Page 37 of Not Without Me, Miss Elizabeth

A firm knock came at last, and dread seized her before she could master it. She approached the door cautiously. "Yes?" Some part of her feared, however irrationally, that Wickham himself stood upon the other side.

"Elizabeth? May I come in?" Mr. Darcy's voice reached her, and her fear dissolved at once into relief.

She opened the door to find him considerably altered. It took her a moment to place the change; he had shaved, and bathed, and stood now dressed in the plain clothing of a working man. He smiled as he entered and shut the door behind him.

"Your beard, and your clothes!" she exclaimed, startled entirely out of her composure by the sight of his bare chin, so different from the man who had left the room not an hour before.

He returned her smile, something almost boyish in it now that the severity of his usual expression had been so thoroughly softened by the change. "I am glad to be rid of both.” He noticed her eyes remained on his chin, where his beard had covered half of his face. And, without a thought, he boldly asked, “Did you have some fondness for the beard?"

She felt herself colour, and could not resist a small mischief, some part of her wanting very much to see what such teasing might provoke in him. "I rather think it became you, sir."

"Did it?" He looked genuinely surprised, rubbing absently at his newly bare chin as though checking her claim against his own memory of it. "Well, that can easily be remedied, madam, should you truly prefer it."

She laughed outright at his evident consternation, delighted to have so thoroughly unsettled him with so small a remark. "I have sent word to my cousin Fitzwilliam, and to your father," he went on, recovering himself with visible effort. "They ought to have the letters by tomorrow." His gaze dropped briefly to the browned bathwater still standing in its tub before returning to her face. "I hope you found the bath agreeable."

"I did," she said, colour rising further still, her heart quickening in a manner she chose not to examine too closely just then.

"I am glad of it." A faint flush had crept into his own cheeks as well, though he pressed on regardless. "There was a washroom below; I managed a shave, and was given these clothes in place of my own."

A knock came again, and he turned toward it at once, grateful, perhaps, for the interruption. "Yes?"

"Yer meal, sir."

"Ah, yes. Bring it in, if you please." He opened the door to admit another young servant girl bearing a tray laid with two filled mugs, a generous wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread, and a large pie.

She set it upon the table, then glanced toward the tub. "I'll see to that now, if it pleases you."

"Thank you, if you're able to manage it," Elizabeth said kindly, feeling a small pang of guilt at the girl's evident labour on her behalf.

"Aye, missus." The girl took hold of one end and dragged the little tub from the room, water sloshing over its rim with each awkward step, evidently bound to fetch the lanky boy's help before attempting the stairs.

Mr. Darcy closed the door behind her and turned to survey the tray, his stomach giving an audible growl that he made no attempt to disguise.

"It looks delightful," Elizabeth said, before he could remark upon it, already crossing toward it, drawn by the smell alone.

"It smells better still." He glanced at her, something warm and easy in his expression that had not been there a week before. "Shall we eat?"

Famished as they both were, neither spoke through the meal, too occupied entirely with the business of eating to manage conversation besides. They divided the bread and cheese between them without ceremony, tearing rather than cutting, before turning together to the large minced pie, sharing it between two spoons with none of the careful manners either might have observed at their own family tables.

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Their hunger satisfied at last, Mr. Darcy let out a contented breath and turned to her. "When shall we marry, Elizabeth?" The question left him before he had properly considered it.

Startled by his bluntness, she answered, "Sir, I have not yet agreed to marry you at all."

He looked at her, disbelieving. "You mean to refuse me, then."

"No, Mr. Darcy, I mean only to point out that where a marriage is proposed, one party generally asks, and the other accepts. At present, sir, you have asked. I have not yet answered."

"Madam, I beg you will not trifle with me. If you will have me, say so. If you will not, I would rather hear nothing further."

She met his gaze steadily, matching the gravity of his own. "You are not to govern me, Mr. Darcy. I would remain as I have always been free to act and speak as I see fit."

He had rarely in his life felt so thoroughly out of temper, and answered rather more sharply than he intended. "I have no wish to govern you! I wish to marry you because I love you as I have never loved any woman in my life! I confess I do not understand you at all."

"You are vexed with me, sir, and I will not be blamed for it. I have told you only the terms upon which I might consider your offer, and you have flown into a temper merely for my having named them."

He drew a long breath, staring down into his empty mug before lifting his eyes to hers once more. "You do not speak plainly, madam. I was entirely certain, not a moment past, that you meant to refuse me outright. I confess I still cannot tell whether you accept me or not. But I must have my say regardless. You must know how ardently I admire you, how deeply I love you. I have never loved a woman before this; my thoughts, my time, have always been given over to duty and responsibility, leaving little room for anything else. Now I love, and I mean to go on loving, and I will not be too proud to say so plainly."