Chapter 5

The following morning, Darcy hummed to himself as he rechecked Goliath’s billet straps. It would not do to fall off his horse from a loose saddle. When Darcy reached for the bit, Goliath swung his head, bumped Darcy’s shoulder, and neighed. We are all in a fine mood!

Tim led Goliath out of the stable as Darcy glanced at his pocket watch. It was too early for a morning call. He looked to the horizon.

Longbourn is but a three-mile. He glanced at Tim and Goliath. Tim was about the same height as Miss Elizabeth. Goliath towered over him, as the beast would her, too.

How could I have forgotten her wariness of horses?

Three miles to Longbourn would be a welcome stretch of the legs. A dewy, misty, easy stretch.

“Rather than ride, I shall walk out. Please exercise Goliath and rub him down.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

His decision made, he returned to the manor. His man immediately appeared.

“Problem, sir?” Barty asked.

“Change of plan. I shall walk.”

“Of course, sir. One moment while I find something warmer.”

Clad in the warmth of his great coat, he stepped off and headed towards Longbourn. Towards her.

Bingley will forgive me, should he wake up before noon.

The first glimmers of light began to illuminate the sky. The fields displayed a mystical quality. Above them, the horizon appeared as a faint line separating the earth from the sky. Darcy fixed upon a very large, lone tree far in the distance. He walked towards it.

“Will she welcome me? Has her opinion of me changed? Changed for the better?”

A bird landed on a nearby fence stile and cawed. It had an ashy grey body and a black head. A hooded crow, Corvus cornix, he recalled from his ornithology studies. Mr Dales had made him commit it to memory.

“A good omen, I daresay.” I shall not entertain the naysayers regarding their foolish superstitions.

He walked on and climbed over a stile. He stopped. A large hare sat up on its haunches and stared at him. Lepus timidus, its grey-brown coat sporting a reddish tinge.

“Another good omen.” Let us hope for a third.

At the sound of his voice, it hopped off. Darcy walked on. The fields slowly illuminated; the edges of the horizon glowed. The cut stalks glistened in the morning sun. The dew covered the grass and wet his boots.

The tree grew larger as he approached. Its gnarled trunk and thick, sprawling branches were a testament to its centuries of existence. He had seen very few of these oaks as picturesque in their sheer size and grandeur. Its thick, weathered bark was a rich brown; deep crevices and knots told the story of its resilience and strength.

How many lovers have picnicked here? Held hands? Made lifelong promises? Exchanged a forbidden kiss?

Darcy walked two circuits around the tree, repeatedly whispering Quercus robur. He pulled a small knife from the inside of his boot. He looked about. No one I can espy.

Virgil crystallised in his mind.

Resolved, am I in the woods

My love upon the tender tree trunk

They will grow, and you, my love, grow with them

He spent the next hour carving four letters into the tree’s trunk. He worked methodically; he took his time. As he finished each letter, he felt lighter; stones of apprehension fell from his shoulders. He brushed away the last wood shavings.

He stepped back and examined his handiwork. The uncertainty weighing on him was less than it had ever been. He tucked his dirk back into his boot and took a deep, cleansing breath.

The scent of lavender filled his nose. She was near! He swallowed; his mouth instantaneously dry. His heartbeat increased. He blew out a breath, his anxiety changing to anticipation.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat. Darcy turned around.

There was Elizabeth: brown frock, brown spencer, brown walking boots. She had draped a faded-green throw over her shoulders—a country cape. Her chestnut hair was in a long plait bound by a chocolate-coloured ribbon. Her brown eyes stared at him.

“Eos,” he whispered.

Her eyes widened. She pressed a sleeved hand to her mouth. Her smiling mouth.

“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Good morning, Mr Darcy.”

“You are up and about early.”

“As are you.” She paused. “I could not sleep.”

He opened his mouth, but no words formed.

“Did you walk from Netherfield Park, sir?”

“I did.” He smiled.

“You did not ride?”

“No. I did not.”

She looked down.

“Are you well?” he asked. “I am aware, my aunt...”

“Yes, she was here. Rather, at Longbourn. Yesterday.”

He looked away. This is not what I desire to speak of.

“Are you well? How do I…? Can you ever forgive…?”

“Forgive you? Surely, it is incumbent upon me to request your forgiveness.”

He turned back to her. Does she feel she is at fault? How is this possible?

“I do not understand.”

“What you have done for my family—for Jane and for Lydia—we are forever in your debt.”

This will not do. I do not want your gratitude.

“Everything, everything I have done has been for you. For you alone.”

Her eyes misted, but her smile, her glorious smile, was encouraging.

“Words do not come to me easily. I am not a poet.”

“But mayhap a scholar?” she replied.

“Yes. A scholar. A captivated scholar.”

He held out his hand. She gave him hers.

“A besotted scholar.” He put a hand to his heart. “I would like to see the world as you see it. By your side. Hand in hand.” He paused. “If you will allow me.”

She squeezed his hand.

“Then, I want to show you the world as I know it.”

He took her other hand.

“Elizabeth…no one but you will ever be the mistress of my heart. Or of my home, of Pemberley.”

Her eyes were not only brown. The sunlight highlighted the hazel flecks within.

“Is there a question you wish to ask me, Mr Darcy?” Her uplifted eyebrow soothed the remnants of his uncertainty.

“There is, if you will entertain.”

“I will.”

Darcy looked over his shoulder. The note Lady Catherine had given him prompted him.

“My mother was a Fitzwilliam. The Matlock motto is part of the family crest.”

“I see…,” she replied, uncertainty in her tone.

“Will you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Darcy turned her so she faced away from him. He covered her eyes. “Allow me.” He carefully guided her to face the tree.

“The Fitzwilliam family motto is acta, non verba.”

He removed his hands. She gasped.

Four letters carved into the big brown oak stood out against the rough bark: two atop two others.

FD

EB

“Actions, not words,” she whispered. She turned to him.

“Will you?” Please, please accept me.

He swallowed. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I will.”

He blinked as his eyes tingled. He inhaled. A warm hand cupped his cheek. He leaned into it.

“You darling, darling man.”

He kissed her. She tasted of Pemberley.

She kissed him back. She was Heaven.