Page 7 of Courting Elizabeth

“Then Longbourn is not the only reason for your yes.”

“I esteem him more than I would wish. I do not want him to disappear from my life. And when he comes near me…”

Heat rose to my cheeks.

Charlotte had the kindness not to smile.

“I will be a good wife,” I continued. “I will respect his responsibilities, his estate, his sister. I will not humiliate him. I will give him all the affection I am capable of.”

“A reasonable wife may not suffice for a man who loves you with such violence.”

I had not wanted to think about that part of marriage. Yet my body had thought of it as soon as Mr Darcy approached. The breadth of his shoulders beneath his dark coat. The pressure of his fingers around mine. His mouth, so severe when he was silent, pressed to my glove.

I was ignorant, not blind.

“I do not fear his desire,” I said.

“Then only take care not to let fear or duty choose for you.”

I could find no jest capable of answering her very judicious words.

That night, I slept little. I imagined Pemberley without having seen it. I imagined Georgiana Darcy, who was said to be shy, sometimes cold. I imagined my mother in a drawing room where each armchair was probably worth more than our silverware. I imagined Mr Darcy at the door of my chamber.

This last image returned too often.

I knew almost nothing of what passed between a husband and his wife, beyond the vague and embarrassed warnings a mother was supposed to offer before the wedding. Mrs Bennet spoke of marriage as a social victory. Charlotte described it as an arrangement of rooms, schedules, and silences. Jane, if she knew more, had never confided it to me.

Mr Darcy would be neither vague nor indifferent.

I sensed it without reason. He was restrained in the world, but his feelings were not. He had fought his desire to marry me until that struggle made his declaration almost brutal. What would become of that intensity when the Church and the law had bound us?

I turned my face into the pillow.

Part of me was afraid.

Another part remembered his hand around mine.

In the morning, a note arrived from Rosings. The firm handwriting left no doubt as to its author.

“My dear Elizabeth,

I request permission to call at the parsonage at eleven o'clock, so that we may discuss the journey to Longbourn and the manner in which I shall seek your father's consent. I am not unaware that my happiness makes me impatient. I shall endeavor, however, to announce or decide nothing without you.

F. Darcy”

My dear Elizabeth.

I read those words twice.

He had already heeded one of my conditions. Or perhaps I was only seeing, for the first time, the man behind the pride.

I took up a pen.

I did not write that I loved him.

Nor did I write that I did not love him.

I confirmed the hour of his visit.