Page 37 of A Prudent Engagement

Too soon. I was ready to reply tomorrow morning.

Mr. Darcy was quiet and still, but there was something about the way he looked at her. He flexed his hand, evidently filled with some strong feeling.

Then his startlingly deep eyes met hers. “This cannot be endured. I cannot make myself delay. Elizabeth, you must permit me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. And so with no excuse for the rapidity with which this follows upon your father’s funeral but that I always wish to see your happiness achieved, Elizabeth, will you marry me?”

There it was.

The moment was still.

The world once more did not change when she heard words that changed everything.

It had also not changed when Charlotte had told her that her dear papa was dead.

Mr. Darcy swallowed, the muscles in his throat working. He clearly had more to say, but some strong emotion filled him and made it hard for him to speak further.

Birds twittered, the soft breeze fluttered the leaves and caressed her face. A lock of hair flapped back and forth on Mr. Darcy’s brow.

She wanted to touch that brow.

He swallowed again, and then he spoke once more, stammering slightly in a way that made his unusual nervousness evident. “My offer of marriage can be no surprise to you, but I also know that the difficulties of your present moment must make a demand to change your life in such a significant way unwelcome. I can only excuse myself for speaking so precipitously—I meant to wait until tomorrow. Colonel Fitzwilliam said you would not wish to have the memory of my proposal mixed with that of your father’s death and funeral—but it is impossible that it will not be. And I am at times a selfish creature, and when I see you near me, when you let me hold you and listen to you cry, when I see how lovely your every expression is—the thoughts flitting through your mind like sunbeams—it is impossible for me to delay further.”

She could not help but smile.

“I had some notion to make a great speech, to declare every thought that I had which led me to decide to offer for you—but that is not so important. These last days, I have seen you in grief, and I do not think I deceive myself when I believe that I have aided you in this time—”

“You have!” Elizabeth exclaimed, surprising herself. “You have.”

Mr. Darcy took her hand in his own large, warm one.

He pulled her fingers up to his mouth and kissed them. It was not the quick perfunctory kiss of social politeness. His lips lingered on her knuckles, and the sensation sent a thrill down her arm and into her stomach and heart.

There was something in Mr. Darcy’s expression, in the darkening of his eyes, that suggested that he was also greatly affected.

“There is nothing I wish more than to see you happy, to show you the love and affection which you amply deserve, to protect you and your family against the slings and arrows of fortune—in so far as it is in my power, for it is the Almighty who, in the last account, determines the fate of our lives. Elizabeth, I love you. I wish for you to be the companion of my future life. I want to have the right to hold you and care for you when you are sad, and I wish to have the right to be with you when you laugh and smile. I hope, I desperately hope, that you can imagine yourself happily married to me and that you will choose to accept my offer.”

Elizabeth thought there was little anxiety in Mr. Darcy’s expression that she might refuse him.

And she knew that she could not.

She hardly knew what she wished for herself. But what he had said at last made something clear: she could imagine herself happily married to him.

Given the necessity of accepting him for the sake of her family, that made every other concern—her mixed and confused feelings about him, her remaining curiosity about the truth of Mr. Wickham’s accusations, her knowledge that though she had seen his kindness and goodness, he also was still an arrogant man who thought himself above her family and her neighbourhood—pale next to the chief point: she could imagine being happy with him.

And even though he deserved better than a woman with her mixed feelings, the thought of not having the security and comfort that would come from placing herself under his care terrified her.

Mr. Darcy waited with every appearance of patience, but there was something in how he held his hands that told her he was anxious and that this delay to hear her speak was difficult. Yet, he was still patient, and he still looked at her with those warm eyes.

All would be well. There was nothing that she needed to fear when Mr. Darcy was with her—she especially had nothing to fear from him.

She still found it hard to speak. She opened her mouth but could not make a sound. Her cheeks began to feel numb.

It was as though there was something wrong, as though simply accepting him without saying anything about her doubts, without making him promise to be less arrogant, to think less ill of her family, to maybe help to unite Jane and Mr. Bingley—was it not deceptive to accept him without saying anything? And did he not despise disguise?

A naked sense of anxiety rose in Elizabeth’s chest; it fluttered there instead of the love and warmth that she ought to feel when accepting an offer of marriage.

Mr. Darcy took her hand again and kissed her knuckles. “I see you find it hard to speak. I should have waited until more time had passed after your father’s—”

“No, no! Not that. I do accept you. I will be your wife. Yes. Yes, I must. I wish to. I will.”