Love from the Gods - Part 2

Thank you to those who commented! Here is the second half.

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~❤~ Five

“You don’t have to marry her,” argued Darcy to Bingley. “There can be no obligation attached to something you have no control over.”

“Of course I’m going to marry her!” Bingley frowned at him. “Why on earth wouldn’t I?”

Darcy paced. “Her family, her connections are too low.”

“Why, because her uncle is in trade? My grandfather was in trade!”

“Your grandfather was, but—” He cut off.

“I don’t understand you, Darcy! I thought you would be the last man in the world to wish me to withdraw from a connection formed so publicly! Everyone has seen me court her, everyone knows of our marks! I could not draw back now, even if I wanted to, which I don’t.”

Darcy was silent a moment. “Your courtship has been public, but if it had not been, if no one but you knew…”

Bingley gave him a puzzled look. “Perhaps you are right, and there would be no obligation if we did not like each other, but I do like her. I like her very much, and I think she will make me happy. What does an uncle in trade matter compared to the prospect of life long happiness?”

“But your name, Bingley, what you owe to your name! And your sister—your marriage affects her too. You cannot—no man of property and family and reputation can only consider himself when he chooses a wife. No matter how… tempting the prospect may be.”

A mulish look appeared around Bingley’s mouth. He bowed his head and said nothing, but Darcy, waking from his abstraction enough to glance at him, saw he was rubbing his arm where his mark lay. He felt a kind of despair, for himself and his friend. Were they both to be doomed by pretty eyes and mysterious marks? He thought of Bingley’s last line: What does an uncle in trade matter compared to the prospect of life long happiness? If he really thought—if he could be sure—

What if it wasn’t Elizabeth at all? Until he had actually seen the mark for himself, he couldn’t really know. He could be torturing himself for nothing. But if it was, could he really walk away from her? He had argued with Elizabeth’s contention that to reject the soul marks was to abandon his faith in God, but in his heart he believed it. Would it be ingratitude to his Creator, to reject the woman He chose for him? Would he ever find peace again, knowing she was here, bearing his mark? Could he marry another woman, while bearing hers? Fate-mark indeed, he thought.

~❤~❤~❤~

The next afternoon both Bingley and Darcy came to call at Longbourn. Except for Jane they were a morose lot. Bingley was unwantedly subdued, and kept looking first at Jane and then at Darcy, who ignored him and just looked at Elizabeth, who looked at everyone but him. It wasn’t until the youngest sisters, Kitty and Lydia, burst into the room, bringing Maria Lucas with them, and then a tea tray arrived, that Darcy edged slowly closer to Elizabeth.

“Miss Elizabeth, I believe we have something to talk about,” he said to her, under the cover of the others’ chatter.

She offered him a selection of miniature cakes. “I cannot imagine what.”

He raised his brows, even as he waved the plate away. “I doubt that.”

“You may doubt all you wish, sir, but that does not change my opinion.” She smiled at her mother and passed the plate to Lydia.

He fell silent, but rather than moving away only manoeuvred a little closer, so he was standing just behind her left shoulder. Mr. Bingley was now ringed about by Bennet women, laughing as they plied him with tea and cakes. Mr. Bennet walked into the room, and there was a minor flurry as he exchanged greetings with everyone, and Kitty was pressed to give up her seat for him. Darcy did not move from his position. “I fear I offended you during our last conversation,” he said at last, in a low voice. “That was not my intention.”

She shook her head. “It is nothing to me what opinion you may have of my relations.”

He fell into a frustrated silence. Kitty came up for a refill, and Elizabeth poured for her. “You cannot think this is easy for me,” he said, when she had left.

“I have no idea what you can mean.”

“I think you do. I think you know exactly what I mean, but you are pretending you do not out of a misplaced sense of pride—”

“Misplaced pride?” Elizabeth whipped her head around to stare at him, her voice rising in indignation. One or two people looked in their direction, and she settled back down, but could not help turning her head in his direction. “If anyone here suffers from misplaced pride,” she hissed, “it is not me!”

He stiffened. “Pride, when it is under good regulation—”

She scoffed.

