Page 2 of A Prudent Engagement

Mostly he wanted to hear Elizabeth’s voice and laugh.

He could wait.

He would not run off to the parsonage to call on her now. She would be here this evening. Though that would require the company of the tiresome parson that Darcy’s aunt had chosen—and the rest of that gentleman’s party.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was not, in general, a man who hesitated over decisions.

If there were cogent arguments upon both sides of the matter, he carefully considered them, wrote out a list of the factors which supported the choice next to a list of those which said ‘nay’, then studied the list for no more than two minutes before making a decision. And once the decision had been made, he stuck to it with a solemn confidence that even if he had selected amiss, ’twas better to fully pursue a chosen path than to be tossed endlessly back and forth by the fluttering waves of human inconsistency.

This counsel had proved impossible to heed in the matter of Elizabeth.

Unfortunately, the reason he could not decide was clear enough: every rational argument ended with a ‘nay’. But some deep irrational need refused to listen.

The recital of the reasons was unnecessary and had been made frequently.

Jove!

What was it about the girl that made him a fool when he simply thought about her?

The birds in the park twittered out spring love songs and swooped around each other in the bright skies. The low glow of the banked embers in the grate crackled softly.

Darcy could not put the feeling into words.

But an ember of love glowed in his heart, brighter than the coals in the fire.

The way that Elizabeth walked, the way she moved, the way she dressed, the way she sat, the way she smiled and looked at him with her bright, challenging eyes, and the way she spoke.

Her laugh.

Darcy smiled widely, unaware of himself looking softer and more wholly at peace as he thought about Elizabeth’s laugh than he almost ever did.

A voice swore to him that if he did not take her to wife, he would regret it for the rest of his life. He would always feel as though some chief portion of his soul was missing.

But yet…that sentiment was surely nonsense.

That was poetry, not a true description of what his feelings would be in a year’s time, or ten years’ time.

Marriage was permanent, infatuation transitory.

It was contrary to Darcy’s settled and admirable character to act in a way to satisfy the desires of the moment when he would pay the price in the future.

He would ask Elizabeth to marry him.

Tomorrow morning, he would find her in their grove—knowing that he would leave the next day, she would surely be walking about there to ensure that he could easily find her—and he would propose.

But he could not help but be unhappy due to his foolish inability to keep himself under good regulation.

While Darcy’s mind twisted around, going from exultation to profound disappointment with himself, and then back, Colonel Fitzwilliam returned to the house with a pale and grave countenance.

He dropped into the chair next to Darcy. “Poor girl. I had just made the circuit of the park with Miss Bennet when she received the most distressing news.”

Darcy sat up straight.

He put aside the book that had served as a prop while he thought.

Every other consideration was gone.

He was ready to leap and run to her aid as soon as he knew what sort of aid she might need. “Miss Bennet? What happened?”