Page 31 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
Darcy turned to her. “Are you ready?”
She smoothed her travelling dress and gave a faint smile. “As ready as one may be for such an arrival.”
As she stepped down from the carriage, the significance struck her. She was not entering as a guest, she was entering Pemberley as its mistress. In name, at least.
A composed woman of about sixty stepped forward and curtsied. “Welcome home, Mr Darcy.”
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds. May I present Mrs Elizabeth Darcy?”
A shiver of something—surprise, perhaps even pleasure—ran through her at hearing the name aloud.
The housekeeper betrayed no reaction. “Mrs Darcy,” she said, curtsying again. “Welcome to Pemberley. We had word of—well, that is, we are delighted by this most joyful news.”
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds,” Elizabeth replied, mustering her composure. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
“We have prepared the East Wing suite,” the housekeeper went on. “The rooms formerly occupied by the late Mrs Darcy. I hope they will suit.”
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy. His mother’s rooms. Surely he had directed the servants; they would not have assumed such a thing on their own. The honour of it struck her keenly—and so too did the reality. She was mistress now.
They stepped into a soaring entrance hall of marble and oak, flooded with light. Portraits of ancestors gazed down from the walls. A massive urn spilled fragrant flowers across a side table. The house radiated grace, history, and power.
“Would you care to refresh yourself before seeing the rest of the house?” Mrs Reynolds asked.
“That would be most welcome,” Darcy answered before Elizabeth could.
“If you’ll follow me, madam,” the housekeeper said. “I shall show you to your rooms. Mr Darcy has business to attend to.”
Elizabeth followed her up the wide staircase, through a gallery filled with paintings, along endless passages. Finally, they stopped at a set of carved double doors.
“The mistress’s suite,” Mrs Reynolds announced, opening them.
Elizabeth stepped inside and stared.
The rooms were exquisite: soft blue and cream furnishings, a view of the lake from tall windows, a writing desk by the light, vases of fresh flowers. The adjoining chamber boasted a canopied bed and a private dressing room with a copper bath.
“These rooms have not been occupied since the late Mrs Darcy,” Mrs Reynolds said. “Mr Darcy’s mother. I have had everything cleaned and restored. The connecting door”—she gestured— “leads to the master’s suite.”
Elizabeth’s stomach fluttered. She had assumed his rooms were elsewhere in the house, but of course this made more sense. They were married, after all.
“I see. Thank you.”
“I have assigned Sarah to you as lady’s maid. She is young, but deft with hair and fine stitching. If she does not suit, we shall make other preparations.”
“I’m sure she will do well,” Elizabeth said. The idea of a maid at her personal service still sat oddly with her.
“Dinner is served at seven, though Mr Darcy may choose to dine privately this evening. I shall enquire.”
“You have been very kind, Mrs Reynolds. Thank you.”
The housekeeper hesitated. “If I may say so, madam, we are all pleased at Mr Darcy’s marriage. He has been alone too long.”
The simple remark caught Elizabeth off guard. Warmth and guilt rose together in her chest. She was not the devotedwife this woman imagined—merely the occupant of a role born of necessity. Still, she inclined her head.
“You are generous to say so. I hope I may not disappoint.”
“You shall not,” Mrs Reynolds said with quiet certainty. “Mr Darcy has excellent judgement in all things.”
When she had gone, Elizabeth stood alone in the sitting room. One week ago, she had prepared to marry Jonathan Blackfriars in reluctant dread. Now, she was married to a man she barely knew, in a world entirely foreign.