He pressed his lips together. Conversation around them continued, and Elizabeth joined in. Darcy, despite being addressed several times, would not be drawn into more than short replies; he drifted further away from the group and leaned his shoulder on a window recess. Elizabeth was aware of his eyes following her, for all that she tried to ignore him. She knew she ought to say something else to him, that as little as she liked it, he could not be ignored forever, but she wasn’t ready yet. She did not know when she would be. Perhaps he is right to be sceptical, she thought. How can my soul-mate be a man who thinks me beneath him? It was all very confusing, and she resented him for his ungraciousness.

The situation resolved faster than either of them would have expected when someone had the happy idea of suggesting a walk into town. The younger girls all cried their eager agreement, and soon enough Bingley had been cajoled into joining them with Miss Bennet on his arm, leaving Darcy to follow with Elizabeth.

They neither of them said much as the group set out from the house. Darcy fell into step beside her silently, and Elizabeth’s manners were not so bad that she would walk off and leave him alone. Glancing sideways at him, she saw his face still set in tight lines, and decided that the burden of conversation, at least, would not rest with her.

She soon realised her mistake. Mr. Darcy, it appeared, was perfectly content to walk all the way to Meryton without a word passing between them. Infuriating man! “We must have some conversation, Mr. Darcy,” she said at last. “To walk all the way to town without speaking would appear very strange.”

“I was under the impression you did not wish to speak to me.”

She nearly threw up her hands. “I don’t! But for the sake of appearances, I am willing to do even so much.”

He narrowed his eyes “Far be it from me to burden you with idle conversation, madam.”

“Well I don’t see the point of any other sort of conversation.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean,” she said in a low voice. “We can have nothing to talk of.”

He glanced at their companions, Kitty and Lydia in the lead, Jane and Bingley dawdling behind. “Once again, I cannot agree. You may wish for idle conversation, but I do not. We have more important topics than the weather to discuss.”

“How can you not see,” began Elizabeth heatedly, but at his warning look, lowered her voice. “How can you not see how impossible it is that we
could—that we should have anything in common, when you despise the very people I admire most in the world!”

“I never said I despised them.”

“No, your looks did it for you.”

He was silent for a moment. “As I have never met your aunt and uncle,” he said at last, “I can have no opinion on them. It is only their situation which I found objectionable. If I offend you by saying so, then I am sorry for it, but I think my feelings just, and I cannot apologise for them.”

“And that, Mr. Darcy, is why conversation between us must only and always be idle.”

He bit back some exclamation. “I have not said that I would not—that I cannot—” He paused, struggling for the best way to express himself.

“That I would impute their situation to you,” he said at last. “You are not to blame for your relations.”

“But their situation is my situation,” she cried. “There is no great difference between the tradesman and his niece; in any case, I have no desire to separate myself from them. I am not ashamed of my connections. Indeed, I love them. I love them, and I have no desire to be separated from them. Anyone who wishes to be my friend must also be willing to be theirs.”

He shook his head mulishly, and they walked on, frowning.

“Lizzy!” Lydia ran back to loop her arm through her sister’s. “Kitty and I were just speaking of what flowers we wished to buy to trim our old bonnets with. Do come and tell us your opinion. We can’t agree on anything, but we haven’t enough money to buy two sprays of flowers, so whatever we get, we have to share.” With hardly a glance for Mr. Darcy, she led Elizabeth forward. “Now didn’t I do good?” she whispered when she got her to Kitty. “I rescued you from that boring Mr. Darcy.”

“Lydia!” Elizabeth shook her head but laughed. Kitty took her other arm. “However, I am grateful,” she added under her breath. They walked on to Meryton together, Mr. Darcy trailing behind.

~❤~ Six

Darcy avoided Longbourn for the next three days. Each one of those days, his heart grew heavier within him. Was it his imagination that the fate-mark burned beneath his cravat? He wondered what happened to people who had found their mark mates and then rejected them. Had any such person existed in the history of the world? He searched Bingley’s small library for some volume on soul marks, but found none, only a novel called The Romance of the Mark. He read a few chapters, then threw it down in disgust. It wasn’t like that, he thought. It wasn’t love at first sight. This wasn’t magical, it was painful.

