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Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

E lizabeth awoke early to a heady sense of anticipation. She donned her nicest day gown and spent a good deal of time on her hair—and yet still had to wait close to an hour before Jane woke. She spent the seemingly endless minutes forcing herself to finish the novel she had started the day before—but when she closed the cover at its end, she could not have said what it was about, nor whether she had enjoyed it.

Mr Darcy was not at breakfast; he and Mr Bingley had, evidently, resumed their aborted ride of the day before. For some reason, Miss Bingley seemed exceptionally brittle, complaining to her servants about every supposed imperfection. It was impossible that she should know anything—they had been carefully circumspect at dinner and afterwards, the night before. Except…he had caught her eye a time or two, and given her a look that she had felt in her toes. Surely no one else had seen it, however .

Finally, the clock on the mantel struck eleven, interrupting the desultory conversation between Mrs Hurst and Jane. Just as Elizabeth opened her mouth to make an excuse, Miss Bingley spoke.

“I did not sleep well last night,” she said. “It is the quiet of the country, I think. It is much too quiet, and feels as if the whole world is dead and one is alone in it.” She shuddered. “I shall go upstairs, if you will all excuse me.”

Mrs Hurst looked at her sister with visible concern. “Of course you must rest, Sister. I shall accompany you.”

Moments later, the Bennet sisters were alone in the room. This seemed a bit of a pickle; Elizabeth could hardly abandon Jane without a reason. However, if she did not go, Mr Darcy might believe she had changed her mind. Should I simply tell her what I hope might happen? Why do I fear that saying it aloud will make it untrue?

“I thought I might explore the maze this morning,” Elizabeth began. “I have not yet seen it.”

“I know what you are trying to do,” Jane replied, causing a jolt of surprise to run through Elizabeth.

“You do?”

Jane nodded, appearing anxious. “You are hoping to extend our visit at Netherfield until our cousin Collins departs Longbourn, to avoid Mama’s matchmaking. I understand it, I truly do. I simply feel that we cannot possibly stay that long. Unless…” She bit her lip.

Elizabeth was curious. “Unless what?”

“If you were to take ill,” she whispered, her face turning bright red.

Elizabeth had to stop herself from laughing aloud. To think of Jane participating in a deception was comical; she must truly wish to stay—and, had she been accurate in guessing Elizabeth’s motives, she would have conceived a viable plan. However, being confined to a guest room was not supportable.

Before Elizabeth could think how to explain anything else, including her intention of meeting Mr Darcy, Jane glanced out of the window, peering up at the sky. “The sun is finally making an appearance. But do wear your warmest pelisse, Lizzy. It is November, after all. I truly do not wish you any illness.”

She was still flushed. Does Jane believe I am wandering outside so that a valid pretence might be made for a future ailment? “I-I will. You do not mind being left alone?” Elizabeth said, still astonished.

Jane waved this off, set aside her embroidery, and both girls departed the drawing room; only one of them, however, had a heart beating so hard, she feared it would pound out of her chest as she walked towards a fate her sister would never have guessed.

Darcy had taken great care with the arrangement of his day; his man had communicated to all the inhabitants of Netherfield that his master be left undisturbed—mostly so that Miss Bingley would not take up a hunt for him or make any plans on his behalf. He had set Bingley up to meet with Netherfield’s steward, a sensible man who could teach him much. When he slipped out of the house and made for the maze, he was certain he had been seen by no one, and no one would be looking for him anytime soon. It was vital that he have no company for the most important assignation of his life.

He spotted Elizabeth immediately, a bright yellow bloom amongst the blossomless garden. Slowing his pace, he enjoyed the pleasure of his acknowledged admiration. It had been so difficult, trying to ignore her and his need for her, to repress his great feeling. Certainly, he had experienced infatuation before, as well as simple lust. Always, he had been able to impartially evaluate the wisdom of pursuing a connexion; always he had easily avoided anything serious. Always, his own ideas, ambitions, and plans had trumped any thought of marriage—a vague idea of filling his nursery the sole real incentive.

Now his fondest dream was of the day—hopefully soon—when he would be able to claim his bride. Her wit was unparalleled, her beauty a constant. In fifty years, should God grant them the time, he would still be fascinated. The difference between what he felt now and any slight inclination of the past was so immense, there was simply no question in his mind of its rightness. He caught up to her at the maze’s entrance.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, sounding somewhat breathless to his own ears, although he had not hurried.

“Mr Darcy,” she said, turning to face him.

“How is it that you have grown more lovely between last evening and this morning?” he asked conversationally, taking her arm, enjoying her blush at his remark. “I have been wondering—do you wish to be led to the centre, or would you prefer to search without assistance?”

“Oh, by all means, I wish to find my own way,” she said, smiling widely. “I do love a good puzzle. ”

He had known she would not want his help, and other than one very slight hint that shrubbery had overgrown a sundial, hiding a significant clue, he did not give it. Her mind was sharp, and she did not need it. The sweetness of her joy, when she discovered the lovely little pavilion at the maze’s centre, was wonderful to behold.

He seated her at the bench located therein, but instead of sitting beside her, he knelt before her.

Her mouth made a little ‘o’ of surprise; she had expected this, had she not? He had been certain, in the sympathy existing between them yesterday, that she had known what he meant. Had he been mistaken? Was he about to make a great fool of himself?

“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, hearing the stiffness in his tone but unable to prevent it. “I dare to hope that your original sentiments, those from the time I first asked for your consideration, have changed. I wonder if you would do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?”

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