Page 33 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
They walked slowly through the gallery. At the far end, he stopped before a portrait.
“My mother,” he said simply.
Elizabeth studied the painting. A serene woman with Darcy’s same thoughtful eyes gazed back at her.
“You have her expression,” she said without thinking.
Something flickered in his face—surprise, perhaps pleasure. “Few have ever noted that resemblance.”
“It’s unmistakable. Particularly when you are deep in thought.”
Their eyes met, and Elizabeth felt a curious suspension of time—as if they stood not merely in a moonlit gallery, but at the threshold of something neither had anticipated.
Darcy looked away first. “Your rooms are through that door,” he said, his voice not entirely steady. “I shall see you in the morning. Rest well, Elizabeth.”
“And you,” she replied, unable to find more words.
She entered her chambers alone, closing the door behind her. But instead of readying herself for bed immediately, she moved to the window, drawn by the same moon that had illuminated the gallery.
Pemberley’s grounds stretched before her, mysterious in shadow and silver light. Somewhere below, a nightingale began to sing.
Elizabeth pressed her palm against the cool glass, watching her breath create a small cloud of warmth that quicklyfaded. Like her old life at Longbourn—present one moment, vanished the next.
Yet here, in this place of ancient trees and moonlit waters, something new was taking root. Not the life she had planned, certainly. But perhaps, a life she might one day cherish.
The nightingale’s song continued, its melody both question and answer in the quiet night.
Chapter 11
Elizabeth
Pemberley, Derbyshire
2nd June 1812
Afortnight had passed since Elizabeth’s arrival at Pemberley, and with each day she grew more accustomed to the rhythms of her new life. The initial strangeness of waking in the elegant bedchamber had gradually diminished. She had even established a routine for her writing.
Elizabeth had been forced to leave her manuscripts and notes behind in her hasty flight from London. The loss of months of work had initially disheartened her, but the grandeur of Pemberley with its secrets and histories had stirred new tales in her mind. She had begun afresh, filling page after page with ideas for her Gothic novels. The spacious library desk proved a luxury after years of writing at a small table in the corner of Longbourn’s drawing room, where she was constantly interrupted by her family’s demands.
This morning, Elizabeth set out earlier than usual for a walk, a small leather-bound notebook tucked into her pocket. These solitary rambles provided not only exercise but inspiration—the shifting landscapes of Pemberley had awakened her imagination in ways Longbourn never could. She jotted notes about the ancient oaks, the hidden dells, and the sparkling lake, all potential settings for her heroines’ adventures.
Both she and Darcy had written to their families upon arriving at Pemberley. She had composed a careful letter to her father explaining her marriage and new situation, and a longer, more detailed one to Jane. Darcy had dispatched his own missives to his sister Georgiana, who had removed to Rosings Park along with Darcy’s aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Matlock. Each day, Elizabeth expected—and dreaded—the replies.
After returning from her walk and changing from her walking dress, Elizabeth made her way into the long gallery, the one space she had not yet explored in detail. Today seemed the perfect opportunity to satisfy her curiosity.
Following the housekeeper’s directions, Elizabeth climbed the grand staircase and turned down a passage she had not yet traversed. At its end stood a pair of ornately carved double doors which opened to reveal a magnificent long gallery. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dozens of portraits lining the walls.
Elizabeth moved slowly along the gallery, studying each portrait with interest. The earliest paintings, dating from Tudor times, depicted stern-faced gentlemen in ruffs and ladies with elaborate headdresses. As she progressed, fashions changed, but the same proud bearing and intelligent eyes appeared in generation after generation.
“Ah, Mrs Darcy! I see you’ve discovered the portrait gallery.”
Elizabeth turned to find Mrs Reynolds approaching, her face bright with pleasure at finding the new mistress taking an interest in family history.
“It is most impressive,” Elizabeth replied. “I had no idea the collection was so extensive.”
“Ten generations of Darcys, ma’am. This is the Lady Anne Darcy,” the housekeeper explained, indicating a portrait of a dark-haired woman with intelligent eyes. “She brought the Fitzwilliam connection to the family. Lord Matlock was her brother, Lady Catherine her sister. A great lady, by all accounts, and a fine musician. The pianoforte in the music room was hers.”
“The one with mother-of-pearl inlay?” Elizabeth asked. “It has a beautiful tone.”