And yet, Elizabeth’s words echoed around in his mind. I am not ashamed of my connections. Indeed, I love them. I love them, and I have no desire to be separated from them. Anyone who wishes to be my friend must also be willing to be theirs. He could see the justice in her declaration; he could even admire her for it. But it was hard, very hard to give up his plans, the expectations he had formed for the match he would make one day, the fortune and connections he had thought would be his. To take a woman such as Mrs. Bennet for his mother, to call those younger girls his sisters. To rejoice in an uncle in Cheapside!

And yet—to have Elizabeth as his wife, with her wit and her eyes and her laughing mouth; to see his mark on her shoulder; to press his lips to it; to hold her in his arms at night; to bring her to Pemberley and Georgiana, and let her bright spirits comfort and elevate all of them.

“I say, Darcy, you’re not ill, are you?” asked Bingley one morning.

He started from his abstraction. “Why, what do you mean?”

“It’s just that you were pressing your hand to your neck just now.” He demonstrated. “I’ve seen you doing that any number of times in the last few days. Is it hurting you?”

Darcy stared at his hand. He had been doing that, and never even realised it. “Yes.”

“Perhaps you ought to see a doctor. I’ve heard Mr. Jones is quite good, or we could send to town for…”

“I don’t think a physician will be able to heal what ails me,” he said, rising.

“But, Darcy! Where are you going?”

“To find the cure,” he said over his shoulder, as he strode from the room.

~❤~❤~❤~

Elizabeth stood in the woods that bordered Longbourn and Netherfield. Arms crossed tightly across herself, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, focusing on the quiet and the smell of the woods. Birds sang; a breeze stirred the autumn leaves, and the rich, damp earth rose to her nostrils; but somehow, none of it brought her the peace it usually did.

She had spent the days since Mr. Darcy’s last visit telling herself that she was better off without him, but in her heart, she could not believe it. What did her future look like now? No man would marry her while she bore another man’s mark. Perhaps she could pass it off as a birthmark, but her conscience rebelled against such an idea. Besides, she and Darcy belonged to each other, didn’t they? She did not know what she thought of him, arrogant and enigmatic as he was. She wasn’t sure if she even liked him—but even so, whatever he was, if he bore her mark then he was hers, by divine right. His presence drew her with a magnetic power that seemed to increase every time she saw him. His eyes, his brow, the set of his shoulders—he reminded her of the great clock in the hall at Longbourn that had so fascinated her as a child: first you had to unlock the case, then you could examine its inner workings.

The shuffle of hooves and the jingle of a bridle alerted her to the presence of a horseman near; in a few moments, Mr. Darcy rode into view. He seemed to be looking for something, but on spotting her under a tree, his shoulders relaxed, and he drew up. “Miss Bennet,” he said, “I have been riding for some time in hopes of meeting you.” He swung down.

Her heart began to pound, and she pressed her hands against her stomach. “Mr. Darcy.”

They stared at each other. Darcy opened his mouth, paused. “Miss Bennet—Elizabeth.”

“Mr. Darcy?”

He clenched his hands. “In vain have I struggled,” he said. “It will not do.”

A smile trembled on her lips. “What will not?”

“You must know.” He took a hasty step towards her. “You do know. The—we—” He wanted her to help him, but she didn’t, she couldn’t. The knowledge filled the air between them, each afraid to speak it first—afraid they would be right, afraid they would be wrong.

With a sudden exclamation, Darcy began to tear at his cravat. Astonished, Elizabeth took a step back, wondering what he could be about—but then he pulled the cravat from his neck, and turned his head, and there it was. The mark. She gasped. Though she had believed he carried it, still, to see it there, on his skin, was overwhelming.

“Tell me at once,” said Darcy. Too overcome to speak, she nodded. He let out a long breath, and closed his eyes. This is it, she thought. This is the moment everything changes. He opened them, and they met hers. “Can I see it?”

His gaze had moved to her shoulder. He knew, somehow. Somehow he knew it was there, and though it was so very far from proper, it did not occur to her to deny him.

With fumbling fingers she undid the buttons on her pelisse, pulled it off, held it in her arms as she turned her back to him. Then his feet, crunching the autumn leaves as he drew closer. The quickness of his breath, filling the silence, stirring the feathers on her bonnet. And the first tentative touch.

