"Certainly."
"I reserve the right to inspect any correspondence passing through my hands whenever I choose."
"Papa," said Elizabeth.
"My dear, a man who runs after a moving carriage has forfeited any expectation of privacy."
"That seems a very specific principle."
"It is a situation I had not previously considered."
Even Darcy found himself smiling.
Mr Bennet noticed. "I dislike it when you look pleased."
"I beg your pardon."
The older man nodded. "You may write. I make no promises beyond that. My daughter remains entirely free to think you a fool."
"She already does."
Elizabeth's eyes met his.
"Not entirely," she said quietly, her eyes not quite meeting his. His heart hammered in his chest. Was this hope?
Then Mr Bennet looked between them both and appeared profoundly dissatisfied with what he found. "Good Lord."
Mrs Bennet looked delighted.
The coachman called down that the road was clear and Mr Bennet stepped back towards the carriage. "There. The matter is settled."
"Settled?" said Mrs Bennet. "It appears only to have begun. How wonderful."
"That," said Mr Bennet, climbing back inside, "is precisely what concerns me."
The door closed and the carriage began to move. As it rolled past him, Elizabeth leaned briefly towards the open window. "Mr Darcy."
"Yes?"
A smile touched her face. "If you are writing under Papa's supervision, I recommend unusually neat handwriting."
Then she was gone.
Darcy stood in the road watching the carriage disappear around the bend. He was a fool in love and it felt wonderful.
???
As the carriage rolled slowly through Lyme, Elizabeth found herself looking back.
Mr Darcy remained where they had left him. Even at a distance she could see that his appearance had suffered from the expedition. His cravat was a disaster and his hair was completely awry. He had stripped off his coat and in his shirt sleeves he looked strikingly vulnerable. He was also frustratingly, impossibly handsome and a small part of her wished to throw herself out of a moving carriage and into his arms.
The road curved between the houses and he vanished from sight. She was aware that the other occupants of the carriage were looking at her expectantly so she now turned her determined gaze out of the window.
He would write. Was that a good thing? Her feelings for him, the moments they had shared, the magnetism—for that was theonly word that sufficiently described it—that existed between them: was it real? Or some sort of temporary madness? After all, it must be madness that would cause a man to attempt to catch a moving coach on foot.
Then a simple thought hit her. She would not see him for breakfast tomorrow, and that made her feel unaccountably sad.
A few weeks earlier she had considered herself an excellent judge of his character. The confidence now seemed rather premature. Every time she attempted to fit him back into the neat shape she had first assigned him, some fresh recollection refused to cooperate. His pride remained undeniable, but so did his capacity for utter nonsense. He could be stubborn to the point of exasperation, yet he had apologised with a sincerity that still surprised her whenever she remembered it. Even his reserve, which had once appeared cold, now seemed less a want of feeling than an excess of it.
