Page 21 of Transforming Mr. Darcy
She sighed happily and indicated that she did. She was so beautiful, even with the fingers of her gloves snagged and torn.
If she wanted him to wear the shirt, he would do it.
He swallowed. Gads, he had no self-control around this woman. He shifted the bundle of roses to hide the evidence of his ardour. He took a deep breath to bring himself back under good regulation. Eventually, he was able to place the bundle down next to the basket.
Still she gazed at him with innocent, trusting eyes. Was he imagining it, or were they also admiring him?
“I shall wear it, Miss Elizabeth,” he told her. “I trust that you would not request I do such a thing without cause.”
The smile this time was smaller but somehow more intense. There had been relief in the smiles she gave him as they walked up from the lake, but this was something different.
“Must you work here?” he asked abruptly as she began to make herself comfortable on her little pillow. “Why do you not come to work in my chamber?”
Her eyes widened, but he shook his head. “I seem to recall it is rather more comfortable than this, madam. Stone floors are nearly impossible to warm, and there are no rugs here.”
Miss Elizabeth turned her head to the window. The owl he had seen out by the lake was at the window. And had it been on that branch before? Odd. Abruptly, it hooted loudly and flew away just as it had at the lake.
Miss Elizabeth began to stand then, and Darcy offered his assistance. She thanked him with a pert curtsy. He again carried the bundle, and she took up her basket in the crook of an arm.
His chamber was much warmer than her own had been. As he settled her in a comfortable chair near the fire, he noted a new rug on the floor and curtains on the window. He was certain those had not been there before, but he was grateful for them. Miss Elizabeth would not be cold in this room.
“Would it be all right if I sat with you while you work?” he asked nervously. “I could read to you.” He glanced around. Were there any books here?
She tipped her head to one side and grinned at him. She must wonder the same thing and was teasing him.
“Do you not think your fairy godmother could find one for us?” he teased back.
Her smile disappeared and Darcy’s heart sank. “What is the matter?” He frantically searched through his words until he realised. She thought him unaffected by their situation. He did not understand it, truthfully, but when faced with the evidence, he could no longer deny its implications.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said at last. “I awoke on the ground near a lake, and I suspect it was not for the first time. We are currently in a castle, though there seems to be no one else with us—no staff, no relatives, no chaperones—and you are making a shirt of wild roses which I must wear when it is complete. Is this not the situation?”
She pulled such a face that he almost laughed, but this was serious. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was about to make the most outlandish statement—and he believed every word of it.
“I believe in your fairy godmother, Miss Elizabeth.” He caught her gaze and held it. “More importantly, I believe inyou.”
There was a great flapping from just outside the window, but Darcy did not move his eyes from Miss Elizabeth.
The sheer delight that radiated from her was a welcome reward for such an admission. He would never confess he believed in fairies before anyone else, fearful they might send him to some remote country retreat where he could not embarrass the family with his madness—but in the deepest part of his heart he knew Elizabeth was his, and he knew that she was telling him the truth. She had found a way to break whatever curse had been set upon him, and she was herself suffering to do it.
It came upon him then, like a great clap of thunder. He would marry her.
How hadshe ever thought Mr. Darcy taciturn? He had spoken all day without cessation, for evidently, he had a great deal to say. Elizabeth now knew nearly as much about the Darcy family as she did her own.
She knew his great-uncle was a judge despite being a wild sort of boy. She knew his great-great-grandmother had badgered her Darcy husband into making the estate and the surrounding communities as independent as possible. They had near a hundred beehives tended by several dedicated beekeepers, which negated the need to buy sugar. The coppices were carefully managed so there was no reason to touch the trees in the park. They even produced their own silk, which was why there was a small community of highly skilled Flemish and French silk weavers employed near Kympton. He wondered if her father had ever taken her fishing and whether she might enjoy learning, for there were many trout in the river at Pemberley. His mother had enjoyed the pastime, he told her quietly.
When he concluded his speech about his estate, he began to weave humourous stories about his boyhood exploits. There had been epic wars fought with toy soldiers, pirate ships, tree climbing, and foot races, learning to ride and discovering the joy in the freedom it gave him to travel to the far ends of his father’s lands. He had been much in the company of his cousin Richard Fitzwilliam, who was two years older, and the steward’s son, George Wickham, who was a year younger.
Eventually, he explained that while Richard and he had remained very close, George Wickham had become a man of whom he could not approve. At the end of the summer just past, Mr. Wickham had returned to Mr. Darcy’s notice in the most awful way—he hadattempted to seduce Mr. Darcy’s much younger sister Georgiana, no doubt for her substantial fortune. Poor girl, to be tricked into believing a man truly loved her only to discover he had never loved her at all. A man she had known as a small girl, too! It was such a betrayal.
Elizabeth was appalled. She was not so far removed from her tender years that she could not comprehend how deeply such perfidy would wound, and she hoped that she would meet Miss Darcy one day so that she might offer the girl her friendship.
It begged the question, of course, why Mr. Darcy would be so forthcoming about his family’s private matters. Her heart swelled with pride and happiness when she considered the trust in her he must have, to tell her these things. Perhaps it meant . . . but no. It could not. In his right mind, he would never admit to believing in Mildread, nor would he make overtures to her. The difference in their stations . . . it only showed him to be under Mildread’s influence.
The day passed in this way until the light in the window began to fade, and Elizabeth waited eagerly to have her voice return to her.
He was still talking when the moment came. “Mr. Darcy,” she said. She could not speak with much strength—it was beginning to wear on her, all the hours of silence. For days, Mr. Darcy had believed himself in a dream, but today he seemed to be waking up at last, and she could only whisper!
“Mr. Darcy,” she said again, but he had his back to her as he added another log to the fire. It made her heart melt a little more, even when he was exasperating her. He was so attentive to her comfort.
