Page 16 of Mr Darcy Bets on Love

A week ago, it would have seemed like madness. Now it seemed like the only sane thing he had ever done. He had stood on a hill today and told a woman the worst thing that had ever happened to him, and she had taken off her glove and put her hand in his. He did not think he could live the rest of his life without that hand. He did not think he wanted to try.

He sealed the letter. Then he took the little slip of paper from his pocketbook, the twin of the one he had left in the Donne, on which he had once, very late one night, copied out the whole of the poem. He read the last lines again by the light of the candle.

They did not seem improper any more. They seemed like a promise.

Outside, the rain had stopped, and the moon was up over the park. Three miles off, beyond those trees, was Longbourn. He knew now exactly which direction it lay.

He went to bed, and for the first time since he came to Hertfordshire, he slept.

Chapter 5: The Netherfield Ball

Netherfield Park. Tuesday, 26th November 1811

For a month, Elizabeth had been a model of good sense.

She had seen Mr Darcy almost every day, because Mr Bingley could not keep away from Longbourn and Mr Darcy, it seemed, could not keep away from Mr Bingley. They had walked, and argued about books, and sat in her mother's parlour while Mrs Bennet talked about the price of muslin. He had brought Mary a volume of Handel's keyboard music from London. He had taught Kitty to play piquet, with more patience than anyone in the family had ever shown her. He had held Elizabeth's hand exactly once more, for a moment, when he handed her down from the Lucas carriage in the dark.

He had not said one word about the future. And Elizabeth, who had never in her life been able to leave a question alone, had not asked.

She had told herself it did not matter. She had told herself she was content. She had told herself so every night for a month, while she took the little brown book out from under her stockings and read the lines he had marked, and put it back again, and lay awake.

Tonight she did not tell herself anything. She stood in Netherfield's great hall in her best white muslin, with Jane's pearl drops in her ears and her heart going like a drum, and looked for him.

Netherfield was transformed. Mr Bingley had done nothing by halves. There were hothouse flowers in every alcove and wax candles by the hundred, and the long ballroom glowed gold from end to end. Half the county was crowding up the stairs. The militia had come in force, a river of red coats, and Lydia had vanished into it with a squeal of joy.

Mr Wickham was not among them. Elizabeth had already looked. Lieutenant Denny, catching her eye, said with some embarrassment that Wickham had been called to town on business, and she heard in the way he said it that the business had been arranged by Colonel Forster.

"Miss Elizabeth."

She turned, and there he was.

She had seen him every day for a month. It did not seem to matter. He stood in front of her in his dark evening coat, very tall, very grave, and something inside her went quite still, the way the whole world goes still before snow.

"Mr Darcy."

"You look—" He stopped. She watched him search for a word and fail to find one. "I am generally considered a man of some education," he said. "I find I have forgotten all of it."

She laughed, and the stillness broke, and she could breathe again. "That is a very pretty compliment for a man who never flatters."

"It was not flattery. It was a confession." He bowed. "Will you dance the first set with me?"

"I will."

They went down the room together. She felt the eyes following them: Mrs Long's, Lady Lucas's, her mother's, Miss Bingley's. For once she did not care. He took her hand as the music began, and the room fell away.

He danced beautifully. She had known that since the assembly. But tonight he danced as though he were thinking of nothing but the steps, and she soon understood why. He was nervous. The great Mr Darcy of Pemberley, who had faced down Miss Bingley and Colonel Forster and Mr Wickham without a flicker, was nervous, and was counting the figures to keep his mind from something else.

That knowledge went through her like wine.

"You are very quiet tonight, sir," she said, as they came together.

"I am trying to remember what I meant to say to you."

"Is it a long speech?"

"I had hoped it would be a short one. It has grown considerably in the last hour."

The dance parted them. When it brought them back, he took both her hands for the turn, and held them a moment too long, and said in a low voice meant only for her, "Will you give me the supper set as well?"