What Would Mr. Darcy Do?

guiltily at being caught woolgathering.

“My dear, you seem out of spirits this evening,” her aunt said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Elizabeth smiled wryly. “It seems to be your burden this year to care for lovelorn nieces, does it not? First you had Jane this winter, then Lydia, and now me.”

“Not to mention the occasional lovelorn future nephew. I have grown quite fond of your Mr. Darcy these last few months.”

It was not the first time that Elizabeth had felt a pang of jealousy at the extent to which Darcy was using her aunt and uncle as confidantes. “I suppose it is only fair that he should turn to you, as it is quite impossible to imagine that he could turn to his own aunt for counsel in these matters!” She laughed as she pictured a tete-a-tete between Darcy and Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

“Well, I confess that it simplifies my life as an interfering aunt, my dear; if you refuse to tell me what is bothering you tonight, I can always ask him tomorrow.”

“I shall save you the trouble, then, since nothing is in fact the matter, except that I find myself somewhat discomposed by my own feelings, and there is certainly no one I can blame for that but myself!”

“Are you upset with Mr. Darcy, then?”

“Not that; we did have a disagreement tonight, but we made our peace with one another afterward, yet I find myself still unsettled and uncertain of him, although he left me no reason at all to be uncertain. It is unreasonable, but it is even more unreasonable that I sit here, unable to sleep because I miss him so much, when I have just seen him and know full well that I will see him in the morning tomorrow and every day,” Elizabeth said with a slight scowl of frustration.

“Love is rarely reasonable, my dear, especially the rather passionate kind of love that you and he seem to share. It sounds to me as if you are discovering just how necessary he has become to you, that even the shadow of a threat to his presence in your life frightens you.”

“If this is love, how does anyone ever survive it, much less want to feel this way?”

“Well, Lizzy, it has been some years since I have had personal dealings with feelings of this intensity, since fortunately such feelings have a tendency over time to shift to quieter ones of trust and attachment. I believe, though, that you could take a few lessons from your young man, as he has perforce had to become something of an expert on surviving being in love.”

Elizabeth exhaled slowly. “Aunt, this is not the first time that you have raised the subject of Mr. Darcy’s sufferings on my account. I am beginning to think that you quite blame me for it!”

Mrs. Gardiner smiled, shaking her head. “Hardly, my dear. After all, you were completely entitled to refuse him, regardless of his feelings, but I have had an ongoing concern that you seem to underestimate the strength of his attachment to you. I am, in fact, rather glad to see you suffering just a bit in the name of love, since it tells me that your attachment to him may be becoming the equal of his for you; and though you are well matched in many ways, I have worried about an inequity in your regard for one another.”

“Just because he had cared for me longer does not mean that my regard is any less than his!”

“Hush, Lizzy, I am not trying to start a competition; rather I hope to point out how similar your feelings sound to his. I rather suspect that his thoughts this evening are quite like yours.”

Elizabeth considered this, and recognized that it was likely to be true, as she thought about his frequent half-jests about wishing to marry immediately, and she heard in her mind his words from earlier in the evening— I want to bind you to me in every way I know, because I am terrified that you are going to tell me that you want nothing further to do with me. No, their feelings were certainly quite similar, and she had an idea how best to give them both relief.

*   *   *

Darcy glanced at the clock and impatiently drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Bingley was never very punctual at the best of times, but surely the man could manage to be on time for the rehearsal for his own wedding! Not that he himself would have particularly cared about punctuality for the event were he not so anxious to see Elizabeth.

His night had been disturbed and restless after the previous day’s events. No sooner had the Bennets’ carriage pulled away the night before than he had commenced to brood about what Elizabeth might be thinking of his earlier behavior, and whether she would, on reflection, decide that she had forgiven him too quickly. Would she become angry again, or might she feel that she could not trust him? Accompanying these thoughts was the intense desire that her kisses had raised in him, and the combination was not conducive to a good night’s sleep. Ending the night with his all too frequent dream of awakening with a loving Elizabeth in his arms did not help matters; although waking from his dreams was no longer the torture it had been in the months when he had felt no hope of ever bringing his desires to fruition, it was still wrenching to wake up alone. One definite benefit of married life, he decided, would be the possibility of a decent night’s sleep again, preceded, of course, by passionate and tender lovemaking…

Enough of that, man! he chastised himself. With what certainly should have been the ease of long practice, given how often it had arisen, but in fact was an ongoing labor of Sisyphus, he pushed those thoughts away from the forefront of his mind. By the time Bingley finally appeared, Darcy was able to put aside his own worries long enough to exchange a few jests with him about his imminent loss of bachelorhood with good humor.

As they entered the church, his eyes immediately sought out Elizabeth. She had clearly been watching the door, and when she saw him, her eyes lit up with pleasure. With an inward sigh of relief that his worries had apparently been for naught, he approached her, automatically quelling the urge to take her in his arms, and instead allowed himself only to kiss her hand, and to stand a little closer to her than propriety dictated. She flushed slightly, and very appropriately cast her eyes down in response, but with a bewitching smile that reassured him as to her true reaction.

“Good morning, my sweetest Elizabeth,” he said softly in her ear. “I trust you are well?”

“Very well, now,” she replied, looking up at him with a tenderness that surprised him. “I missed you.”

The urge to kiss her was becoming almost overwhelming, but since circumstances would not permit it, he could only murmur her name with longing, desirous to keep that affectionate look in her beautiful eyes as long as possible. Clearly able to divine his true wishes from the look on his face, Elizabeth smiled flirtatiously, making her look all the more kissable. Raising an eyebrow, he whispered, “If we were not standing ten feet from the parson, I would respond to that as it deserves.”

Her gaze was warm as she said with the utmost gravity, “We certainly must not shock the parson.”

“Not if you want to wait another week before we marry,” he retorted good-humoredly.

To his surprise, she bit her lip and looked down. What had he done now to distress her? Finally, she looked up at him through her lashes and said tentatively, “Fitzwilliam?”

What had possessed her to call him by his name in this setting? She was well aware—had pointed it out, in fact, with that astonishing perspicacity of hers—how viscerally he responded to the intimacy of her using his given name, and she accordingly restricted its use to moments of great physical closeness, of which this certainly did not qualify. What did she mean by it? For at least the thousandth time, he wondered whether she had any idea what a struggle it could be for him to be with her, to try to understand what she was thinking, not that he would give it up for anything in the world!

“Yes, Elizabeth,” he answered, keeping his voice as carefully neutral as possible.

“I have been wondering whether it would be better not to wait so long as that.”

Unable to credit that he had properly understood her, he asked, “You want to move the wedding day forward?”

“That… that is my thought, unless you would prefer not to do so.”

What had happened? Until this point, he had been the one in a hurry to marry, and she had wanted to wait. “Elizabeth, I believe you know full well that nothing would make me happier than to marry you as soon as possible”—preferably before this uncertainty drives me out of my mind, he added to himself—“but will you allow me to ask why you suggest the change? Is it for my sake, or your own, or perhaps because you cannot trust our ability not to stray?”

She colored becomingly. “It is a bit of all three, although I must admit that my primary motives are selfish.”