He had observed during the long hours in the carriage that they had barely exchanged more than a few glances. It wasn’t disregard, at least from his part, but a certain shyness, asthough he was supposed to be more intimate with her than he was. But when the footman opened the door, they would have to behave as husband and wife. They were Pemberley servants, the coachman and outriders, and he could not afford the gossip might include awkwardness with his bride.
“Elizabeth,” he ventured, testing the name on his tongue, “I believe we should conduct ourselves with the appearance of newlyweds.” He placed a chaste kiss upon her cheek and descended the carriage first so he could hand her down. He couldn’t describe the feeling of having a wife on his arm—a real Mrs. Darcy. It was not pride, but the feeling of having someone walk in step with him—of possessing something he did not know he was missing—although he tempered this thought fiercely. She was not with him because she wanted him as a man.
The innkeeper’s greeting was altogether too knowing for Darcy’s comfort. Rumor galloped along the Great Northern Road faster than any post-horse, and he could well imagine the tales already in circulation: a hasty marriage, a country bride, the Master of Pemberley swept up like a man in a squall. His relations would be scandalized, but that, too, was beyond his consideration at the moment.
A little boy had lost his mother, and no amount of coin or capable nursemaids could soothe a child the way a mother could. He had often wondered why his father had not remarried to give his younger sister a mother. But Darcy was determined to do what was necessary, and he had done exactly that.
“Mr. Darcy, welcome, welcome,” the landlady exclaimed, her eyes roving curiously over Elizabeth. “And this must be your lady, then.”
“My wife,” he corrected, drawing Elizabeth closer. “Mrs. Pruett, have you acquired?—”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Darcy, we had your letter, sir! I am proud to say we have every article you named, and two more besides, forI took the liberty of including them. The writing desk arrived from the cabinet-maker at St. Albans not two days hence, and a prettier piece I never saw. I understand it is a wedding gift?”
“Yes, please deliver all the items to my wife’s chamber. I intend for her to have every comfort.”
Elizabeth turned to him, one eyebrow arched. “Mr. Darcy, dear, I was unaware I required furnishings.”
“It is but a portable desk. The size of a large volume, with a lid to hold your papers and an inkwell built in, that sits on your lap.” He should not have been surprised that she was unaware of such luxuries. “Did you suppose I would commission you an entire table?”
She looked chagrined as she addressed Mrs. Pruett, “And pray tell, what other gifts has my husband procured for me, or am I left to discover my trousseau by ambush?”
The landlady required no further encouragement. “Why, Mr. Darcy, on the way down from Derbyshire, had stopped here, and he was most particular about your comforts. The writing things, ma’am: the desk, a journal bound up in green leather, the ink, and the good quills. And then there are two shawls, a Norwich pattern and one quite plain, and a pelisse with the fur at the collar and cuffs, for the master noted particular that the lady would feel the cold going north, and a muff to match, and—” she lowered her voice to a register of reverent confidence “—a box of sugared almonds, and the lavender soap from the lady down the lane that’s famous three counties over, and if you’ll forgive me saying so, ma’am, I have helped settle a great many brides in this house and not one in fifty arrived to find her husband had thought to provide soap.”
“My, Mr. Darcy, you appear to be quite a listmaker.” Her eyes sparkled for the first time that long day. “You even provisioned me lavender soap.”
“You will find the inns vary considerably in what they offer. I preferred not to leave such matters to chance.”
“How very thorough you are.” The corner of her mouth betrayed her delight, and he saw with relief and a faint disordered alarm that he had pleased her past the power of her irony to conceal it. “Mrs. Pruett, you have made my husband sound a far more sentimental creature than he will own to being, and I shall treasure the information. Yes, send it all up, with my thanks, only…” she hesitated, and then, with the air of a child unwilling to be parted from a single one of her gifts even for an hour, “…might the desk come into the parlor with us? I find I am too curious to wait upon it.”
“Bless you, ma’am, of course.” Mrs. Pruett asked a boy to fetch the desk from the storeroom and led them to the private parlor. After being assured that everything was to their comfort, she accepted the coin from Darcy’s hand, curtsied, and departed.
The parlor was warm, low-beamed, and entirely theirs. Darcy was conscious, as he handed Elizabeth to the chair nearest the fire, of how privileged it was to be wholly alone with another person, and how rarely it had ever brought him anything but the wish to be alone with no one.
Yet, with Elizabeth beside him, he could not suppress the unbecoming longing that conflicted with his usual reserve. He had purchased a bride, and here he was, behaving like a callow youth. His face heated at the dangerous thoughts he refused to entertain as he seated himself across from her in the flickering candlelight.
Fortunately, the serving maids paraded into the parlor with the covered dishes and wine, so he was able to surreptitiously look at his wife under the guise of attending to his supper. Elizabeth, at first, paid little attention to the repast set before her. Instead, she drew the desk toward her across the cloth and ran her hand appreciatively over the satinwood surface,discovered the small brass plate of the lock and the tiny key dangling on its ribbon, turned the key with deliberate care, and opened the lid to reveal its fitted compartments and the green journal lying within.
Her eyes glittered as though she had discovered a long-lost treasure; it was precisely the look he remembered on Georgiana’s face the day she had first beheld her beloved pony.
“It locks,” she remarked, and lifted her eyes to him with a glint that was pure mischief. “You have given your wife a box she may keep her husband out of, on the very first night of our wedding journey. I cannot decide whether it is the most thoughtful gift I have ever received or the most revealing. A man who gives a lady a lock has surely made his peace with the existence of secrets.”
“A lady is entitled to her own correspondence,” he replied. “I should think it presumptuous to give you a desk that a servant might open at will. The lock is for purely your convenience. Nothing more.”
“You see, that is precisely what a man with secrets would say.” She was smiling now, openly, turning the little key over in her fingers. “But I shall let you keep your dignity, since you have thought to include almonds. I find I cannot quarrel with a man over sugared almonds; it would be against my principles, and very likely against my interest, for I mean to eat all of them, and I should not like you to repent the purchase.”
“I shall certainly not quarrel if you eat them all,” he replied, “as I have never had the slightest use for sugared almonds.”
“Then I shall indeed spare you, sir, for we are excellently matched.” She laughed, and it was the first true laugh he had heard from her since the rainy morning in her father’s study. “There. You will think me a perfect child. But you cannot give a woman presents and then object when she is pleased by them; it is one or the other, surely.”
He was not entirely certain if she was teasing him, so he raised his wineglass in a silent toast and suggested that she eat and drink. She happily put aside the gifts, but she partook of little food. She seemed more subdued than the Elizabeth he had met at Netherfield when she had nursed her sister’s fever. Then again, her father’s illness was serious, and she was doubtless worried about his condition.
“I also gifted you the writing desk so that you might write often to your family. I am willing to incur the costs of express mail.”
“Please forbear.” She wrinkled a brow. “At Longbourn, expresses are dreaded, as they only bring news that cannot wait, and such tidings would take a toll on my mother’s nerves.”
The meal concluded; the cloth was drawn, and her attention turned once more to the writing desk. This time, she opened the green journal, which he noted brought out the warm hazel tones in her eyes, and ran her appreciative finger over the fine paper.
“Tell me more about your brother’s son. What is his name?” She dipped the quill and made a note in her journal. “I suppose I shall make him a history. Today, I married your uncle so I can become your mother. You must believe me quite presumptuous to write your history, as you already had a mother. However, I, Elizabeth Bennet, now Darcy, am here to care for you and record everything you might wish to know.”
