“Bitterly,” her father replied.
“You are not to take advantage of my absence,” she said, her voice light, though the slight tremor beneath the words betrayed her. “I shall write you a great quantity of impertinent letters, and you are to answer every one. You are most particularly forbidden to die while I am in Derbyshire. I should never forgive the discourtesy.”
“I shall do my best to be inconvenient,” Mr. Bennet said, “and live.”
She kissed his forehead—a small, swift thing—and Darcy looked away toward the window and that insolent blue sky, wishing he had not seen it.
Then she turned to her mother, and Darcy found himself wishing the sky would cloud over entirely.
Everyone in Meryton found Mrs. Bennet a trial, and indeed, Darcy himself had remarked to Bingley about the cost, should he find himself married to Jane. It had been a constant irritant, and here Elizabeth was, taking both of her mother’s hands in hers, speaking to her in a low, calming voice, reassuring her flighty mother, while Mrs. Bennet nodded like a child being told that the dark held nothing to fear.
The curate placed the special license on the desk and dipped the quill. Darcy signed, the solicitors signed, and the curate signed. All that remained was Elizabeth’s signature.
But Elizabeth would not be hurried from her sisters, who crowded around her, clamoring for invitations, visits, balls, and letters. The younger girls enveloped her in a flurry of embraces, and then Jane Bennet came and held her sister tightly, as if she did not wish to release her. Over Elizabeth’s shoulder, Darcy saw the elder sister’s lips move, close at her ear, three or four words,no more—and saw Elizabeth grow very still. When they parted, neither would meet the other’s gaze. Mrs. Bennet announced they would all descend upon Pemberley before the leaves fell, and, for once, no one dared contradict her.
The curate reminded Elizabeth that she must sign the registry, and Darcy watched as she dipped the quill and wrote her name for the very last time asElizabeth Rose Bennet.
It was later than he liked. If they were to reach the first change of horses by dinner, they could not stand about being wept over indefinitely. Four days to Derbyshire; he had written ahead for fires and hot bricks at every halt, for the spring nights ran cold in the north, and she was not used to such travel. He had attended to all of it because he was a man who attended to those who were valuable to him.
He returned the watch to his pocket and offered his wife his arm, and she took it.
“Mrs. Darcy,” said the curate, trying out the new name, and Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on Darcy’s arm a fraction, there and gone. He wasn’t sure why her touch was gratifying as he thanked the curate and led his new wife from the library, marveling at how easily he had obtained her, and how little he knew what to do with his prize.
Her family stood at the door, waving to see her out. Elizabeth kissed her mother once more and promised with a brightness that did not deceive Darcy that she was the most fortunate of women, and they should none of them want for anything ever again. Then she stepped toward the carriage without looking back. Darcy handed her in and followed, the footman shutting the door.
She sat very straight, her gaze fixed on the window as the carriage moved. The fine day slid by, hedgerows greening and the indecent sunshine following them as if determined to remind her of what she was leaving behind.
Darcy looked out his own window, away from her. He reminded himself of the boy, and of the woman now in the ground who had taught him the price of feeling too much. He would be a good husband; he would be generous, faithful, and just. But he would not give her the one thing that could be withheld.
She would be a good mother to the boy, and that was more than he had any right to ask.
CHAPTER THREE
THE WRITING DESK
One thing Darcyknew with certainty about Elizabeth was that she never spoke merely to fill the silence; for her, conversation was a sport to be enjoyed, not a duty to be endured. Her silence since their ceremony could be attributed either to exhaustion or to the shock of the event that had bound them together.
A more sensitive man might feel guilt for removing her from her family, but she was the only woman he considered. Many would have accepted his name, Pemberley, and his ten thousand a year, but he required a woman who possessed the natural tenderness to care for a little boy who did not understand what had happened. He remembered clearly how she had attended to her ill sister, how she had pressed her mother’s trembling hands to calm her fears and kissed her father’s brow with a kind jest to lift his spirits. That Elizabeth had never inquired about pin money, fashionable dresses, or her forthcoming social calendar convinced him beyond doubt that he had chosen wisely.
Her father’s illness and Longbourn’s decay had left her little choice, and he acknowledged how unfair it was for her to be married out of necessity. But he would be a good husband to her, even if she did not love him. That was not an expectation hecould entertain—not after he had locked himself in a marriage of convenience.
The day had spent itself entirely by the time the lights of Hatfield came into view.
“We shall stay the night at the White Hart,” he told his wife, who opened her eyes as the carriage rattled to a stop in the courtyard. “Are you well, madam?”
She offered a weary yawn and a slight nod, appearing smaller and more fragile than she had at Longbourn. “I shall be most grateful for refreshment. Please forgive my brevity, sir; I find I have very few words left to me.”
“The second carriage containing your trunks is several hours behind, so I hope you will not require your lady’s maid immediately.”
She hazarded a tired smile. “Mr. Darcy, I have never had a lady’s maid, so I believe I shall do fine without her. Thank you, sir, for the consideration.”
“You need not be so polite, Mrs. Darcy.” He tasted the name on his lips; it felt strange, formal, and yet, surprisingly right. “You are my wife, and you shall have every comfort. We shall dine in the private parlor. When we are finished, your trunks will be brought up to your chamber.”
“The rooms…” she blinked, pressing her lips thin. “I assume?”
“We shall, during this journey, occupy separate bedchambers. I mean no slight to you, Mrs. Darcy, but we are not as well acquainted as I would have preferred.”
“No, I suppose not,” she replied, her tone dry. “Might I ask if you would call me Elizabeth? I do not believe we have established that particular familiarity yet.”
