"Yes." He moved closer, standing beside the pianoforte now, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "It truly does.”
They had each derived their own meaning from the tune she played, but she found his own interpretation to be as valid as her own. In fact, she preferred his, a signal of assurance rather than conflicting feelings.
"There is something else I should mention,” he continued. “About our sleeping arrangements. I wanted you to understand why we have separate bedchambers."
Elizabeth felt heat creep up her neck. "I... yes?"
"I wish to court you properly." He met her gaze directly, his expression earnest. "We were forced into this marriage before we had any chance to know one another, before we could develop any strong attachment. I thought—that is, I hoped—that we might use this time to build something real between us. To court as we should have been permitted to do from the beginning."
The consideration behind this decision moved her more than she could easily express. "That is very thoughtful."
"I want you to feel comfortable here. To know that I respect you, that I will not..." He trailed off, clearly struggling with how to phrase something delicate. "That I will not press any marital claims until you are ready. Until we both are."
"Thank you. I appreciate that more than you know.”
"Would you play something else? I find I quite enjoy listening to you."
She obliged him, played another piece, then another, losing herself in the music while Fitzwilliam sat in companionable silence and listened raptly.
Chapter Eighteen
A few days later
"Mrs Darcy, the housekeeper from the Desning manor has called regarding the charity baskets for the parish. Shall I tell her you will receive her in the morning room?"
Elizabeth looked up from the menu she had been reviewing with the cook, surprised at how naturally the title ‘Mrs Darcy’ now fell upon her ears. In the few days that had passed since her arrival at Pemberley, she had settled into her role with an ease that astonished her. "Yes, thank you. And please have tea brought in—Mrs Barnwall has travelled some distance."
The footman bowed and withdrew, leaving her to complete the discussion about the week's meals. This, too, had become routine—the morning conferences about household matters, the meticulous balancing of economy with the standards expected of a great estate. The head cook, Mrs Cardogan, initially reserved with the new mistress, had warmed considerably when Elizabeth praised her excellent game pie and asked for the recipe.
"Will that be all, Mrs Darcy?" Mrs Cardogan asked now, her weathered face creased with satisfaction at having her suggestions approved.
"Yes, thank you. Everything sounds splendid."
After Mrs Cardogan departed, Elizabeth remained in the kitchen corridor for a moment, marvelling at the transformation in her life. She had worried about managing such a grandhousehold, about earning the respect of servants accustomed to the late Mrs Darcy's ways. But Mrs Reynolds had proven an invaluable ally, guiding her through the intricacies of Pemberley's operations with patience and what seemed like a doting affection.
"You have a natural touch with the staff, ma'am," the housekeeper had told her just yesterday. "They respond to kindness tempered with clear expectations. The late Mrs Darcy was much the same—firm but fair, and always willing to listen."
The comparison to her husband’s mother had touched her deeply. She knew she could never replace that beloved figure, but perhaps she could honour her memory by caring for Pemberley and its people with the same dedication.
Her relationship with the villagers had also developed beyond her expectations. The vicar's wife had called within days of Elizabeth's arrival, followed by a steady stream of local gentry eager to meet the new Mrs Darcy. She had paid calls in return, visiting tenant families with Mrs Reynolds to guide her, learning names and circumstances, listening to concerns and celebrating small triumphs.
"The old Mrs Darcy always took a personal interest in the tenants," Mrs Reynolds had explained during one such visit. "She believed that a great estate was only as strong as the people who worked its land. Mr Darcy has always followed that principle, and I can see you share it as well."
Now, as she made her way towards the morning room to receive Mrs Barnwall, her thoughts turned to her husband, with whom she spent increasing amounts of time in easy companionship.
Their daily interactions had evolved into something comfortable, almost intimate in its familiarity. They breakfasted together most mornings, discussing estate matters and sharing observations about the people and events around them. He sought her opinion on various household decisions, treating her views with a respect that felt pleasant and flattering.
And there were the evenings in the library, where they read together in companionable silence, occasionally sharing passages that struck them as particularly insightful or amusing. Or the walks through Pemberley's grounds, where Fitzwilliam pointed out landmarks and shared memories—or what fragments of memories remained to him.
It was the ideal life, one she hoped would remain forever. Her husband was yet to recover the memories he had lost, but he seemed content to take each day as it came without worrying about much else.
After her meeting with Mrs Barnwall—a pleasant woman who seemed delighted to find the new Mrs Darcy both sensible and generous in her charitable inclinations—Elizabeth returned to the sitting room to find a note from Fitzwilliam requesting her presence in his study.
She found him seated at his desk, surrounded by correspondence in various states of being read, replied to, or filed away. He looked up as she entered, his expression brightening in a way that never failed to affect her.
"Thank you for coming. I hope I am not interrupting anything pressing?"
"Not at all. I have just finished with Mrs Barnwall regarding the parish charity baskets.”
