Page 38 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
As to my marriage to Mr Darcy, I can only say that fate intervened in the most unexpected manner.
You would like him, Jane. He is reserved in company but possesses a quiet thoughtfulness I have come to value. He treats me with unfailing courtesy and consideration, and has opened his home to me with remarkable generosity. Under different circumstances, I believe we might have formed a true attachment. As it stands, we are developing a friendship.
Elizabeth paused, quill hovering above the paper as she considered how much to reveal of the growing complexity of her feelings for Darcy. In their fortnight at Pemberley, she had discovered layers to his character that intrigued and impressed her. His love for his home and those who depended upon it, his quiet humour that emerged in unguarded moments, hisintelligence and breadth of reading—all combined to form a portrait of a man quite different from her initial impression.
She decided against sharing such nebulous reflections and continued on firmer ground:
I made a curious discovery today. Among the portraits in Pemberley’s gallery hangs a likeness of George Wickham. It seems he was raised alongside Mr Darcy as the son of the old steward. The housekeeper speaks of him with evident dislike, suggesting he behaved with ingratitude towards the family after the elder Mr Darcy’s death.
You may recall how bitterly Wickham spoke of a gentleman who denied him his inheritance. I now believe he referred to Mr Darcy, though he never mentioned Pemberley specifically. I find myself uncertain what to believe. Wickham possessed such charm and easy manners, yet now that I know Mr Darcy, I find it hard to believe him anymore.
I have not yet mentioned my acquaintance with Wickham to Mr Darcy. I am uncertain whether I should. The coincidence seems too remarkable to ignore, yet I hesitate to introduce a subject that might create tension in our newly established household.
What would you advise, dearest Jane? You have always possessed better judgement in such matters than I.
Give my love to all at Longbourn. Tell Papa that my new home provides an excellent library where I pursue my writing with fresh vigour.
And know, dear sister, that you are ever in my thoughts and heart.
Your loving sister,
Elizabeth
Elizabeth set down her quill and moved to the window, gazing out at the moonlit grounds of Pemberley. Her reflection stared back at her from the glass—a woman caught between worlds, between families, between the safe harbour of friendship and the uncertain waters of deeper feeling. What tale was unfolding here?
Was she merely a character in someone else’s design, or might she yet write her own ending?
Chapter 13
Darcy
25th July 1812
Afootman cleared away his empty plate while Elizabeth looked up and thanked him. Darcy smiled. She looked every bit the mistress of Pemberley.
She had made efforts to fill the role, meeting regularly with Mrs Reynolds to discuss household matters. On Sundays, she accompanied him to church and he had introduced her to tenants and villagers alike.
It had felt normal, pleasant. Real.
Too real at times. He had to remind himself of their agreement more than once. This was a temporary situation. He had freed himself from his family’s pressures, and she had escaped her arranged marriage. That was all. They had assured each other’s freedom.
If in a year’s time they wished to part, they would. If not, they would continue as they were now. As friends. Nothing more.
For the time being, however, Darcy could not help but enjoy it. This morning, as on many others, Darcy read his correspondence while Elizabeth worked quietly. Occasionally he would glance up, his gaze lingering on her concentrated expression before returning to his letters.
He marvelled at how swiftly the solution to their problems had developed into something resembling an actual marriage. Their movements had become unconsciously harmonised, like dancers who had rehearsed the same steps many times.
“More toast?” he asked, his eyes still on his letter.
“Thank you, no,” Elizabeth replied, closing her notebook with a satisfied expression. “I believe I have made sufficient progress for this morning.”
Darcy looked up, curiosity in his eyes. Though Elizabeth had mentioned her literary aspirations, she kept her work private, and he had not presumed to enquire into the particulars of her writing. He respected her desire for independence in this pursuit, even as he wondered about the stories that occupied so much of her attention.
“Your work goes well?” he asked.
“Well enough,” she replied with a small smile. “Though I find the solitude of Pemberley provides far fewer distractions than Longbourn ever did.”
“I am pleased our home affords you the peace to pursue your interests,” Darcy said, folding his letter and setting it aside.
