Mr Darcy stepped forward, his hand coming to rest lightly at Elizabeth's back—a small gesture, yet one that steadied her. "Mrs Reynolds, Mrs Darcy has had a long journey. Would you please arrange for a bath to be drawn in her chambers?”
"Of course, sir. At once." Mrs Reynolds's face softened further. "I took the liberty of preparing the mistress's suite. I hope it meets with your approval, Mrs Darcy."
The mistress's suite. The words carried a weight she had not fully come to terms with. This was not merely a visit; this was her home now. These were her servants, her responsibilities, her life.
Mrs Reynolds led them through entrance halls and corridors that seemed designed to inspire awe. Elizabeth tried to commit the route to memory, though she suspected it would take weeks to navigate Pemberley with any confidence. Finally,they arrived at a set of double doors which Mrs Reynolds opened with a flourish.
"The mistress's chambers, Mrs Darcy."
Elizabeth stepped inside and felt her remaining composure waver. The rooms were exquisite—decorated in shades of cream and pale blue, with furniture that managed to be both elegant and cosy. Tall windows overlooked the parkland, and through an open door she glimpsed what must be the bedroom itself.
"I hope everything is to your liking," Mrs Reynolds said. "The late Mrs Darcy—Mr Darcy's mother—decorated these rooms herself. They have been maintained exactly as she left them, awaiting the next mistress of Pemberley."
The words hung in the air, both comforting and daunting. Elizabeth was following in the footsteps of a woman who, by all accounts, had been beloved and accomplished. How could she possibly measure up?
"They are lovely. Thank you, Mrs Reynolds."
"I shall have the bath drawn immediately. Is there anything else you require?"
"No, thank you. You have been most helpful."
After Mrs Reynolds departed, Elizabeth stood alone in the centre of the sitting room, suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of the change her life had undergone. A week ago, she had been Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, facing an uncertain future and the censure of Meryton society. Now she was Mrs Darcy of Pemberley, mistress of one of the finest estates in England, married to a man she barely knew.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Mr Darcy entered, his expression tentative. "I wanted to ensure you were settling in well. If the rooms do not suit, we can—"
"They are perfect," Elizabeth assured him. "Truly. You have been very thoughtful in making arrangements so I can ease in properly."
Something in his countenance eased. "I am glad. I confess I am somewhat anxious about... all of this. I wish to be a good husband to you, Elizabeth, but I am not always certain how to proceed. My idea of courtship and matrimony—of what a wife might expect—is theoretical at best."
The admission, so honest and vulnerable, touched something in her chest. "We are both navigating unfamiliar territory. I think we must simply do our best and forgive each other when we stumble."
He smiled then—a bright smile that transformed his usually serious features. "That seems a fair compact." He moved towards the door, then paused. "I shall leave you to your privacy then. We can discuss household matters tomorrow, once you are properly recovered from the journey."
After he departed, servants arrived to prepare her bath. They worked with quiet efficiency, filling the copper tub with steaming water scented with lavender, laying out fresh linens and a nightdress that must have belonged to the late Mrs Darcy. When they finally left her alone, Elizabeth sank gratefully into the hot water, feeling the aches of travel begin to ease.
Yet as her body relaxed, her mind refused to settle.
Cassandra's face rose unbidden in her thoughts—the bitterness in her expression, the venom in her final words.You will pay for your scheming.
Was she truly at fault for how Cassandra perceived events? She turned the question over, examining it from every angle. She had not schemed to entrap Mr Darcy. The matter at Netherfield had been entirely innocent, blown out of proportion by Mrs Long’s love of scandal and her mother's ambitions. That Cassandra chose to interpret it as deliberate betrayal spoke more to her friend's inner disappointment than to any actual wrongdoing on Elizabeth's part.
And yet, she could not entirely absolve herself of any wrongdoing. She had written those letters Mr Darcy believed came from Cassandra. That deception, at least, was real and substantial.
She sank deeper into the water, letting it cover her shoulders. Cassandra would most definitely find the gentleman of her dreams eventually. Someone who appreciated her beauty and breeding. That man surely existed, and Cassandra possessed enough attractions to secure him eventually.
Elizabeth hoped so, at least. Despite everything, she took no pleasure in her former friend's unhappiness.
Her thoughts drifted to her marriage—to the curious arrangement she now occupied. They were not in love, she and Mr Darcy. How could they be, when they barely knew one another? Yet there was something between them. A mutual understanding, perhaps. A care born of shared circumstance.
She thought of his hand at her back as they entered Pemberley, that small gesture of support and solidarity. His concern for her comfort, his willingness to admit hisown uncertainties. These were not the actions of a man simply fulfilling obligations. They suggested a true desire for partnership, however awkward its beginnings.
It was the same on her end as well. Whenever he spoke of his confusion, when that furrow appeared between his brows, and vulnerability flickered across his features, she felt an almost irresistible urge to lift his mood up. To smooth away his worries, to assure him that he need not face his fractured memories alone.
This version of Fitzwilliam Darcy—kind, considerate, openly unsure—drew her in ways she had not anticipated. He listened when she spoke. He sought her opinion on matters both trivial and significant. He treated her with a respect that went beyond mere politeness.
But there lay the problem.
She sat up abruptly, water sloshing against the sides of the tub. The man she was coming to know and even care for was not the complete picture. He was a man shaped by injury and loss, operating with incomplete information about himself and his world.
