“And so they will remain entirely unknown, I suppose. For how are we to ever know them, sir, if we are forbidden from making even the most basic of enquiries until we reach the perfect safety of your estate? It seems a rather inefficient method of study.”
“What you call inefficiency, I call prudence.”
“An admirable virtue, but perhaps a prudence so thorough that it risks becoming indistinguishable from fear,” she said lightly, offering a brief smile that failed entirely to soften the cut of her words, and perhaps was not meant to.
“We will proceed at Pemberley, and not before,” Darcy replied shortly. And with that declaration, he pointedly took a sip of his wine and looked away. It was not a pause in their conversation; it was a pronouncement that it had concluded, with or without her consent. He had deemed the subject closed, and that, apparently, was all that mattered.
With significant effort, Elizabeth curbed her resentment, which was now a bitter, twofold thing. First, there was the patronising manner of his refusal, the way he had made her feel like an ignorant child for even proposing it. And beneath that, a sharper, more personal sting: the memory of his impatience at Longbourn. He had spoken then of such dire urgency that a single extra day for goodbyes was a grave risk to the fate of England. Yet now, that same urgency could now be put aside fordays, until they reached the safety and convenience ofhisown home.
She said nothing more, feigning an interest in her cooling meal, though her appetite had vanished entirely.
When the meal was finally cleared away by the servant, Elizabeth rose from her chair, feeling as though she had just endured a particularly trying, and entirely pointless, test of social endurance. “I find I am fatigued,” she said, her voice carefully formal, “I shall retire for the night. It has been a long and taxing day.”
He rose with her, a prim, automatic gesture of a gentleman, though his gaze remained fixed on the table before him.
“I bid you a good night,” came his reply. He did not look up from the papers he had already spread upon the table – likely estate matters, Arcane Office directives, or perhaps even a treatise on the proper management of recalcitrant magical artefacts. Anything, Elizabeth suspected, to avoid acknowledging her presence or the awkwardness of their situation. “We make an early start on the morrow. Ensure your maid has your things prepared and ready for loading by seven.”
That was it.
Elizabeth retreated to her small bedchamber, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound of reassuring solidness. She had been prepared for a battle of wills, for a claim to what the vows now afforded him, for a confrontation that would require all her wit and all her courage. Instead, she had received nothing. A polite indifference. It was almost anticlimactic. And, in an entirely illogical way, a little insulting.
Did he find the prospect of sharing a bed with her, his wife, however unwillingly acquired, so beneath his dignity, that he would not even make a token gesture towards conventional expectations? Or was this merely another demonstration thathe, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, was above such base, carnal considerations, or perhaps, more pointedly, above her entirely?
She forcefully pushed the thought away. His indifference, however insulting, was infinitely preferable to his attention, surely.
For a long time she lay awake, staring into the unfamiliar darkness, listening to the muted sounds of the inn settling around her – the distant, muffled laughter from the public taproom below, the creak of floorboards as other guests retired for the night, the mournful sigh of the wind in the chimney.
From the adjoining parlour, she could hear the intermittent rustle of Darcy’s papers as he worked, the occasional soft scrape of his chair as he shifted his position. He made no sound that indicated any intention of approaching her room.
She wondered, with a sharp, sudden pang of homesickness, what Jane was doing at that moment, what her father was thinking, if they missed her as much as she missed them. She thought of Longbourn, so full of chaotic, vibrant, imperfect life. Eventually, sheer mental and emotional exhaustion claimed her, and she drifted into a troubled sleep, haunted by dreams of dying oaks.
The next morning, they met for breakfast in the private parlour. Darcy was already seated at the table when she entered. Of course he was impeccably dressed for travel, his dark hair perfectly arranged, his stern expression as closed off and uninviting as it had been the previous evening.
He rose as she approached, and pulled out a chair for her. The gesture of courtesy felt so at odds with his clear disdain for her company that it was almost comical.
“Good morning. I trust you slept well.”
“Exceedingly well,” Elizabeth replied, her tone deliberately light as she took the seat he offered. The mattress had, in fact, been lumpy and the room excessively stuffy, but she would rather agree to anything than offer complaints to this man. “And yourself, sir?”
“I slept very well, thank you.” A silence stretched between them as he resumed his seat. He seemed determined to wait her out, forcing her to be the one to speak. But having already paid her dues to civility the previous evening, she refused to give him the satisfaction.
Elizabeth could feel his gaze upon her, that same intense, analytical stare she had endured at the assembly. What a tiresome ordeal, she thought, to be perpetually under the glass of his critical examination. He had made his disapproval of her plain from the first moment of their acquaintance; this continued study of her faults seemed an entirely unnecessary, if not altogether rude, expenditure of his valuable time.
He cleared his throat. “Would you care for butter and jam?” He gestured towards the small pots on the table.
“That would be lovely.”
He passed them to her, their fingers brushing for the briefest, most unavoidable of moments. Elizabeth drew her hand back as if from a flame, an involuntary jolt passing through her. He, too, seemed to recoil slightly, his expression tightening before settling back into its mask.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her cheeks warming with an unwelcome flush.
“You are welcome,” he replied, his own voice sounding a fraction deeper than before. He then picked up his knife andbegan to butter a piece of toast with a focus so unnecessarily meticulous, it was clear he intended for no further interaction whatsoever.
Elizabeth took a tentative sip of her tea, the forced civility of the meal almost more taxing than outright hostility would have been. She found herself wondering if this was to be the unvarying, unhappy pattern of their entire shared existence, punctuated by excruciatingly polite requests to pass the marmalade.
As they concluded their breakfast, the innkeeper, summoned by an impatient pull on the bell-rope by Darcy, presented their bill with a deferential bow. Darcy scanned it with a swift eye, found no fault, then settled it with a crisp efficiency that seemed to dismiss the man, the inn, and indeed the entire county from his thoughts and his concerns.
Soon, they were back in the confines of the carriage, the door closing with a thud that sealed them once more into their prison of enforced proximity.
