Page 30 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
20th May 1812
The journey from Gretna Green to Derbyshire was taken at a more leisurely pace—there was no longer any need for haste, now they were wed.
Elizabeth easily adapted to the rhythm of travel with Darcy. The early awkwardness between them had softened into a comfortable companionship, marked by quiet conversations on literature, landscapes and memory—though both carefully avoided mention of their families or the unconventional nature of their marriage.
They had spent one night at an inn along the way, maintaining the appearance of a newlywed couple while preserving decorum behind closed doors, courtesy of the same pillow barrier employed at Gretna Green.
On the morning of their departure, Elizabeth had woken to find that the barrier remained mostly intact—save for one significant detail, Darcy’s arm had crossed the divide in sleep, his hand resting lightly upon her abdomen.
The contact had stirred a quiet warmth in her. She had turned her head, studying the softened lines of his sleeping face—unguarded, peaceful. For several long moments she had lain still, uncertain whether the gesture had been intentional or acareless product of slumber. Either way, it felt right. Safe. As though it were meant to be.
But sense had prevailed. She had gently shifted away, careful not to disturb him. The loss of his touch left behind a hollow ache, a surprising sense of absence. She had said nothing of it to him. Whether accident or design, she did not wish to embarrass him—or herself.
Even now, on the third day of their journey, she could recall the sensation with disquieting clarity.
“Miss B—” he began, then caught himself. “Elizabeth, we are nearing Pemberley.”
She looked up. “We are?”
“We crossed into Derbyshire two hours ago. Pemberley lies just beyond that ridge.” He nodded towards the distant blue line of hills. “We shall arrive before nightfall, assuming there are no delays.”
A flutter of anticipation stirred in her. “I confess I am eager to see it, after all you have said.”
“I hope it meets your expectations,” he replied, his tone touched with something between pride and apprehension.
The afternoon waned as their carriage wound through roads of increasing beauty. At last, rooftops appeared through the trees.
“There is Lambton,” Darcy said. “Your aunt’s childhood home.”
Elizabeth leaned forward, searching for the familiar landmarks Mrs Gardiner had described. “It looks just as shepainted it—the church spire, the little stone bridge. How strange to think she once walked these very lanes.”
“You shall visit once you are settled. Perhaps write to her and ask if any friends of hers still remain in the area.”
The thoughtfulness in the offer warmed her. It might, she supposed, soften the inevitable disappointment her aunt must have felt at Elizabeth’s abrupt departure. “That would please me very much. Thank you.”
They spoke little more as the carriage turned off the main road and passed through ornate iron gates flanked by stone pillars, each topped with a carved bird in flight. A long, curved drive carried them through immaculate parkland.
“This is Pemberley’s entrance road,” Darcy said. “The house lies three miles ahead.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Three miles? I had no notion the estate was so large.”
“It has belonged to my family for generations. Each master added where he could, though the greatest expansion was under my grandfather.”
They crested a hill—and there it stood. Pemberley.
The house was grand, but without ostentation. Its broad windows caught the afternoon sun and threw it back in warm glints. It stood proudly on a rise above a glassy lake, framed by formal gardens that gave way to fields and woods beyond. It was not just fine—it was magnificent.
“It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen,” she said, moved despite herself. “Grander than Netherfield by far.”
Darcy glanced at her, something quiet and pleased in his expression. “I’m glad you find it agreeable.”
“Agreeable hardly suffices. One might imagine Capability Brown himself designed these grounds.”
“He did consult on the lake and lower slopes. My great grandfather, however, insisted the ancient oak woods remain untouched.”
“A wise choice,” Elizabeth said. “The balance between the cultivated and the wild is perfect.”
The drive swept down towards the house, and she saw a small party had gathered on the steps.
