Page 39 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
Elizabeth laughed lightly, the sound settling comfortably in the sunlit room, warming him inexplicably. “Peace is certainly abundant here, though I sometimes miss the energy of five sisters under one roof.”
These moments of easy conversation had become increasingly frequent as the days passed. Each one seemed todraw them closer, expanding their arrangement into something he had not anticipated.
The sound of hoofbeats on the drive outside drew his attention. Darcy rose and moved to the window; his tall figure silhouetted against the bright light.
“A visitor,” he observed. “Rather early for social calls.”
Elizabeth joined him at the window, maintaining a proper distance between them—a distance he wished, quite unexpectedly, was less carefully observed. A horseman was dismounting, handing the reins to a waiting groom. Darcy recognised the visitor at once.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam!” he exclaimed, his face brightening with genuine pleasure. “My cousin,” he explained to Elizabeth. “I mentioned him to you before—the second son of my uncle, Lord Matlock.”
“Yes, I recall. You said he was among the few relations whose good opinion you valued.”
“Indeed. He possesses both sense and sensitivity, a rare combination.”
Elizabeth smoothed her muslin morning dress, suddenly conscious of her informal appearance. “Shall I change before receiving him?”
“Not on Richard’s account,” Darcy assured her. “He is not one to stand on ceremony, particularly at this hour. But if you would prefer—”
“No, I am content as I am if you believe he will not find it wanting.”
Darcy felt a flash of admiration for her sensible nature—so unlike the fussy concerns of most fashionable ladies of his acquaintance, who would never receive visitors without elaborate preparation. Elizabeth possessed a confident self—assurance that required no validation from external trappings.
They moved to the entrance hall to receive their visitor, arriving just as the butler was showing Colonel Fitzwilliam in. Darcy observed Elizabeth’s appraisal of his cousin.
“Darcy!” Richard called, striding forward to clasp his hand. “What an age it has been.”
“It has hardly been an age, though it feels that way at times so much has happened,” Darcy replied, though his smile belied the dryness of his tone. “What brings you to Derbyshire? I thought you remained in Town with your regiment.”
“A fortnight’s leave. I intended to visit Matlock, but my curiosity brought me here first.” The Colonel’s attention shifted to Elizabeth. “And this must be the new Mrs Darcy I have heard so much about.”
Darcy turned to Elizabeth, feeling an unexpected surge of pride as he made the introduction. “Elizabeth, may I present my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Richard, my wife, Mrs Elizabeth Darcy.”
Elizabeth curtsied, meeting the Colonel’s appraising look with composed dignity. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, you are most welcome to Pemberley.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, Mrs Darcy,” he replied, bowing. “I must thank you for accomplishing what the combinedefforts of my family has failed to do for years. I feared this fellow may never settle.”
“I assure you; circumstances rather dictated the outcome. As for family, I believe you know as well as I that I was not what they intended for your cousin.”
Darcy admired her ability to assess his cousin so quickly. She always knew when to speak out and when to be quiet.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyebrows rose at this admission, but his expression remained amiable. “The best battles are often won by seizing the unexpected opportunity,” he said lightly. “A principle well understood in both military and matrimonial campaigns, I believe.”
Unease gripped Darcy at the direction of the conversation. “Have you breakfasted, Richard?” he intervened. “We were just finishing, but I am certain—”
“I ate at the inn in Lambton. But tea would not go amiss after an early ride.”
They returned to the breakfast room, where a fresh pot of tea was soon brought. The Colonel settled into a chair with the relaxed ease of someone long familiar with Pemberley, while Darcy observed the interaction between his cousin and his wife with interest, pleased to see them taking each other’s measure with apparent approval on both sides.
“Now, tell me. How is my uncle?”
He had told his cousin everything by way of letter and thus knew they did not need to worry about keeping up pretence in front of him.
“My father is quite beside himself.”
“I imagine he is,” Darcy replied, his voice even. “Though I fail to see how my marriage requires his permission or approval.”
“Not his permission, perhaps, but you must admit the manner of it invites speculation. A hasty trip to Scotland with a young lady none of us have met? And when he was so eager for your match with Lady Eleanor? And Lady Catherine has been writing daily letters of the most inflammatory nature.”
