“Yes, my dear. Looking around at what you have done here, I do not doubt you will know what to do at Pemberley,” the colonel said.
“Tomorrow, our steward, Mr Balfour, and Pemberley’s housekeeper, Mrs Reynolds, will arrive here in London. Darcy wanted to introduce them to me himself.”
“That is a wise decision. He wants to make it clear that you are the mistress, and what better way to do that than to bring them to London. Then you will not travel alone.”
Richard kissed her hand before turning to leave, but he paused in the doorway, and looking at her, he said, “It has been such a pleasure to meet your father. You are such an extraordinary family!”
Elizabeth smiled as she watched him retreat across the darkened entrance hall. His compliment had been his way of saying he was sorry for what had happened in Kent. He had even apologised for his cousin, who had once been so against her family. But looking around the library she loved passionately, she could not remember a single feeling she had had for Darcy in the past. All she knew was that incredible love that had blossomed in her heart like his mother’s exquisite flowers. Yet she still hesitated to tell him how she felt before leaving for Pemberley.
Chapter 25
“What shall I do, Papa?” Elizabeth asked the night before her departure for Pemberley, and Mr Bennet could feel how deeply unsettled she was.
“Elizabeth,” he began, with a hesitation she sensed almost painfully. “Darcy told me he offered you…a position when it became clear that he could not be your husband…in every sense of the word.”
Elizabeth blushed violently, for although they had spoken of all matters under the sun, what passed between a man and a woman remained that one unbreachable topic.
“Can you imagine what torment a man like him must endure, knowing he cannot be your husband?”
“I know,” Elizabeth whispered, averting her eyes from her father’s, for she was confident he would read in them the truth—that she, too, suffered terribly as a woman for being unable to truly be his wife. Her pain was like nothing she had known before, a torment so visceral it seemed her body rebelledagainst the reality of their situation. Each time she was near him, she felt an overwhelming need to touch him, and only with immense effort did she restrain herself. It had taken her time to understand that the love in her heart had awakened in her the womanly yearning to be cherished not only in spirit but in the flesh too.
“You cannot imagine the magnitude of his suffering, my dear. What you feel is but a fraction of what he endures. For you, it is an unknown longing. For him, it would have been a fulfilment that only true love can bestow upon a man. And he knows precisely what he has lost. I advise you not to tell him about your feelings yourself. If you agree, I shall do so after you have gone.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered, feeling at once disappointed and relieved.
The night before, she had done something she had never done before. Standing before the great mirror in her chamber, she had undressed, and with the most tentative of touches, she had run her hands over her own body, imagining that they were his. The memory of it burned within her, though it did not shame her in the least. He was undoubtedly in despair when he thought of her in such a way.
“I shall spend the night in his room…to say goodbye,” she said, her voice overwhelmed by pain; it could be the last time she saw him.
“So you will,” her father replied, and they stood in silence for a long time, enough for her to recover a part of her calm, and her face appeared serene again when he next spoke. “And you would do well to remember thepleasantandamusingmoments you shared. I believe you have plenty from your time in Hertfordshire,” he added, and the hint of sarcasm in his voice signalled that their conversation had ended.
Chapter 26
Each evening, after they spent a few hours together following dinner—reading, listening to Georgiana play the pianoforte, or simply conversing—Elizabeth would leave Darcy to prepare for the night, then would visit him once he was settled in bed to bid him goodnight. But on her final evening in London, she carefully chose her nightgown and robe. Her belongings had begun to fill up the wardrobe, and two garments were newly acquired, along with a fur-lined pelisse, a travelling bonnet, and some gifts for her sisters and mother. She planned to stop at Longbourn on her way to Pemberley.
She dressed with deliberate care, as if preparing for a ball, then descended the stairs and entered his bedroom, as she always did, hesitant, her heart pounding. Each time, she feared she might find him with his eyes closed forever, yet she was invariably shaken by how he looked at her when she entered.
And on that night, perhaps the last of their lives together, his gaze pierced her with the violence of a blade, stirring nothingbut pain. She wished to lay her head on his pillow, to tell him she would not leave, that nothing mattered more to her than spending every remaining moment by his side.
“Do not voice your thoughts,” he murmured, as if he could read her mind—which he could. He no longer felt a separation from her. Although they still inhabited different bodies, their souls were entwined in a place where words were no longer necessary to comprehend each other.
“You are unbearable,” she whispered, but there was a trace of amusement in her voice. The moment of crisis had passed. She had come to say farewell, for the next day, she was to leave—because it was his wish.
She sat on the sofa that had recently been brought up, placed beside Darcy’s bed so that Georgiana and Elizabeth might be comfortable visiting him in the evenings. Elizabeth rang the bell and asked Parker to bring her a pillow and a blanket.
“Why do you need a pillow and blanket?” Darcy asked after the valet had departed.
“Because I am going to sleep here, beside you,” she replied in that sharp tone that always disarmed him, for he knew he could not oppose her. But that night, he had no desire to do so. It was precisely what he wished for, though he would never have asked—he would never have burdened her further.
Elizabeth asked the valet to extinguish the candles, and again, Darcy said nothing, though of late, he had slept with the room illuminated. But that evening, through the large windows, the moon poured a pale light into the chamber, a mist where the objects and their own forms seemed mere shadows drifting out of a dream.
“You have a new nightgown,” he observed, smiling, for he had noticed it before Parker had put out the candles.
“Yes,” she said without a hint of embarrassment. “Madame Clarice made it for me in the colours my husband prefers—violet and green—”
“Elizabeth, stop,” he interrupted, his voice hoarse, almost unrecognisable. She regretted her words immediately—they had been as transparent as the fine silk of her nightgown.
A heavy silence settled between them, one that Elizabeth neither knew how to fill nor attempted to. For once, she let it be.
