Darcy did not know the cramped script, but somehow he imagined it could not be Elizabeth’s. Her letters would be both larger and more fluid. Sure, and strongly penned. Not smushed together and somehow apologetic looking.
“It is another letter from Mrs. Collins,” Georgiana elaborated just before Darcy’s impatience caused him to ask. “Usually, she writes about music and about how wonderful Mr. Collins is.” Georgiana’s nose crinkled in dislike. “This letter goes on about how she must warn me that Miss Elizabeth means to entrap you by pretending a courtship that does not exist, by writing to you under your Christian name, and how I must be on guard and must safeguard you.” Georgiana flipped over the letter again.“And her address has changed to a cottage on Mr. Bingley’s rented estate.”
“That is odd.” Darcy struggled to contain his excitement. “Mrs. Collins says that Miss Elizabeth has written to me because she wants to entrap me into marriage? Have you seen any such letters?”
Georgiana shook her head. “I have not, but Mrs. Collins claims she and Mr. Collins have.”
“I see.” Darcy’s gaze went to the mantel clock. He could reach Longbourn by tea, and return to Darcy House late this evening, if need be. Or there would be room at the inn, and if not, Bingley would forgive him the rudeness of seeking lodgings so soon after his wedding. Bingley was a forgiving sort. Darcy stood. “If you will excuse me, I have some business to which to attend. I am not certain I will return in time for supper.”
It wasn’t until he reached the parlor door that Georgiana called, her voice light and amused, “Give my best to the Bennets.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elizabeth stared down at the sundial in their family garden at Longbourn, easily able to conjure Fitzwilliam’s earnestness as he stood there, asking to court her. Her gaze sought the shadow the gnomon cast, denoting late afternoon, soon to be evening. All about her, the December world gleamed orange and gold in the slanting rays of a sun that kissed the horizon. She should go in and ready for a meal with her family. Instead, she traced that line of shadow, wishing the sundial could spin backward, reverse time to the moment she hadn’t said yes.
Because that was her answer. She had dwelled and thought and listened to advice both solicited and not, and the truth was, she could hardly recall why she’d been so angry with him. So mistrustful. He had done nothing unjustified. He had not set out to mislead her. If anyone deserved anger, Colonel Fitzwilliam did, but he’d been acting under orders and had little choice.
And in truth, none of that mattered. Only the way her heart ached at Fitzwilliam’s absence mattered. The way she woke smiling from dreams that he had returned.
Now she must craft the perfect way to convey her acceptance, woven into a letter to Miss Darcy, and for once, words failed Elizabeth. What if she had waited too long? Might Fitzwilliam’s ardor have cooled? If so, did that not make him inconstant after all? But why would little more than a week of awaiting her reply spoil his affection when nearly a month away in Scotland had not?
Because I rejected him. He asked, and I did not say yes.
She worried at her lower lip. How could writing one letter fret her so? Was she falling prey to the nerves that plagued her mother?
“Elizabeth.”
She raised her gaze from the sundial to a vision of Fitzwilliam striding across the garden, his usual reserve supplanted by hope that glowed brighter than the falling sun. His austere, dark coat gilded by the sunset, he halted before her. Golden rays caught the glint of a diamond cravat pin nestled in crisp white fabric and flecked his dark irises with rich amber. His luminous gaze, resting upon her, suffused Elizabeth with joy.
“You are here,” she said, for the man before her was no vision. No apparition conjured by her longing.
“I am.” He caught up one of her hands and brought it to his lips, the warmth of him sending a thrill of delight through her, bubbling and heady. “It is my hope that you have an answer for me.”
“You seem to anticipate my reply, sir.”
“In truth, I had begun to despair that your silence was your reply.”
The shadow that encroached on his features with that declaration stabbed through her joy, robbing her of the desire to tease. Elizabeth twined her fingers with his. “I am sorry. I know not why I made such a production of a decision that, now, I know to be forgone. Not since we met on the street in Meryton have you left my thoughts for more than a breath of time. How could I ever decline to be courted by you?”
Fitzwilliam smiled. A true, happy smile that creased the skin about his eyes and eased tension from his frame. The very smile Elizabeth had longed for, rendering him so much more vulnerable than she had ever imagined.
Her heart squeezed, shortening her breath. She would never weary of seeing Fitzwilliam thus. Not for the remainder of her life.
She dropped her gaze, tumult roiling through her at how quickly her heart had gone from,You may court me, to,I will love you until the end of my days.
“Does this mean I may call on you tomorrow?” Fitzwilliam asked softly.
Elizabeth raised her gaze, returning his smile in the fading light. “Yes, please do, but would you not care to remain for dinner tonight?”
“I would not be imposing?”
“Does my mother know you are here?”
“She directed me to find you in the garden.”
“Then she will already have set you a place.”
“Then I would be delighted to dine in Longbourn this evening. Shall we go in?” He un-clasped their fingers, but only to proffer his arm.
