P&P The Untold Stories: Darcy Plans His Proposal

Darcy goes for a ride to clear his head and put together a gentlemanlike proposal…

April 9, 1812

(Photo Joana Starnes)

Darcy tightened the reins, and brought his mount to a halt. To his left, far into the hazy distance, stood the great house, grey and squat, surrounded by manicured parkland.

He could not see the parsonage from here, nor the winding path along which Elizabeth was doubtlessly strolling, even then. Perhaps it was just as well that she was out of sight. Tantalising glimpses of her slender form would have been sure to distract him and sharpen the need to seek her out, just as he had each morning, from the day when she had taken care to inform him that the path meandering through the secluded grove was her favourite haunt.

Was she disappointed not to have encountered him today? Aye, most likely. But it could not be helped.

Despite himself, the corners of his lips curled up into a smile. Far be it from him to take pleasure in her disappointment, but it was a heart-warming notion, this: to know that he was missed, and wanted.

He drew a deep breath, and his smile grew warm and bright. He would make up for every pang she was feeling at the moment – for all the heartache and the doubts that must have plagued her for such a length of time. By this time tomorrow, the matter would be settled. He would speak out – declare himself at last.

For that was the crux of the matter, and the reason why he had denied himself the pleasure of a morning ramble at her side: he had to think, and plan, and choose his words with care. Oh, he did not doubt that she would welcome his addresses, however they might be expressed, but it simply would not do to make a hash of it. He, who weighed his words in all his dealings, from the management of his affairs to every trifling interaction, could not allow himself to sound inept in something so momentous as an offer of marriage. He owed it to her – and, frankly, to himself – to devote time and effort to the preparations. By Jove, he would not blurt out the first thing that came to mind, and bungle his proposal!

What did men say on the occasion?

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Darcy snorted. That was a foolish question. He did not care one jot what other men said when they offered marriage. He was not about to model himself on any other fellow. Not in a matter of such import. Nor in any other matter.

Lips pursed, he dismounted, patted the dark stallion’s neck and strolled away, leaving the trusty beast to have his rest and graze at leisure. Staring into the distance, Darcy clasped his hands behind his back.

Now, then, how was he to begin? It was only natural that he should commence by stating his feelings. And there was the first hurdle: it was not in his nature to put his feelings on display, let alone describe them. The recitation of one’s feelings smacked of ostentation. At best, it seemed insincere; at worst, an active endeavour to deceive. Thus, he had always mistrusted or despised men who would put their alleged sentiments into flowery speeches. And rightly so, for experience had taught him that the more a man could talk about his feelings, the less he felt.

No. No flowery speeches, but simple words, straight from the heart.

His heart…

Darcy unfastened the clasp of one gloved hand upon the other, squared his shoulders and drew the deepest breath.

His heart overflowed with feeling. For months on end, he had scarce known what to make of the ungovernable onslaught. He had foolishly dismissed it as infatuation – had chastised himself whenever he had felt his heart leap in his chest at the unexpected sight of her, at an arch glance or a quiet trill of laughter. He had fought against her irresistible allure as, day by day, he had come to both fear and relish every moment spent in her society.

Yet, day by day, her power over him had grown. Which was little wonder. She was unlike anyone he knew.

Of course, he had noted from the start that she was nothing like the other young women of his acquaintance, but it had taken him unpardonably long to comprehend and treasure the very reasons why she stood apart. All the others seemed cast in the same mould: all trained to look, smile, and deport themselves in the same manner, and coyly court admiration and approval. After years upon years of stale sameness, Elizabeth was a breath of fresh air. Artless. Effortlessly charming. Wise beyond her years. Unafraid to speak her mind. Ready to defend her views, rather than alter or disguise them when faced with opposition. More than a little willing to rise to the challenge with both civility and candour, and above all with an endearing mixture of sweetness and archness which rendered her incapable of giving offence.

Time and again, he had allowed himself the sheer delight of her sparkling wit and lively repartee, little as he had been able to respond in kind, his own wits scattered by the curve of her lips, the warmth in her gaze, her shapely form, her intoxicating scent. Aye, he wanted her. More than he had ever wanted any woman. He had grown sharply aware of that a long time ago. It had taken him a great deal longer to acknowledge that he loved her. And it was only here, in Kent, where his defences had finally crumbled, that he had begun to count the ways in which she would be a blessing to Pemberley – to him.