~❤~❤~❤~

Darcy pulled his gloves off with his teeth, and thrust them into a pocket. His hands trembled as he reached for her buttons. They were so small—he fumbled them, brushing her skin. She tensed at the touch. One, two, three—how many would he need? How many would it take to reveal her mark to him? Time seemed to stretch on forever under the quiet trees as he pulled and pressed the fastenings of her gown, and Elizabeth’s rapid breaths filled his ears.

There—would it be enough? It would have to be enough. The fabric gaped, and with sudden determination he peeled it back, slid his fingers under the edge of her shift and her stays, pulled them, peeled them all back and down, until her shoulder lay bare. Bare but for the dark, bruise-like mark just there—just under his fingers.

Darcy let out a long breath. “Elizabeth,” he murmured. He studied the mark and, unable to help himself, he touched it again. Elizabeth stirred, but did not speak. Slowly his head drifted lower, and his lips brushed the top of her shoulder.

“Please,” said Elizabeth breathlessly, and pulled a little away.

With an effort, he pulled himself under control. “Forgive me,” he said, straightening. As quickly as he could, he put her clothes to rights, hiding the mark again. Doing up the buttons seemed to take even longer than undoing them, his fingers if possible even clumsier. A bird flew through the tree, squawking, and both of them jumped at the sound. The moment the last button was fastened, Elizabeth moved away, walking rapidly as she pulled her Spencer back over her arms and did up the front. Only when she was a safe distance away and fully dressed did she turn back towards him. Her eyes moved to his neck, still bared.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“Now I go to your father, I suppose.”

She twisted her fingers together. “And so that’s it? Everything is settled, without… further discussion, or consideration, or even a courtship?”

“Do you wish for a courtship?”

“Of course. Any woman would.”

“How long of a courtship?”

“I don’t know. At least… a few weeks. We scarcely know each other.”

“Is that not the point of the marks, though? To make the end predetermined, without the need for further acquaintance?”

Her lips turned up a little. “Are you still determined to debate them with me, even now?”

“I think our need to understand them properly has never been greater,” he said.

“Ah, but will debate between us further our knowledge, or hinder it? Perhaps,” she added hesitantly, “you will decide the marks have no real meaning after all.”

“No.” He spoke firmly. “No, that I do not believe. These few days have been sufficient to convince me that, while I may not understand their power,” his hand moved up to touch his, “it is real.” He held her gaze. “For better or worse, by Providence or fate, for the rest of our lives, we are linked, Elizabeth.”

She blinked rapidly, and her mouth twisted. “Let it be for the better, then, not the worse.”

“That—I trust it may be so. I hope it will be.”

“You have hope, but not faith?”

“I—” He hesitated. She looked almost forlorn in that moment, anxious and uncertain, hurt by his uncertainty. He was making a poor start as a lover, or a husband. “Elizabeth,” he said at last. He walked the distance between them. He reached for her hand, and she gave it, then her eyes grew wide as he drew even closer. Bending, he drew her hand upward, and placed it boldly against his mark. She drew in a sharp breath, but he held it there, his pulse hammering beneath her fingers. “I will purpose to have faith, hope and charity,” he said, “if you will do the same.”

He saw her eyes grow soft. “And the greatest of these is charity,” she murmured.

“It is not my strong suit, I am afraid.”

She laughed. “Nor mine. But hope?” He had taken her other hand as well, and it tightened around his. “Hope I do very well. And truly, I think where there is hope there must be faith too. How can you hope if you have no faith?”

He smiled. “I am sure you are correct.”

Her fingers flexed warm against his skin. “There now,” she said, her smile brighter still, “you are beginning well after all.”

And then he could only laugh too.


~❤~ Seven

Not even to Jane did Elizabeth describe the scene in the woods. But, “I have spoken to Mr. Darcy,” she said. “You were right; he is the one.”

“Oh, Lizzy!” Jane embraced her. “I am glad. Truly, though I know your first meeting did not go well, I think he is worthy of you, if any man can be.”

Elizabeth laughed. “You only think that because he is Bingley’s friend.”

