Page 57 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

The clock struck the quarter. Then the half.

She was not coming.

He had known it at supper. He had known it in the conservatory, watching her face close. He had sat here anyway.

At twenty minutes to three, he stood up.

He would go to her door. He would knock, very quietly. If the door stayed shut, he would speak through it. He would not leave this house tomorrow with those words standing between them.

He crossed to the library door. For three weeks he had opened it with his elbow. Tonight he opened it with his own hand.

The passage was dark. Her door was ten steps down. He had walked those steps every night since the lane, with her weight on his arm.

He knocked, very quietly. No one answered.

"Elizabeth." He kept his voice low. "I must speak with you. You do not understand."

There was no light under the door. Then the bed creaked, once, and the house went silent again. She was awake. She had heard him. She would not open the door.

He stood there a long time. Then he went back to the library and shut himself in with the fire.

He had barely sat down when the latch turned.

"Darcy! I knew you would be up." Bingley came in with a candle in one hand and his cravat hanging loose. "I saw your light under the door. You never sleep. I cannot sleep at all. I have not the least intention of trying."

Darcy stepped back. He made himself smile. "Come in, then."

Bingley came in. He set the candle down and dropped into the other wing chair. It was her chair. Darcy said nothing, and sat down in his own.

Bingley's eye fell on the decanter on the side table. "Brandy! Of course you keep brandy in here. Darcy, we must drink to her."

He poured two glasses, very full, and held one out. Darcy took it in his own hand. It was the first glass he had held since the fire. The new skin of his palm stung against the cut crystal.

"To Jane," said Bingley.

"To Miss Bennet."

They drank. Bingley poured again at once. "To your hands," he said. "They are a great deal better. I am very glad of it."

Darcy drank to his hands. He did not want to think about his hands. He did not want to think about anything. The brandy went down warm and easy, and he let Bingley fill the glass a third time.

Bingley talked. He talked about Jane's face when he asked her. He talked about Jane's goodness and Jane's smile. Jane had said yes so quietly that he had asked her to say it twice. He talked about Mr. Bennet in the card room. Mr. Bennet had heard him out and said, I am glad to hear it, sir. You will suit. You are each so complying that nothing will ever be resolved.

"He was joking," said Bingley. "I think he was joking."

"He was joking."

"To Mr. Bennet," said Bingley, and they drank to Mr. Bennet.

"I must go up to town tomorrow. The settlements, you know. Hartley must draw them up, and I shall make a hash of it alone." Bingley looked at him hopefully over his glass. "Come with me, Darcy? Two or three days, no more. You understand these things."

"Yes," said Darcy. "Of course."

He would speak to her first. He would find her before the carriage came, and then he would go.

The decanter went down by a third, and then by half. The fire burned lower. Darcy reached for the book on the table.

He turned a page with his own fingers, to give his hands an occupation. He kept his voice careless. "Bingley. When you asked her. What did you say?"