Aye, she lacked both fortune and connections. In point of fact, her relations were a confounded nuisance. But, praise be, Longbourn was many miles from Pemberley. As for Elizabeth herself, the gifts she stood to bring to their union surpassed every material consideration. She was clever, patient, generous, and loyal to a fault. She would make a fair mistress to his people, and fulfil her role with diligence and kindness. She would restore Georgiana’s confidence and help the dear girl regain her trust in people. She would bring joy to his sister’s life, and brightness to his. She would bring love and laughter to Pemberley, and bring forth children who would take after her and him, and, God willing, inherit the best traits of both.

Darcy cleared his throat and reined in his thoughts, for they were rushing headlong in the wrong direction. For goodness’ sake, he was meant to apply himself and formulate a gentleman-like proposal! Daydreaming about begetting heirs with her was of no assistance in the matter.

He frowned as his thoughts veered to one of the many nights when he had awoken from dreams he could not control – achingly perfect dreams of her beside him – and had pummelled his pillows as he had cursed himself for an unmitigated fool who had better gather his befuddled senses and leave her to her course in life, while he followed his. Now that he had irreversibly resolved to do the opposite, the very notion that he might have left her to make her life without him – wed some other man – bear another man’s children – was past bearing.

With a swift, impatient gesture, he removed his hat and ran his gloved fingers through his hair.

Enough! Enough, now. On the morrow, everything would be set to rights. He would meet her in their secluded grove, keep his wits about him and calmly reveal his admiration and regard, then ask for her hand in marriage. Too placid? Aye, perhaps. Even so, he should conduct himself with propriety of manner, not lose his head and rant about his ardent passion. There would be ample time for that, once they had reached their understanding.

And then he chuckled, and his mien brightened into a boyish grin as he muttered, “Lord, I hope not.”

Not ample time. It had better be a short engagement. All the preparations within his remit would be made as soon as may be. The marriage settlement. The special licence. Were it not for Lady Catherine and the distasteful scenes she would undoubtedly cause in her disappointment, he would have hied off to town tomorrow afternoon to set the wheels in motion. But he should be at hand and shield Elizabeth from his aunt’s ire, until such time that they could leave Kent together. Admittedly, Miss Lucas was too young to be regarded as a proper chaperone, but she would have to do. In all likelihood, Fitzwilliam would also join them.

Another fleeting grin tugged at Darcy’s lips. Fitzwilliam would bristle at the new change of plans, but this once his cousin would have to put up with the chain of sudden alterations. Of course he would. Fitzwilliam would understand. And wish them joy. And prove himself a staunch ally in the upcoming storm.

The sobering thought did away with Darcy’s cheerful manner, but it could not vanquish his sense of anticipation. Aye, there would be a storm – and they would weather it. He had decided that he would face his family’s displeasure and the improprieties of hers. Having her for his own came at a price, but so be it. Everything of value came at a heavy price.

And that, Darcy realised all of a sudden, was what he should tell her. She deserved proof of his devotion, not just words. Any man could say ‘I love you’ and scarce mean it. The depth of his love was in the depth of his sacrifice. He would present her with a cogent explanation of the difficulties he had overcome to offer for her – of the hurdles they would overcome together. For now, it was the greatest proof of love that he could give.

* * * * * * *

The walk to the parsonage took no time at all. He had to come. As soon as that blithering fool, Collins, had finished apologising for Elizabeth’s headache as though it were an affront to Lady Catherine, he had known that he had to see her.

Was she truly ill, or was she avoiding him, disheartened by his failure to join her on her morning walk? Either way, he simply had to make his way to Hunsford – learn how she was faring – ensure that she would meet him on the morrow in their secluded grove. Heaven forbid that she should be too ill to do so.

The young maid showed him into the parlour, bobbed a clumsy curtsy, then vanished. His eyes had fastened on Elizabeth from the moment that he had walked into the room, and he could not fail to note her pallor. She looked weary and drawn.

He bowed, and said that he hoped she was feeling better.

“I thank you, yes, I am,” was her reply – like as not, a civil falsehood.

She motioned him to a chair, and he sat, but a few moments later he was on his feet again – and, before he knew it, he did precisely what he had resolved against: he blurted out the first words that came to mind.

“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

She stared, coloured, and remained silent.

Confound it! So much for the plan he had painstakingly formulated in the morning! It had been easy work then, with a clear head, but now…

With no little effort, he marshalled his thoughts and recollected the logical sequence of the points he had resolved to make. To his relief, once he had begun to speak, the words kept flowing freely. At length, he concluded by rephrasing his initial outburst – and was thankfully able to deliver it calmly this time round – then expressed his hope that his unconquerable attachment would be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand.

And then she looked up and spoke.

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