If only the shadow of her secret did not loom over every pleasant exchange.
They departed after luncheon, Darcy carrying rods and tackle. Elizabeth brought a shawl against potential breeze and a basket containing provisions the housekeeper had insisted they take. The walk to the river took them through meadows dotted with late wildflowers that swayed in gentle wind and past groves where birds called in complex harmonies.
“Pemberley has a similar river,” Darcy shared as they approached the water. “Though larger, with pools that hold trout of remarkable size. The fishing there can be quite excellent when conditions align properly. I look forward to showing you.”
“I look forward to seeing it.” She settled on the bank whilst Darcy prepared the lines, his adeptness borne of years pursuing this recreation. “And becoming familiar with the various responsibilities awaiting me there. I am a little anxious about assuming the role of mistress to such a grand estate.”
“You need not worry about responsibilities immediately. Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, has managed Pemberleyadmirably for years. She knows every detail of the household’s operation and will guide you through whatever you wish to know, at whatever pace suits your comfort and learning. There is no expectation that you will assume complete management on our arrival.”
Elizabeth drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders against the breeze coming off the water. “I appreciate that reassurance. I am eager to begin properly regardless. To make Pemberley home rather than simply the house where I happen to reside by virtue of marriage. There is a difference, I think, between living somewhere and truly belonging there.”
He cast the line with smooth precision, the hook landing precisely where darker water suggested depth. “There is, indeed. And you will make it home, even more so in ways I never could alone. I have no doubt of that whatsoever.”
They fell into companionable silence, broken only by the steady flow of water over rocks and bird calls from the trees lining the riverbank. Fitzwilliam taught her to identify fish by their movements beneath the surface. She learned about the lazy drift of carp and the purposeful patrol of what he explained was likely pike.
“That one.” He gestured towards a shadow moving against the current. “See how it holds position? That takes considerable strength and energy. Such fish are worth catching. They fight well and taste better.”
“You sound as though you admire them even as you plot their capture.”
“I do admire them. One can respect an adversary while still competing against them. But the metaphor breaks down when applied to matrimony. I hope we are not adversaries, you and I.”
“Partners,” Elizabeth said. “That is what we discussed. That is what I hope we are becoming.”
He nodded, satisfaction evident in his expression and posture. “Partners who might even fish together occasionally. I warn you, Pemberley’s river often proves frustrating even for experienced anglers. I shall have to improve my instruction before we attempt it.”
“Perhaps I shall prove a natural talent and require no instruction at all.” Elizabeth teased. “I might out-fish you on our very first attempt.”
“There’s a chance you could. You seem to possess a natural talent for most endeavours you attempt. I would not be at all surprised to discover fishing among them.”
The afternoon passed in easy conversation punctuated by Fitzwilliam’s occasional commentary on fishing technique. He caught nothing—the fish, he claimed with good humour, were displaying unusual intelligence today and had apparently agreed collectively to avoid his offerings—but seemed content regardless. They discussed Pemberley at length, Fitzwilliam describing rooms and grounds with an affection that made the distant estate feel nearly tangible.
“There is a portrait gallery,” he said at one point, “with paintings dating back several generations. Some are quite good, commissioned from talented artists during periods when the family fortunes permitted such expenditure. Others are lessaccomplished. But all are family, and all hold stories worth knowing.”
“I should like to learn them. The stories, I mean, not merely the names and dates. Facts without context are rather sterile. I want to know what these people were actually like, what they valued, what mistakes they made and how they recovered from them or failed to do so.”
His pleasure at her interest was evident. “You shall learn everything. Georgiana delights in such history and has pestered various elderly relatives for details about every portrait. Between us, we shall ensure you know every scandal, achievement, and peculiarity our ancestors managed to accumulate.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I look forward to it. Particularly the scandals. Those are inevitably the most interesting parts of any family’s history.”
“I agree. I suspect you will add your own stories to the collection in time. The lady who accidentally married her husband after rescuing him from fortune hunters at an Irish garden party. That has considerable dramatic potential, although we shall have to frame it carefully to avoid making your poor husband—” Here he flashed her a grin, “—appear helpless.”
“I am certain we can find a version that preserves your dignity whilst still acknowledging the rather extraordinary circumstances.” She responded, her humour fading slightly as she considered the fuller truth. The fortune hunter was someone she had corresponded with and she was still keeping that a secret. “I hope our descendants might remember other aspects of our marriage as well. More significant things than merely how it began.”
“They shall remember that we were happy,” Darcy murmured. “That is what matters most.”
Happy. The word settled between them, unwilling to be ignored.
She wanted to believe that happiness was possible even in light of her secrets. She had assured him several times, even as he asked her if everything was all right, that there was nothing to worry about.
But how could they be truly happy if she continued withholding the truth from him? Yet there was no telling that the closeness they were building could withstand whatever revelations might come.
The question followed her through the walk back to the house and through the evening’s gathering in the drawing room where Georgiana played whilst the family listened.
She ought to tell him, Elizabeth decided. Before more time passed and the concealment itself became more significant than the action she was concealing.
But as the rest of the week unfolded, she found herself failing to act. Each day brought her and Fitzwilliam closer. And each pleasant conversation and shared laugh made the thought of disrupting their relationship more painful.
Kitty’s shopping expedition with Lady Matlock proved successful. She returned with new bonnets, glowing from the Countess’s attention. Colonel Fitzwilliam had been present at the warehouse where they examined muslins, Kitty reportedwith great pleasure, and the three of them had taken tea at an establishment Lady Matlock pronounced acceptably genteel.