“Not entirely. I have made an effort to observe him, for your sake. It is true he is not so open as my dear Charles, but he is truly amiable, I am convinced of it. And no one can doubt his intelligence or honour.”

She opened her mouth to say something scoffing, but thought better of it. This would be no way to begin, by deprecating him to another. “I hope you may be right,” she said instead.

“I am sure that I am. But how do you feel about him, now that you know? Do you like him?”

“Like him? I suppose I shall grow to like him, once I have had a better chance to know him. We have been so busy trying to find the other out, it has not left a great deal of time for ordinary conversation. But he has agreed we ought to have a period of courtship, and now that that matter is settled, perhaps we may make better progress in actually liking each other.”

Jane smiled and hugged her. “I am very happy for you, Lizzy.”

“And you, dearest? I am surprised that Mr. Bingley has not actually proposed yet.”

She blushed. “He spoke to my father today. We are to make the announcement tomorrow.”

She embraced her sister and congratulated her, but her mind was on the touch of his fingers at her back, the way he had smiled and cradled her hand against him. She was anxious to see him again, anxious indeed to know how well they would like each other.

~❤~❤~❤~

That Mr. Darcy had revealed the truth to Mr. Bingley, at least, was apparent as soon as the men arrived. Bingley was beaming even more brightly than usual, and he greeted Elizabeth with so much eagerness, and pressed her hand with so much significance, that he might have appeared a suitor, if he had not then turned to Jane with the most fatuous expression imaginable. She hid her smile, and turned to greet his friend with tolerable composure, only the heightened colour on her cheek revealing how her thoughts were on the scene in the woods.

Darcy followed her to a seat at one side of the room. “I hope you do not mind that I told him.”

“Not at all. Jane, of course, has always known, and that is almost the same thing now.” She looked fondly at the couple, who gazed raptly into each other’s eyes as Mrs. Bennet exclaimed over the excellence of the match. “She always favoured you, you know, when we were trying to determine who it might be. I thought it impossible, but she insisted—and she was correct.”

“Impossible? Why do you say that?”

She debated what answer to give him, and decided on the direct one. “I heard what you said about me at the ball.”

He coloured. “Forgive me. That was unpardonably rude.”

“It was, rather. However, I suppose it must be forgotten now, except—”

“Yes?”

Impossible to say it, but it must be said. “I would not like you to be disappointed—to find yourself with a wife you do not adm—”

“I assure you. That is not a concern you need have.” His flush grew darker.

“Oh?”

“Indeed.” He looked her in the eyes. “I spoke in error—I was quite mistaken. I came to realize very soon that I was mistaken.”

“Oh.” She sat back. “I am relieved to hear it.” Despite her casual tone, her own cheeks darkened, and she could not help but cast him glance from under her lashes. He was watching her intently. She smiled a little and saw how his eyes followed the movement of her lips. Her smile grew wider.

~❤~❤~❤~

“I have been considering what you said,” he told her later, when they had escaped with Jane and Bingley for a walk around the shrubbery.

“About the Luddites? It was a rather well-made point—I am not surprised you found it worthy of a second consideration.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Not that—although I admit that you expressed yourself well. No, rather, I was considering the concern you stated earlier, in the parlour.” He gave her a look. “Over a foolish and hasty comment I made on the night we first met.”

“Ah. That foolish and hasty comment.”

“I hope I do not make so many of them that there could be much confusion.” He raised his hand as she opened her mouth. “Please—spare me your wit for this one moment.”

Elizabeth smiled but remained silent.

“After much consideration, I believe that under the current circumstances the solution—that is the best course of action—” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

“I would like to kiss you.”

She gasped. “Mr. Darcy! We are not engaged yet!”

“I disagree. Just because we have not informed many others of our understanding does not mean we do not have one.”

“We don’t even have my father’s permission.”

“Do you anticipate him refusing me?”

“No, but—”

“Are you intending to refuse me?”

She huffed. “No.”

“Then we are engaged,” he said firmly. “As I was saying earlier, you have, understandably, expressed concern over an unfortunate comment which I made at the very beginning of our acquaintance. I wish to convince you that I feel very differently on the matter now, but recognizing that my words may seem suspect under the circumstances, I have determined that a demonstration is most likely to have the desired persuasive effect.”

