Chapter Text
"And when you appear
All the rivers sound
In my body, bells
Shake the sky,
And a hymn fills the world.
Only you and I,
Only you and I, my love,
Listen to it."
- "La Reina", by: Pablo Neruda
"You are looking at me," Elizabeth said carefully, "as though I have suffered a head injury."
Darcy, who was indeed looking at her with the stunned intensity of a man witnessing a constitutional collapse, blinked once.
"You accepted me."
"Yes, you have mentioned it several times now. I begin to regret encouraging you."
"You cannot regret it already."
"I am a very efficient woman." For one impossible second, she thought he might laugh instead of cracking one of those small, almost imperceptible smiles that would vanish in an instant. That had happened once or twice before, always so briefly she afterward suspected hallucination. But the way he looked at her now was different. It was warmer, softer somehow. The corner of his mouth twitched into a half smile. The expression reached his eyes before he seemed to remember himself and suppressed it entirely. Most unfortunate indeed.
Elizabeth had not known until that moment that she desired very much to be the cause of Mr. Darcy forgetting his own dignity. The room had become too small somehow. Her palms began to sweat as she recalled Mr. Collins' words after she had refused him. One day the Longbourn estate will be mine. Perhaps one day your profligate father's debts will encourage me to sell the property and be done with it. What then will you do, I wonder? Elizabeth was keenly aware that with Jane's courtship with Bingley in shambles, and no proposal for herself except by her loathsome cousin that her family was in trouble. Mr. Darcy was a landed gentleman, with ten thousand pounds a year. Yes, she loathed his very being. Every fiber of it. But she would sooner see herself married to a contemptible man than her sisters being turned out the instant Mr. Collins inherited. She should give them that. She needed to give them that.
Or perhaps it was only that Mr. Darcy, standing before her with all the terrible force of his attention fixed wholly upon her, occupied more space than ought to be physically possible for one man.
"You do understand," she said, because someone in this conversation clearly had to remain sane, "that this changes nothing." His brow furrowed slightly.
"It changes the essential point, certainly."
"It certainly does not. You are still excessively proud."
"I see."
"You are still disagreeable." He did that thing where he stared at the wall beside her head instead of at her, like he was pretending to make eye contact.
"I had hoped," he said cautiously, "that my declaration might have improved me somewhat in your estimation."
"It has not." A pause. Elizabeth prayed for someone, anyone, to come and save her from this conversation. "You are still the most alarming man I know." At that, unexpectedly, his expression gentled. Alarmingly.
"And yet," he said quietly, "you said yes." The worst part was that he did not sound triumphant. Elizabeth could have endured triumph. She was prepared for self congratulation of heroic proportions. What she had not prepared for was this bewildered sort of hope, as though he genuinely could not believe she had chosen him. Which by anyone's estimations was an absurd notion. He was Fitzwilliam Darcy, after all. Filthy rich, handsome, absurdly well connected, and currently looking at her like she had personally invented happiness.
Elizabeth looked away first. This, she thought wildly, was precisely why she ought to have refused him. A sensible woman would have refused him. A sensible woman would not be standing in the middle of a parsonage drawing room, accidentally engaged to a man she still actively intended to quarrel with for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, Elizabeth had never in her life managed to remain sensible where curiosity was concerned. And Fitzwilliam Darcy was, against all reason, becoming the most interesting person she had ever met.
"You separated Jane and Mr. Bingley." She said abruptly, because she needed very badly to remember why this was a terrible idea. Immediately, the softness vanished from his face. He looked at the ground.
"Yes." God, he was infuriating. He did not excuse it, which made her angrier. Just answered with that impossible honesty which somehow made everything worse.
"You admit it."
"I have never denied it."
"You believed her indifferent."
"I did."
"She was heartbroken." At that, something flickered across his expression. Brief but unmistakable. It was gone before Elizabeth had a chance to interrogate his expression, schooled back into that aristocratic bearing. His cool indifference. Elizabeth’s anger stumbled over itself in confusion.
"I acted," he said slowly, "according to what I believed best for my friend."
"And you appointed yourself sovereign judge over everyone’s happiness?"
"I did not say I was right." She stared at him. He was infuriating. Confusing. Somehow vulnerable and tempting and... Wait what? Elizabeth pushed it down and took a deep breath. She did not possibly have the time to unpack all of this right now.
