Page 44 of Mr. Darcy's Bargain Bride
The certainty in Beatrice’s voice stirred something hopeful in Elizabeth’s chest. “You truly believe circumstances can change?”
“I have seen them change repeatedly, often in ways no one anticipated. Trust in your husband’s resources, have faith in love’s endurance, and remember that children possess remarkable resilience. Your boy will survive this trial, and you will be reunited when the time is right.”
The conversation continued for several more minutes, with Beatrice sharing tales of other families who had overcome seemingly impossible obstacles through patience and determination. When they finally parted, Elizabeth felt lighter than she had in days—not because her circumstances had changed, but because someone with wisdom born of long experience had assured her that change remained possible.
The journey back to Pemberley passed in contemplative silence, but it was the silence of reflection rather than despair. As the familiar silhouette of the mansion came into view, Elizabeth made a conscious decision to embrace hope rather than surrender to helplessness.
Darcy met her at the entrance, his expression brightening as he noted the subtle change in her demeanour. “Yourexpedition appears to have been successful. You seem more like yourself than you have since our return.”
“I encountered a most remarkable woman—the aunt of your thief-taker, as it happens. She reminded me that even the darkest nights eventually give way to dawn.”
As they walked together toward the drawing room, Elizabeth felt strong stirrings of optimism since their devastating defeat in London. Somewhere in Yorkshire, Ambrose was adapting to circumstances beyond his control, just as they must adapt to his absence. Yet adaptation need not mean acceptance—it could also mean preparation for the battles yet to come.
The war for their son’s return was far from over, and she was finally ready to fight it alongside the man who had become far more than a husband of convenience. In losing Ambrose, they had discovered something precious in each other—a partnership forged in shared loss that might prove stronger than either had dared imagine.
Chapter Twenty
Three weeks later
“Cook informs me you have commandeered her kitchen this morning,” Darcy observed with gentle amusement as he encountered Elizabeth emerging from the servants’ quarters, her cheeks flushed and her hands dusted with flour.
She started slightly at his unexpected appearance, then lifted her chin with a hint of her old spirit. “I wished to prepare something with my own hands rather than simply accepting the efforts of others. I hope you do not consider it beneath my station as mistress of Pemberley.”
“On the contrary, I consider it rather charming. What culinary masterpiece have you created?”
“Scones,” she replied, suddenly looking uncertain. “Though I confess they may not meet the standards you are accustomed to. At Longbourn, our cook was less accomplished than Mrs Patterson, and I often assisted with the baking when circumstances required.”
The simple admission touched something deep in Darcy’s chest. Here was his wife, mistress of one of England’s grandest estates, choosing to spend her morning in flour and heat rather than in elegant leisure. The gesture spoke of a desire to nurture that went beyond mere obligation.
“I have arranged a small repast in the rose garden,” he said, offering his arm. “Perhaps your scones might serve as the centrepiece of our al fresco dining?”
Her face brightened with pleasure. “You planned a picnic? How thoughtful of you.”
“The weather seemed too fine to waste indoors, and I confess I hoped for an opportunity to speak with you away from the house’s melancholy associations.”
They walked together through the formal gardens toward the spot where Darcy had instructed the servants to arrange blankets and cushions beneath his mother’s favourite climbing rose. The setting was intimate yet proper, screened from the house by carefully maintained shrubbery whilst remaining within easy sight of any passing gardener.
Elizabeth settled gracefully onto the provided cushions, arranging her skirts with unconscious elegance. The simple morning dress she wore—a pale green muslin that complemented her complexion—seemed far more beautiful to him than the elaborate gowns favoured by London’s fashionable ladies.
“Your scones smell delightful,” he said as she unpacked the basket she had carried from the kitchen. “It has been years since I tasted anything prepared by hands other than those of hired professionals.”
“I fear you may be disappointed. My technique lacks the refinement that comes from proper training.” She busied herself arranging the pastries on the provided plates, her movements betraying a nervousness he wished to dispel.
“I doubt that very much. Food prepared with care always possesses qualities that mere technical skill cannot replicate.”
As they shared the simple meal—Elizabeth’s scones accompanied by fresh butter and jam from Pemberley’s own larder—their conversation gradually grew more natural. The informality of their setting seemed to encourage honesty,stripping away the careful politeness that had characterised their interactions since Ambrose’s departure.
“I must confess something that has long troubled me,” Darcy said, setting down his cup of tea. “When we first met at the Meryton assembly, I behaved abominably. My pride and natural reserve combined in the worst possible way, leading me to dismiss you and your friend with insufferable arrogance.”
Elizabeth paused in spreading jam on her scone, her brown eyes studying his face with new attention. “You were certainly not at your most agreeable that evening. Though I suspect I was equally at fault for the poor impression we made upon each other.”
“How so?”
“I was too quick to take offence, too ready to nurture wounded pride rather than seek understanding. When Wickham presented his version of your character, I embraced his lies because they confirmed what I wished to believe about you.”
The admission hung between them like a bridge waiting to be crossed. Darcy felt something ease in his chest, a tension he had carried since their earliest acquaintance.
“We were both guilty of judging too hastily,” he said quietly. “I saw your family’s lack of fortune and assumed it reflected a corresponding lack of worth. You saw my reserve and concluded it sprang from contempt rather than uncertainty.”