Elizabeth stopped and stared at him. “You wish to demonstrate…?”

“My admiration, yes.”

“By kissing me.”

“Yes.”

“And you feel this will be… effective?”

“Well,” he smiled ruefully, “if it is not, I will have no one but myself to blame.”

“I see.” Elizabeth walked a few more steps, and he followed along. “Well,” she decided finally, as they came to stop beneath a particularly shaded bower, “let it never be said that I denied you your opportunity for atonement. We did agree we would practise charity, and I know no greater charity than allowing a sinner the opportunity to repent properly of his sins.”

Darcy laughed. “You are, without a doubt, both charitable and charming,” he said, as he wrapped his arm around her.

~❤~❤~❤~

Darcy drew her close. She came without resistance and rested against him, her brilliant eyes gazing quietly up at him as she waited. With a hand that shook, he cradled her jaw, stroking the soft skin of her cheeks and lips. “Loveliest Elizabeth,” he murmured. Her brows rose a little at the endearment, and the crease at the corner of her lips deepened into a smile. Without delay, he tilted her head, and bent to apply himself to the task before him.

~❤~❤~❤~

As Darcy’s mouth moved against her own, Elizabeth found her mind seemed inclined only to slide off into a kind of distant haze. She gripped his lapel and pulled him a little closer. Perhaps it was her imagination, but for a moment, the place where her mark rested throbbed like a heartbeat.

At last he drew back. “Elizabeth,” he said, his voice uneven, “if you do not object too much, I think I ought to speak to your father today after all.”

She nodded. “I still have relations in Cheapside,” she said a few moments later, defiantly.

He choked on a laugh. “I know.” He kept on kissing her.

“I will want to visit them.”

“I know.”

With determination, she drew back. “I should not like you to act against your character simply because we share a mark. I do not want to marry a man who despises my family, or will resent me because of them.”

He sighed and ran a hand over his hair. “I am not sure what to say. We neither of us chose this, it’s true, but that does not mean that I do not desire it. I do desire it, more each time I meet you. As for your family, I will not try to keep you from them, and I will endeavour, for your sake, to see them as you do. More than that, I cannot promise.”

It was a considerable concession from a man of his stamp, and Elizabeth did not want to seem ungracious. She took his hand. “You will like my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. They are delightful people, truly.”

“I am sure if you say it, then it must be so.” Darcy endeavoured to place his arm around her waist again, and found her not unwilling.

“There you go again! What a charming husband you shall make, always telling me I am right.”

He drew her closer. “And you, Elizabeth? I have told you my wishes, but you have yet to say anything of yours. Can you—” He hesitated, suddenly vulnerable. “Jesting aside, can you like me as your husband?”

Her lips twisted a rueful half-smile. “The marks have said it, have they not?” Looking hurt, he began to draw back, and she hurried on, blushing. “Of course I can.” She gripped his coat. “Of course I do, and I will. What kind of woman would I be if I didn’t? Only—” she drew a breath. “That is, I wish—”

“Yes?”

“For strictly practical purposes, you understand, and in order help assure our happiness… I do wish that you would kiss me again.”

He smiled. “Kissing for the increase of affection now? I believe I may assist you with that.”

“Good.” Her fingers tightened their hold. “I feel certain of its efficacy.”

“As do I, Miss Bennet,” he murmured, as he gently tilted her head. “As do I.”


~❤~ Eight

The announcement of Jane’s engagement surprised no one, but the announcement of Elizabeth’s surprised everyone. They told the truth about their marks only to Mr. Bennet, who saw no reason to repeat it—but Sarah the maid, who had so faithfully kept Lizzy’s secret during the last weeks, could not resist the opportunity to broadcast her knowledge now. In consequence, the rumour soon spread around the region of Meryton that Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth were fate marked. Mrs. Bennet, once the story was explained to her by Lady Lucas, had no hesitation in confirming it, and so the truth was known after all, though very few people presumed to ask the great Mr. Darcy so personal a question.