"And what of Mr. Wickham?" His eyes became flinty, as his lips pursed into a frown. "How do you justify your treatment of him?"
"I am sure his suffering is great." The sarcasm dripped off his words, and Elizabeth's temper flared as she clenched her fists. "I am sure he has told you many lies about what occurred."
"You owe me the truth." She crossed her arms, meeting his steely gaze. "Please." His gaze softened for only a moment before steeling himself.
"His own impropriety is the cause of his situation, and he is well aware of why I refuse to help him out of the hole he dug for himself." Mr. Darcy's voice dripped with pure venom, reeking of hatred she had never heard from him before. Sure, he had been arrogant and rude but never hateful. Elizabeth wondered what he meant, and wished he would stop being so unbearably vague.
"You must give me more than insults as to his character!" She insisted. Mr. Darcy opened his mouth as he clenched his fist into a white knuckled ball, then took a deep breath and turned away from her.
"Forgive me," he said after a few moments. "I have difficult controlling my temper when I remember his actions." Elizabeth waited for what seemed like hours. Suddenly, Mr. Darcy sighed. "Mr. Wickham wooed my younger sister, believing that he would get a share of her inheritance. When he realized that he would not get a cent, he left her utterly heartbroken." His voice was soft, even and controlled. His body was taut with tension as he looked at the wall instead of her. Elizabeth's head swam, hardly being able to believe what she heard. "There is more that he has done, but I cannot speak to it without losing my temper. I do not wish to lose my temper again."
Time slowed once more as they stood in the heavy silence. Elizabeth stared at his back. Surely he had no reason to lie about this, and it was something that Elizabeth could find out the truth of herself. Especially since she was engaged. Mr. Darcy surely must know she could ask his sister herself. She was still curious, but it seemed as though... It seemed as thought she had perhaps misjudged him. Slightly.
"Well... You insulted my mother!" Elizabeth was reaching now, and she knew it. Mr. Darcy turned at that, looking utterly bewildered and amused all at once.
"She insults everyone." Darcy said with a pointedly raised brow, a hand on his hip. Elizabeth laughed despite herself, and he smiled for one brief moment.
"Well," she said after a moment, "this is deeply inconvenient." His eyebrows lifted slightly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You are becoming less unbearable by increments, and I dislike it very much." And there it was again. That almost-smile. He finally met her eyes. That dangerous softening around the mouth which transformed him from imposing to devastating in the span of a heartbeat.
"You dislike me less," he said. It was not a question. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes immediately.
"Do not become pleased. It is unattractive."
"I was not aware you found me attractive at all." Mr. Darcy, apparently realizing what he had just said, went still. Elizabeth felt heat rush violently into her face.
"Well," she informed the fireplace with tremendously restrained embarrassment, "I have no idea where you got that absurd idea."
"I apologize." Another silence. Terribly oppressive and thick with a sudden awareness of Mr. Darcy's overwhelming presence. Why could she never quit while she was ahead? Why couldn't she just keep her mouth shut? Mr. Darcy abruptly turned away and walked toward the window with the air of a man attempting to regain command of both himself and the British Empire simultaneously. Elizabeth watched him go with narrowed eyes.
"I apologize," she said. "That was terribly rude of me." Slowly, he looked back at her. And Elizabeth’s breath caught a little despite herself, because there was something almost unbearably naked in his expression now. Some small sympathetic part of herself wanted to reach out. She ignored it. "You must not look at me in that manner," she said.
"In what manner?"
"As though I am something precious." The silence after that felt immense. Then Darcy crossed the room toward her slowly, like a man cautiously approaching a skittish stray cat.
"Elizabeth," he said quietly, "you cannot possibly be unaware that you are." And there it was. The complete destruction of her remaining good sense. He was so close to her now all she would have to do was reach out to touch him. She raised her hand, and he took a deep inhale as if bracing for impact. The tips of his ears were red. At that moment, the front door opened. They jumped away from each other. Charlotte came into the room, looking shocked to see him there in a state other than his prim and proper persona. She looked at Elizabeth with wide eyes. "Good day," he said. He bowed slightly before leaving.
"What was that about?" Charlotte asked.
"I feel quite faint," Elizabeth said. Charlotte helped her down onto a sofa, where she stared despondently at the wallpaper. "I said yes."
"To what?"
"Mr. Darcy." She whispered, unable to meet Charlotte's eyes. Her best friend gasped beside her.
