Page 95 of A November to Remember

“Elizabeth Bennet. I asked leave to court you on Sunday. I find I have no talent for courting, nor the patience for it. I have been waiting for you all my life and I am not prepared to wait a moment longer. Will you do me the great honour of accepting my hand and bringing apples every day to my horse?”

“Every day?”

“I anticipate it will be necessary.”

Elizabeth laughed. It came out broken, halfway to a sob, and she put her hand over her mouth.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Fitzwilliam, I accept. Not reluctantly.”

He drew her left hand from beneath the edge of his own coat, drew off the glove, and slid his mother’s ring onto her finger. It was a little loose and she curled her hand at once, holding it on.

“It will need altering,” he said.

“It will need nothing of the kind. I shall hold my hand like this for the rest of my life. Everyone will think I am about to strike them. It will be very useful with Lydia.”

He kissed her.

It was not a long kiss, because the terrace doors were made of glass, and Mrs Bennet had eyes in the back of her head, but it was long enough for him to absorb all of her warmth and sweetness. When he drew back, she was smiling at him with her hand still curled against the ring. He thought then, with total clarity, I am going to have to speak to her father and he is going to enjoy it far too much.

“You are thinking about my father,” Elizabeth said.

“How did you—”

“You are preparing yourself for the unknown. I have come to know your expressions quite well, Mr Darcy.”

He was uncertain, though. “He will not deny us his blessing, will he?”

“He will not, do not fret. And then he will ask whether you intend to take Mamma to Derbyshire as well. He will look very hopeful, and you must be firm.”

“I shall be a rock.”

“You shall be a very cold rock if you do not put your coat back on.” She began to shrug it off; he tried to stop her, and they were still disputing the ownership of the coat when a noise coming from the front of the house reached them.

Darcy ducked his head to peer round the corner towards the front drive. The area was supposed to be empty, since the guest carriages were waiting in the mews in orderly ranks with their coachmen drinking Bingley’s ale. But below the terrace, at the far end of the drive, a grand carriage stood with its lamps lit. It bore a crest, though he could not make out the shape of it. Its door hung open, and beside it, a man was shouting.

He was large and he was swaying. Years of attendance at White’s had taught Darcy to recognise a man who was thoroughly foxed. He gestured, then raised one arm above his head and brandished, at the man he was shouting at, an object. Darcy squinted to find that it was a boot. He held it aloft by the heel, waving it in a manner that suggested it was evidence in a trial.

“Who is that?” Elizabeth had come to the balustrade beside him. “Is that his own boot?”

The man shouted again, but the wind took it. The other man moved into the lamplight, and even at this distance, there was no mistaking the silhouette: tall, slender, impeccable, with a stillness that most men could only achieve in death.

Boodles raised both hands in a gesture of the utmost civility. The drunk man swung the boot at him and lost his grip on it. Boodles stepped back and then he turned and ran to the house as though the devil was at his heels. The man picked up the boot again.

“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, “why is Lord Keathley’s valet running?”

“I have a terrible feeling, Elizabeth.”

“Whose boot is that?”

“I have a terrible feeling about that too.”

Darcy took her hand and looked down at the drive where the man was now attempting to climb the steps, clutching the boot to his bosom.

“I think,” said Darcy, “we had better go inside.”

“I think,” said Elizabeth, “you are right.”

They walked in together, and Darcy, daring a last glance back, saw the man fall over.