Page 59 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“He is going to propose,” Charlotte murmured, seated beside Elizabeth at the table. “Before Epiphany, I would wager. He cannot bear to wait longer.”

Elizabeth traced the rim of her wineglass, glancing toward the end of the table where Bingley leaned forward with the breathless air of a man treading upon glass. “That is scarcely a daring wager, Charlotte. A blind man on a galloping horse could perceive his intentions, and Mamma has already mentally selected the lace for Jane’s veil.”

“True. Your mother is no doubt ready to post banns,” Charlotte agreed. “He is entirely gone, and your sister is ready to receive him.”

“Too ready, perhaps,” Elizabeth murmured. “Jane is all forgiveness, as she always is, but a man who permits his friends to dismantle his happiness with a word ought to endure a trifle more probation than a single week of repentant smiles. Caution is surely warranted when the gentleman’s spine has proved so pliable in the past.”

“Their love is simple and transparent.” Charlotte’s voice was certain. “They met, and the interest was immediate. They spoke like good friends, seeking each other’s opinions and sharing stories. Their misunderstandings were caused by others, and once that was explained, they returned to their easy friendship. No drama or complications.” She paused. “Some loves are harder. But that does not make them less worth having.”

Elizabeth fell silent, her fingers tightening about the stem of her glass until her knuckles whitened. Harder, indeed. Some attachments required navigating oceans of prejudice and untangling the wreckage of pride. And here she sat, alone, uncertain and paralyzed by her own stubborn terror, wondering when and if she would next see the man who had vanished after leaving a scrap of his heart behind in the crumbling masonry.

Around her, the joy of family and holidays marched on. Charlotte sipped her cider and agreed with something her brother said. Lydia howled at Mr. Hurst, demonstrating some drama between a donkey and a spaniel. Mrs. Bennet spoke about the rabbit in the boot room who had been let loose on New Year’s Day, completely healed but would likely help himself to the kitchen garden come springtime. Mr. Bennet carved the goose to Mrs. Hurst’s critique, and Elizabeth began to relax and to savor the simple comfort of knowing her place in the family and neighborhood when she heard a sound that rattled her.

Faint, beneath the laughter and the clatter of dishes, came the unmistakable sound of carriage wheels and hoofbeats, slowing as they turned from the lane onto the Longbourn drive.

The wheels halted. Horses snorted, and the coachman’s voice drifted through the dining room windows, issuing a brisk instruction to the postilion.

Hill appeared in the doorway. “Ma’am,” she said, addressing Mrs. Bennet. “A carriage has arrived.”

“A carriage?” Mrs. Bennet looked up from her supervision of the dessert course. “Who could be arriving at this hour? We have all our guests already—unless the officers have decided to call, though I gave them no invitation, and Lydia was quite put out about it.”

“It bears the Darcy crest, ma’am.”

Every eye in the room seemed to find Elizabeth at once, and she felt the peculiar sensation of being both flushed and chilled. “Excuse me,” she murmured, rising from the table. Was Darcy well? And Georgiana? Surely he would not have left if his sister were still unwell. But⁠—

“The Darcy crest?” Mrs. Bennet’s voice had risen to a pitch that suggested she might faint, explode, or both. “Mr. Darcy? Here? At Longbourn? On Twelfth Night? But we have no warning! The house is not prepared, and Jane, your hair; Elizabeth, your dress; Mr. Bennet, why did you not tell me?”

“I did not know, my dear.” Mr. Bennet had risen from his chair, his expression one of genuine surprise. “I have received no letter from Derbyshire.”

Elizabeth did not wait for their verdict. She did not remember standing or running from the dinner table. Her legs moved, and she lifted her skirts and ran before her mind could catch her heart. Darcy was here. He had returned to Longbourn. And she could not even say she had believed it or knew.

“Lizzy, wait—” Jane’s voice was somewhere behind her.

But Elizabeth did not wait. Her feet moved faster, and she was out the front door passing the surprised footman. The evening air hit her face with a slap of frost. The drive was dark, and her inadequate dinner slippers skidded on the icy steps. Carriage lanterns lit the way toward the horses steaming in the cold and the Darcy crest gleaming in the lamplight.

The coachman was climbing down, and a footman reached for the carriage door. Elizabeth arrived at the carriage right as the door opened, and there he was, Darcy’s head emerging, his eyes lifting, and then his hat fell, but he made no attempt to look for it, for the world had stopped, and there was nothing but Darcy’s dark and somber eyes, the softness of his gaze, raw, and holding her like a warm embrace.

“Miss Elizabeth.” His voice was rough. “I⁠—”

“Mr. Darcy.” She could not say more. She could not breathe. She could only stand there, trembling with cold and joy and the overwhelming relief of seeing him again, alive and real and here.

He stepped down, and behind him, a young woman appeared, dark-haired, delicate-featured, with eyes that were unmistakably her brother’s. Darcy turned to assist her, breaking the moment, and Elizabeth felt the loss of his gaze like the sun going behind a cloud.

But it scarcely mattered. Darcy was here; he had returned. For her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THREE ANSWERS

The carriage swept into the Longbourn drive, and Darcy glimpsed at last the house where she lived. There was the window where he had once tipped his hat, riding away with his heart left in her hands. Now, with the sun vanished, torchlight flickered at the entrance and candlelight glimmered through the panes. The Bennets were in residence, and judging by the carriages being tended to on the drive, they were celebrating Twelfth Night.

“Brother, will they welcome us?” Georgiana asked at his side. “We did not send calling cards. We did not even write. Do you think Bingley is there inside?”

He could not answer, for the impropriety of arriving uninvited at a Bennet gathering surely surpassed even Mrs. Bennet’s most operatic exclamations and Mr. Bennet’s slyest breaches of decorum. Days on the road—trudging through slush, changing horses, enduring lumpy beds and sleepless nights—had left him with nothing but the ache of anticipation and the desperate hope of seeing her again.

And then, the entrance door opened, and a slight figure dashed from the house, skirts lifted, breath clouding in the cold air. She was running down the icy steps as if the house were on fire.

“Brother.” Georgiana’s voice cut through his paralysis. “Is that—is that her?”