Will
Darcy folded the letter and went over to the fire. It was his usual practice to throw the letters he drafted to his sister straight into the fire. The words had always seemed hollow and insincere. He unfolded the letter and read it again. These were not insincere, but neither were they anything he would ever send. Instead of throwing it into the hearth, he folded it and stowed it in the leather carrying case, along with the rest of the writing implements.
He went back to bed and listened to the fire crackle, the soft orange glow dancing on the ceiling. His thoughts turned then to his wife, sleeping alone in the adjoining room. He had heard her turn the lock after they had agreed to retire for the evening. Perhaps another reason for his sleeplessness was the worry for her safety. He knew this inn to be safe, but it was his responsibility to protect his wife.
Darcy laughed to himself, silent and humourless. To protect his wife? His marriage was a sham. What would his life be a year from now, a decade from now? Judging by the near-silent carriage ride that day, it might be at best a survivable disaster, somewhere between a negotiated truce and a constant degradation.
Chapter 6
As the carriage bumped over a rut in the road, Elizabeth closed her book and rested it in her lap. It was time. For the last part of her journey to her new home, she would simply watch the countryside passing by.
The journey to Pemberley had been strange — more comfortable than she could have expected of such a long journey, for Mr Darcy had arranged everything for convenience and even luxury, and yet anything but comfortable in the long silences that had stretched between them and the knowledge that her life would never be the same.
How odd it was to be alone in a carriage with a man, and for hours on end! Though the situation could hardly be called intimate in any respect but the fact that they were alone together. Their conversation was that of strangers: careful, polite, and scant. When they stopped at inns for the night, Mr Darcy had ordered separate bedchambers. His courtesy was a welcome surprise. They were married, Elizabeth knew. Her name was now Darcy, and she could not reasonably expect to withhold any part of a wife’s duties from him. Yet if Mr Darcy, like herself, did not feel inclined to engage in such intimacieswith a virtual stranger, she would take the omission as a relief and a blessing.
Mr Darcy cleared his throat. “We have just crossed over onto Pemberley’s lands. It will not be long now.”
“I see,” Elizabeth murmured, for lack of anything better to say. They drove through a beautiful wood, the girth of its trees showing that they had not been harvested for some generations past. When they came to the top of the hill, the woods cleared, revealing a large, handsome stone building on rising ground, facing them across a broad valley.
“That must be Pemberley,” Elizabeth remarked.
“Yes,” Mr Darcy said. “That is my home — our home, now.”
His correction was awkward, but obviously well-intentioned. Elizabeth could hardly focus on the words, for she was too distracted by the loveliness of the scene before them. Pemberley was backed by a ridge of thickly wooded hills, twins to the one they were presently descending. A broad pond, almost great enough to be called a lake, lay at the foot of the house, fed by a stream that descended from the hills.
“My goodness,” Elizabeth breathed unthinkingly. “It is more beautiful than you described. Though you cannot be blamed for that. I do not believe that any amount of words could have done it justice.”
Recalled to herself, Elizabeth looked up at him a little shyly, but Mr Darcy seemed, if anything, pleased by her praise. His face, though still stern, held something that might have been a smile about the eyes.
His words soon confirmed it. “I am glad you think so,” Mr Darcy replied. “I am very fond of it.”
Though she did not reply, Elizabeth thought privately that her praise was, if anything, understated. The home and its grounds did not speak only of grandeur. There was something natural and easy about them, as though each choice made over the years of their development had been taken for the comfort of its inhabitants and out of respect for its surroundings, never with an eye to outdo or intimidate. It was a place of great serenity, and one which seemed to spread out welcoming arms even to an unwilling wife.
An unwilling wife, and a most unsuitable mistress. It was odd indeed to recall that she would not merely live here. Living at Pemberley would be strikingly unlike living at Longbourn, even beyond the differing characters of those houses and their inhabitants. At Longbourn, Elizabeth had been a daughter of the house — a part of the family and responsible for its reputation, but by no means the mistress of the place. Here, Elizabeth must become the mistress of her house, and of such a house! Mr Darcy certainly must have an army of servants, Elizabeth thought, looking up at the stone-faced structure.
As the carriage drew to a stop, Elizabeth looked under her lashes at Mr Darcy, the stranger who was now her husband. He was not exactly an enemy, but neither was he a trusted friend and companion. How could she trust him after so little time? How could she trust him after a long time, either? Her own words flew back in her face as Mr Darcy offered her his arm, and they walked up the steps to the front door together.Time will tell…
Elizabeth was unsure she was prepared for what time would prove to her.
The servants were all lined up in front of the house on the main terrace. Silently, Elizabeth reproached herself for wishing they had not come out to greet them. She ought to have expected it, for they would of course need to be introduced to the new mistress of Pemberley. Yet it could not be other than overwhelming to see so many unfamiliar faces at once, to know that so many livelihoods were placed in her hands, and so much of her own comfort in theirs. Servants could do a great deal to make one’s life run more smoothly — or, in the case of servants who perhaps resented a new and unproven Mrs Darcy, to run less smoothly.
Mr Darcy stepped forward, placing a hand on the small of her back, as if to give her courage. Elizabeth hardly knew what surprised her more — the shiver that it sent down her spine, or the undeniable fact that the possessive weight of his hand on her did seem to straighten her spine and strengthen her resolve.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Mr Darcy announced. “I should like you all to meet my wife, Mrs Elizabeth Darcy.”
She looked around at the faces of the people who would serve her. Some seemed curious, others merely respectful, and not a few cautious. As people who had served the Darcys for years, they would know, as Elizabeth herself had learned over the past days, that Mr Darcy was a sensible man, and not likely to throw all caution to the wind and marry an unknown bride. They must know, or at least guess, that something was wrong.
An older woman stepped forward and curtsied. Darcy smiled. “This is my housekeeper, Mrs Reynolds. She has been with the family nigh on thirty years. Has it not been thirty years, Mrs Reynolds?”
“Yes, sir. Thirty years. I came the same year your mother, God rest her, came to this house as your father’s wife,” she said proudly. She turned to Elizabeth. “How do you do, Mrs Darcy?” she asked. The woman was polite, but clearly uncomfortable. No one could understand her tentativeness better, Elizabeth thought ruefully. She herself was far from comfortable with the situation.
Mrs Reynolds seemed to be an excellent housekeeper. Her long years of service must speak for themselves, as did her manner to Mr Darcy. There was respect there, but also a great deal of fondness.
Elizabeth glanced over at the others standing a few paces back from them. To her astonishment, one servant among all those assembled did not have an air of proper respect. Her expression was clearly impudent — even sneering. Her disrespect was so shocking that Elizabeth might have thought she imagined it, had she not seen the maid next to the girl elbow her sharply. She seemed to whisper a rebuke before returning to her deferential position, with her eyes lowered to the ground.
Elizabeth felt her lips twitch in something between a rueful smile and a grimace. She could not very well fault the other maid for her obvious disdain. Beyond the suddenness of their wedding, even her clothes must announce that she was not the perfect, well-connected, well-dowered Mrs Darcy they must have expected for their master. Her travelling dress, a hand-me-down from Jane made of dull brown linen, was worlds apart from the effortless perfection and luxury of Pemberley. How could Elizabeth blame anyone for thinking her an interloper, when she felt herself to be one?
With her presentation to the staff at last done, Mr Darcy took her inside via the front entrance, with Mrs Reynolds andthe butler trailing behind. The rest of the staff gave a final bow and remained outside — likely, Elizabeth thought, as relieved to have the ordeal over with as she was herself.
