She blew out a slow breath. He had said he was twenty-seven, and he seemed in fine health. He was not prone to drink or recklessness, so they could spend thirty years together at least. She had to get along with this man for the rest of her life.
Besides, what was more to her nature, to be cheerful or melancholy? Was she a kind person, or needlessly critical?
“Mr Darcy, you seem to have forgotten there are benefits to taking a wife,” she said playfully, “even an unwanted one. I thought you might have taken advantage of some of them.”
To her surprise, Darcy flushed and looked at her in alarm. She could not name whatever he felt as he openly appraised her. Then he appeared completely composed again. “Ah, you mean having a hostess and helpmate.”
What had he thought she meant? “I have met with Reynolds and the upper servants. I realise you do not know me, but you can trust me to run your household.”
“Yes, forgive me. This is all rather—it will not happen again. I have every faith in your abilities. May I assume Colonel Fitzwilliam is welcome?”
“Any of your family is welcome, and I hope so too is mine,” she added with an emphatic look.
“You may invite anyone but Wickham, and my sister only if she forsakes him.” Darcy paced the room. “Colonel Fitzwilliam knows—well, he knows the truth about Ramsgate and Gretna Green. I know we agreed to persuade the world that our affections were engaged, but…”
“You wanted someone to know that I am not really your choice?” she said wryly, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I am not yours either,” he retorted, “and if there is one person you trust to reveal all to, I would not fault you for it.”
Who could she trust to care for her feelings about this? She kept a journal for a reason. Her mother could not keep a secret, her father would not offer any sympathy, and Jane would be dismayed she had married without affection. Most people would be like her friendCharlotte Lucas and wonder at her being concerned with such a thing as choice and affection when she had married a man of fortune and consequence who protected her good name.
“I do not think I will. If I am to pretend to the world that we ran off together from an absolute passion, I had best stay with the story.”
She opened her journal, but rather than leave, his pacing brought him near. “Aside from mentioning my cousin’s visit, I came to ask…” He looked a little agitated, and said in a rush, “Can we not be friends?”
His request surprised her. She had not guessed that he wanted any intimacy between them. “A true friendship, you mean? Between a couple? My parents are surely not friends.”
“Not every man makes a friend of his wife, but that is a choice.”
She supposed it was, and it saddened her to think of her parents not choosing friendship.
“And if the choice of partner had not been the man’s,” Darcy went on, “then he still has a choice after to cultivate a friendship, a partnership with her.”
Although she had not married for love, she and Darcy could choose to be friends. They should make the most of the situation. She did not hate him, after all. “I heartily agree, Mr Darcy. We will work toward a steady, intimate friendship, and toward knowing one another better.”
Her heart beat quickly when Darcy smiled at her in response. Her answer had made him happy, and flutters danced in her stomach at putting that sincere smile on his face. It made her wonder what were his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What were his pursuits, his talents and genius? She was eager to know more of him.
“Miss—I mean, Mrs—” He cleared his throat. “May I not call you ‘Elizabeth’? If we are to be friends, I do not want a wall of titles between us.”
Was he inviting her to use his name? Georgiana was likely the only one who did, since he had no nearer relation. She was not ready for that much familiarity, although perhaps in time that would happen. But she was glad to drop his title. Truly, his offer of a real friendship was considerate, and it spoke to the generosity of his heart.
“You may, Darcy,” she said brightly, to show it made her happy too.
He smiled again and then looked round the room. “This room was my father’s favourite, so it has not changed in the years since he died.”
That accounted for Wickham’s picture being here. “Do you mind that I use it? I can find another if it was your father’s room.”
“Not at all. You should claim it as your own. Do you approve of the house?”
Given what she had seen of Darcy’s pride, she had assumed affectations of splendour and etiquette would rule at Pemberley. But there was no parade, no gaudy pomp of ostentatious greatness. It was beautiful, and expensive, but it was a home.
“It is charming, delightful,” she admitted. “I will be happy here, and I expect you to take me all round the park.” Choosing to provoke him a little, she added, “The furnishings in the saloon?—”
“Are old-fashioned, and I am sure the bedrooms are likewise neglected.”
She had known Darcy was an observant person; she ought to have suspected he had a thorough knowledge of his own house. “I thought it would be more of an argument to persuade you to make any changes.”
“It is your home too,” he said plainly. “Just do not change my room,” he said with a smile.