"I thought you hated him?"
"I do." She said, then sighed and leaned back into the couch before covering her face with a pillow. "But he's.... he's so rich!"
"He is. Rich and handsome." Charlotte giggled. Elizabeth groaned. "It could be worse. You could be alone and poor."
"I hate this," Elizabeth said. "Why must a woman marry for wealth, and not for love? I wanted love."
"I know, dearest," Charlotte said. "I know. Listen, you must convince Mr. Darcy to buy a home close to me. So we can see each other every day until you grow sick of me and convince him to buy you a villa in Italy."
"You'd really want that? I wouldn't stop bothering you." Elizabeth said, removing the pillow from her face. Charlotte was smiling.
"I should like very much to live close to my best friend."
"As would I." Elizabeth said softly. Charlotte hugged her, tucking Elizabeth into her side. Elizabeth sighed, screwed her eyes shut, and tried not to cry. How utterly humiliating to become engaged to the one man she swore to loathe forever.
***
Her father could scarcely believe the news when she arrived back at Longbourn. Mr. Darcy had sent a letter ahead of her arrival to formally ask for his permission. He had business in London, and then would make an appearance. Her father had called her into the study almost as soon as she arrived, and handed her the letter silently. Mr. Darcy's letter was so terribly stiff and formal. She could imagine him sitting ramrod straight at his writing desk, and almost smiled.
"My dear Lizzy, is this true?" Elizabeth put the letter down and nodded. "I thought you couldn't stand the man."
"I... He's not so bad. He's just..." Elizabeth could not finish the sentence. She understood why he had interfered with Jane and Bingley's courtship, but she had personally witnessed Jane's despair. He had also not spared any insult about the improprieties of the Bennet family while also declaring his love. She was not exactly thrilled with the man, but she wasn't terribly upset either. The only thing she still took issue with was his treatment of Mr. Wickham, but that was pending her own investigation into the matter. "Father I was wrong." She said finally. One could hear a pin drop a thousand miles away as her father regarded her.
"Lizzy, whatever do you mean?"
"He's proud, and vain, and arrogant." Her father snorted, looking at her with incredulity as he chuckled. "But... I was harsh. I was rude, and I jumped to judgments when... When I may have been mistaken."
"Tell me this is not because you are worried about Longbourn and Mr. Collins." She remembered his words, and tasted bile. She could not tell her father about this.
"No." She said. Her father's gaze bore into her as he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled at his chin as he was lost in thought. "It doesn't hurt that he's rich, certainly."
"Ten thousand pounds a year." Her father remarked, and they both laughed as they remembered Mrs. Bennet swooning over the amount when he first arrived. "Very well. I can see that you are not being coerced. You are far too headstrong to let someone tell you what to do, my dear Lizzy." She smiled, trying so very hard not to think of Mr. Collins and his repugnant righteousness. Her stomach turned. "I will send a letter to Mr. Darcy with my approval. Run along now my dear, I'm sure your sisters and mother have lots of questions." He looked meaningfully at the door, when Elizabeth heard Kitty giggle before Lydia shushed her. She groaned and rolled her eyes. Her father chuckled as she opened the door and the girls scattered.
"It's rude to listen in!" Elizabeth exclaimed, rushing past her sisters and mother who were asking her a million questions. "Let me be!" She practically ran out of the house as she hiked her skirts up. They stopped following soon after, and Elizabeth just kept running like she could outrun her very thoughts. She had doubted Mr. Darcy. She had been wrong? She wasn't sure. Maybe he was a good liar. Maybe Mr. Wickham was. You cannot possibly be unaware that you are. Elizabeth felt butterflies in her stomach and finally came to a stop. She leaned against a nearby tree, a grand old oak with roots tangled around the base. The shade provided much needed relief, and Elizabeth wasn't sure if she was going to cry, throw up, or scream until her throat was raw. Maybe all three. In what order? She wasn't sure just yet.
How could Mr. Darcy say those things to her in that soft, soothing voice of his just to go on to be the world's biggest asshole? She hated him. She was intrigued by him. She wanted to study him like a bug. Elizabeth sighed. She had sealed her fate. She would marry Mr. Darcy. But maybe all was not awry yet, for she had plenty of things to discover about the truth of his earlier statements. She was half hope, half agony at the prospect of him being a good man. For if that was the case, then what was to stop her from falling in love?