Page 37 of Time Stands Still

As the carriage pulled away, leaving Longbourn and her former life behind, a profound sense of peace settled over Elizabeth. She was alone with her husband at last.

“Mrs. Darcy,” he said, the name a low, reverent murmur as he took her hand and brought it to his lips.

“Mr. Darcy,” she replied, a teasing light in her eyes. “Are we to be so formal, now that we are married?”

“Never,” he whispered, and with a strength that surprised her, he pulled her from her seat and onto his lap, his arms caging her against his chest. Her breath hitched, the playful wit dying on her lips. “Never, Elizabeth.” He buried his face in her hair, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Are you happy?”

She tilted her head back to look at him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I am more than happy. I am… content. A feeling I had not thought to know.”

“Nor I,” he confessed, his gaze intense. He lowered his head, a soft kiss pressing against the pulse point at her throat. The touch of his lips on her skin sent a jolt of pure pleasure through her, making her heart stop for a beat. “I had long supposed that happiness was a matter of careful calculation and defence. I never dreamed it could be found so simply, so freely given, here in your arms.” He leaned in, his lips brushing hers. “A gift I mean to spend the rest of my life cherishing.”

The journey passed in a dream of conversation and kisses, of shared memories and future plans. They arrived at Darcy House in London as dusk was falling. The house was quiet, the staff having been instructed to be discreet. After a brief and formal welcome from his butler and housekeeper, Darcy informed her that they would not be requiring dinner, as Mrs. Bennet’s wedding breakfast had been more than sufficient. He then led Elizabeth up the grand staircase, the one she had once claimed in jest had won her heart, and into the master suite.

Her new lady's maid, a quiet, pleasant girl named Smith, and Darcy’s own valet had prepared everything. The bath, fragrant and warm, had been drawn in her dressing room. As Elizabeth soaked in the water, the last of the day’s happy exhaustion seemed to melt away, leaving only a humming anticipation in its place. It was a luxury beyond anything she had ever known. To have a bathing tub brought to one’s own dressing room, and a woman whose only duty was to attend her! At Longbourn, she and her sisters had made do with the services of one maid between them, and thought themselves fortunate for it. Now, she was Mrs. Darcy, a title that brought with it a life of such unimaginable ease. Wrapped in a thick drying linen, she was still lingering in the steam-warmed room, marvelling at this strange new reality, when the door to her chamber opened.

“You may leave the fresh linens on the bed, Smith,” she said, her back to the door.

A low, amused voice answered her. “I sent your maid away for the evening. I prefer to attend to my wife myself tonight.”

She turned, her heart leaping, clutching the linen towel more tightly around herself. He stood by the door, having just come from his own bath, a loose silk robe tied at his waist, his hair damp and curling at his neck. A self-conscious blush rose to her cheeks; never in her life had a man seen her in such a state of undress. For a moment, her only instinct was to hide. But then she met his gaze, a look of such open, tender adoration that it steadied her nerves. This was her husband. The man she loved with every fibre of her being. She would not cower before him.

Slowly, she released the tight grip on the towel, letting it fall, and stood before him. She saw his breath catch, his eyes darken with an emotion that was for her alone. In that gaze, she felt not exposed, but adored. He closed the distance between them, enveloping her in his arms, his embrace a promise of a safety and a belonging she had never thought to know. "My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth," he murmured, his voice thick with a feeling that needed no more words.

Later that night, as she lay in his arms, her head upon his shoulder and the room steeped in silence, Elizabeth said softly, “Fitzwilliam.”

“My love?” His reply stirred the hair at her temple.

“Had I known the full extent of the delights of your company, I might have been persuaded to accept your first proposal at Hunsford after all.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in the dark. “Then I must count myself the most fortunate of men,” he murmured against her hair, “that your principles were stronger than your desire for… delight.” He drew her closer still, his voice softening. “For I would not trade a single one of our repeating days.”

Elizabeth’s heart filled at his words, her own witty retort forgotten. He would not trade a single day. Nor would she.

