Page 57 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
Anne wrote it down and when the scratching of the pen halted, he gave her the next lines.
Myself to your eyes must appear,
Possessing some small share of spirit:
One sixth of a tyrant so near
Devoid both of feeling and merit.
He could hear her dipping her pen in the inkpot and tapping it again the glass. “Is there more?” she asked.
He nodded. “A few more lines.”
“I cannot believe you have this all in your memory, Darcy,” she replied.
He paused. “My father taught it to me.”
She paused for a moment and then said, “I am ready.”
Darcy took as deep a breath as he could and recited the last part.
Ah, these in a garland I’ll bind,
And present as a gift to my friend;
‘Tis what in my bosom she’ll find,
And on what she may always depend.
Anne studied what she had written for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. “I imagine Miss Elizabeth will have no difficulty answering that.”
Darcy only smiled.
Anne hesitated before saying, “You should know, I like her very much.”
Darcy tilted his head slightly, taken aback. Anne was not given to admitting attachments.
“I am pleased to hear it,” he said carefully.
Anne regarded him with that same cool assessment, then said with quiet certainty, “I think you will do well together.”
Something in Darcy stilled. “I have not asked her anything yet.”
Anne’s expression remained composed, but her next words lodged themselves in his mind, slipping in before he could even consider resisting them.
“Then you had best do so as soon as you are able.”
Darcy’s chest tightened unexpectedly, his thoughts snapping into sharp focus. He wanted to ask—but was she ready? He had been prepared to inquire whether he might call on her, court her, when they had been under the wreckage of the folly. It had seemed ludicrous to do so when they might not ever be rescued. But he had wanted her to know in just how much esteem he held her.
He had not been able to pose his question then, and now she might not know at all, might think their back and forth was merely a way to distract themselves from their situation.
“Darcy?” Anne asked. “Will you repeat it again so that I may check my work?”
He recited the conundrum again, and then, with her usual quiet efficiency, Anne rose and departed.
The door clicked softly behind her, leaving the room eerily silent once more. However, it was not the same as before. This silence was not tedium; it was anticipation.
Anne’s words had disturbed something inside him, dislodging thoughts that had long been pushed aside in favour of caution, propriety, hesitation. He had known—before the accident, before the folly, and if he was honest, even before Kent—that he could not continue as he had. He had been fighting his desires, but the moment he had seen her collecting bluebells, he had known he could not fight them any longer. He wanted Elizabeth. Then they had quarrelled, and not half an hour later, she had been almost ripped from his life in an absurdly violent way.
