. I am at your leisure, sir. Now, since we have that business settled, what is to be done about my wayward son-in-law?”
Darcy bit back an inward sigh. “That, sir, is a conversation best held over cigars and brandy.”
Mr Bennet’s eyes lit in interest. “I have no doubt that you have a superior collection of both, sir.”
Chapter seventy
Cheapside, London
Amáliasoftlyclosedthedoor to Mr Gardiner’s sick room and stood for a moment, staring at it. No rational person would be as kind and welcoming to her as this couple had been. She was a stranger, dropped into their laps by someone entirely unknown to them; with almost no friends and no credibility in the country, as well as a scandalous past that had followed her and nearly cost them everything.
She should have been escorted to the nearest ship, with a polite pat on her head at the very best. Why, she was not even proper governess material for their children, being Roman Catholic and not well-versed in English etiquette! She should have been shamed, cast out, and left on her own.
Instead, however, she had been accorded the honours of a daughter of the house—taking meals with the family, helping care for Mr Gardiner in his injured state, looking over business matters with Mrs Gardiner, and, perhaps best of all, speaking long into the afternoon with the lady about life and love and children and hope.
Amália’s fingers traced gently over the couple’s door. Yes, hope. That was what she most longed for. The sort of deep, binding affection so fluently spoken in looks and touches by this loving couple was like something in a dream. How was it possible, to live one’s life serving and seeking another’s well-being before her own? Who in the world could she trust so far, to lay herself open, baring her throat in faith that not sharpened teeth, but tender caresses would capture her?
It was a ridiculous question, really. There was one, and only one. She blinked tear-blurred eyes and allowed her fingers to fall from the door. Richard could never be hers. Not before, when she was married; not after, when he was still a penniless Anglican; certainly not now that he was the heir to his father’s title. He would need a wife whose blood matched his own, who could aid her husband in Society and host galas for the elegant lords and ladies of the great machine that was the English Parliament. A woman such as Mr Darcy’s sister could give him a son of pedigree and unquestioned character in the eyes of theton, not tainted by a Catholic heritage and a mother widowed under peculiar circumstances. What right had she to even think of him, when it would deny him the future he deserved?
She turned away and wandered to the sitting room. Mrs Gardiner’s sewing basket rested there, full of small items she had been mending for her young children. Amália gently lifted the top garment—a little white dress, only just retired from her youngest son. The affectionate mother had been in the process of mending a rip in the sleeve, preparing to put it up in hopes that another would wear it soon. Another child, another promise, another dream fulfilled for another woman. Amália dropped it back in the basket, covered her face, and wept.
The front door clattered, and Amália tried valiantly to collect herself. It would be Elizabeth and her father again, most likely, returned from their dinner at Mr Darcy’s house. Oh, she could not allow them to see her like this! She wiped frantically at the tears streaking her face as a low, urgent voice spoke to the manservant in the outer hall. A moment later, the door to the drawing room swung open and Richard burst through.
He fell before her feet at once, his breath coming short and his eyes rimmed red with the agitation of the last days. He reached for her hand and bowed his head, pressing his forehead to her knuckles.
“Amália,” he heaved, never lifting his face, “I beg you….”
She looked away, swallowing the hard knot in her throat. “You need not explain, Richard. I understand,” she whispered.
He raised his head to blink curiously. “You understand? But I have not yet spoken.”
“It is not necessary, Richard. I know what you have come to say. It is safe for me to return home now. Do you know of a ship on which I might sail?”