Epilogue

Five years. It was a length of time that felt both as fleeting as a single, repeated day and as expansive as an eternity. Elizabeth stood by the grand window of the morning-room at Pemberley, a hand resting on the gentle swell of her stomach, and watched the scene on the lawn below, a quiet smile playing on her lips. The room, once a space she had feared she would never feel at ease in, was now entirely her own, her books scattered on a nearby table, and her needlework resting in a basket by her favourite chair.

Her thoughts, so often occupied with the running of this great house, drifted to another great house, and the surprising new life it contained. Rosings. She had received a letter from Anne de Bourgh only the week before, filled not with the dour complaints of old, but with spirited details of her latest victory over the estate’s stubborn bailiff and her plans for a new glasshouse. After her mother’s passing, Anne, with a resolve that had astonished all who knew her, had quietly but firmly asserted herself as the true mistress of Rosings Park. She had not become a tyrant in her mother’s image, but a capable and respected manager, her quiet strength finally finding its purpose. It was a quiet happiness, a solitary one, but it was a happiness nonetheless, and Elizabeth rejoiced for her sake.

From the music room across the hall came the soft, accomplished notes of a Mozart sonata, played with a confidence and joy that was a testament to the happiness of the player. Georgiana, no longer the painfully timid girl Elizabeth had met in London, but a vibrant, self-possessed woman, had indeed become the sister of her heart. Over the years, she had cultivated a particularly close friendship with Elizabeth’s sister, Mary, to their mutual advantage. Mary, freed from the shadows of Kitty and Lydia, had shed her pious and preaching manner, finding a quiet confidence. Georgiana, in turn, had lost much of her shyness in the face of a true and unwavering friendship, a stark contrast to the simpering misses who had once sought her acquaintance only to approach her brother. Their shared love for music and literature, and a deeper, unspoken understanding of the quiet strength required to navigate a world that did not always understand them, had forged a bond of unshakeable affection.

On the sun-dappled grass, another lesson was taking place. Darcy, her beloved Darcy, stood with their son, little Bennet, who was perched proudly atop a small, exceedingly patient Shetland pony. Darcy held the lead rein, his posture one of patient instruction, his voice carrying faintly on the breeze. “That’s it, Bennet. Straight back. Just as I have shown you.”

The sight brought back the memory of their good-natured argument from the previous evening, conducted in the privacy of their bedchambers. “He is but three years old, Fitzwilliam,” she had protested. “Must his formal education begin so soon? Can he not be allowed to simply be a boy for a while longer?”

He had smiled, drawing her into his arms with that quiet confidence which had proved so very persuasive in other respects. “My love, you yourself are now as fine a horsewoman as any in England, having so greatly benefited from my teachings so late in life. My methods are clearly superior. You must not worry. It is in his blood. All Darcys are born for the saddle.”

She shook her head now, still smiling at the recollection of his extraordinary powers of persuasion, and turned from the window. Her path led her towards the main staircase, where she found Mrs. Reynolds overseeing the placement of fresh flowers. The housekeeper’s face lit up upon seeing her.

“Mrs. Darcy,” the older woman said with a warm smile.

“The house looks beautiful, Mrs. Reynolds,” Elizabeth replied, her own voice full of a genuine affection that had grown over the years. “Your taste is, as always, impeccable.”

“It is a joy to prepare for the Colonel and his family, madam. The whole household is in a state of happy anticipation.”

Elizabeth smiled, remembering her first daunting years as the mistress of this great estate. The thousand details of managing such a household, the endless menus, the hiring of staff, the direction of the accounts, had at first seemed an insurmountable challenge. She recalled, with a private wince, the disastrous dinner she had planned for a party of local dignitaries in their first year, a meal so ill-conceived in its timing and ingredients that she had thought she would never recover from the mortification. It was Mrs. Reynolds who had come to her the next day, not with criticism, but with a quiet offer of assistance. “The previous Mrs. Darcy also found these matters trying at first, madam,” she had said gently. “But she learned. As will you. Allow me to help.”

And she had. Mrs. Reynolds, with her quiet wisdom, and Darcy, with his unwavering support, had been her guides. They had taught her, and she had learned, and now Pemberley was as much her home as Longbourn had ever been.