Mr. Collins, their cousin and future heir of Longbourn, arrived in town a few days later, and was quite nonplussed to discover that the two loveliest of his cousins were already engaged to be married. He was even more dismayed to discover one of them intended to marry the nephew of his revered patroness, Lady Catherine, since Lady Catherine herself had told him that Mr. Darcy was to marry her daughter. His attempts to remonstrate with Darcy were not well received.

A further few days after Mr. Collins’s appearance, Captain Denny of the local militia regiment brought back a friend from London—a particularly handsome and charming fellow known as Mr. Wickham. An encounter in the street led to Darcy telling Elizabeth about how Wickham had conspired with Miss Darcy’s companion last summer to make her believe they were fate-marked, and so nearly lured her into an elopement. “And that is part of why you were so sceptical,” she said with new understanding.

“Yes. I let one man’s deceit colour my perception of the entire matter.”

“But you must have known that yours was real.”

“I did know. I did know, but I feared it—even as you did as well, my sceptical Lizzy.” He stroked her hair.

She laughed. “Oh dear, what a pair we made! If only we had half of Jane and Bingley’s candour, we would have settled it all so much sooner.”

“Indeed. But for my part, I cannot regret it, not really. We recognized each other in the end, after all.” He smiled smugly, and Elizabeth laughed again.

Mr. Wickham’s claims of being wronged by Darcy were met with polite incredulity by Meryton society; after all, he was the fate-matched of Lizzy Bennet, which made him nearly one of their own, and everyone knew Elizabeth’s morals were above reproach. He did not remain in the neighbourhood long after that, and last they heard of him, he was being pursued by the army for desertion.

Mr. Collins soon proposed marriage to the third Bennet sister, Mary, but having been encouraged by her older sisters’ experiences to hope that she, too, might receive a fate mark one day, she refused him. He carried his grief to Charlotte Lucas, and she consoled him all the way to the altar, much to Elizabeth’s chagrin.

“You deserve better, Charlotte,” she said earnestly.

“It is not a matter of deserving but of accepting, Eliza. I am happy for you, but—not everyone is fate-marked for love.”

“You might be, you don’t know.”

“I am seven-and-twenty. I think that if I was going to receive a mark, it would have happened before now—or else what would be the use anyway? Mr. Collins is respectable and he can provide me with a comfortable home, which is what I really want anyway. I will be quite content to leave undying love to the more romantic.”

“I am hardly romantic.”

“You are very romantic. You always have been, you know. You would never have been happy with Mr. Collins—which is why it is well that I will be marrying him, not you.”

Fortunately for Elizabeth’s feelings, she was not required to attend the wedding, having so recently married herself.

As for Kitty and Lydia, they determined that they, too, must be destined for Great Love—though that was no reason, of course, not to practise flirting with the officers in the meantime.

~❤~❤~❤~

“Take a look at this, my love.” Darcy handed Elizabeth an open book as he sat next to her. They were in the sunny front parlour which Elizabeth had taken for her own at Pemberley.

“Love from the Gods,” she read from the title page. “Who is Sigmund Heisenbauer? Have you heard of him?”

“A little. This is the only volume I have found that appears to study the matter of soul-marks in anything like a comprehensive fashion.”

“A surprising oversight, to be sure, considering how prevalent their influence has been.”

“Perhaps if more scholars treated the subject with seriousness, fewer among the educated classes would question them as well.”

“Perhaps. Did you find anything of interest?”

“Much of interest, though little to really surprise me. We have experienced their accuracy in predicting love, after all.”

“Predicting it?” She smiled brilliantly. “So you no longer believe they have the power of causing love?”

“My dear Mrs. Darcy,” he answered, pausing to set aside the book and take her in his arms instead. “I am firmly convinced that it would it take a power greater than any these marks possess to prevent me loving you.”

“Pooh.” She smoothed his coat with a satisfied hand. “You would never have even looked at me if you had not been searching for your soul-match.”

“You are wrong. The marks undoubtedly saved us a great deal of time, but I cannot believe they changed the ultimate outcome. Even before I knew, I knew it was you,” he said, cradling her face in his hand. “How could it be anyone but you?”

“I found he whom my soul loveth,” she whispered in reply. “I held him, and I would not let him go.”*

He smiled, and drew her close.


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Song of Solomon 3:4