Chapter 54
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
E lizabeth’s breath caught in her throat as the couple approached the crest of the hill over which Darcy had told her she would catch her first sight of Pemberley. In the early summer light, the green fields and meadows of wildflowers sloped gently towards a sweet pond, past which stood the most happily situated home Elizabeth had ever seen.
The house was immense without being imposing. Its ivory gritstone facade shone pink in the afternoon sun, and the two dozen glazings facing her glowed like fire. The gardens and drive were delightfully curved and meticulously tended, and the Darcy crest glinted in gold leaf from the intricately carved gable that floated above the welcoming grand marble staircase.
The next several hours saw Darcy personally guiding Elizabeth through his family’s extensive gallery, introducing her to his servants, and showing her to her own well-appointed rooms. If Fitzwilliam Darcy’s personal tour of the master’s and mistress’s chambers took rather longer than the other tens of thousands of square feet of Pemberley, nobody seemed to notice.
Refreshed, if not quite rested, the blissful couple joined Georgiana and her new companion, a Mrs Annesley late of Sussex, for supper in Pemberley’s dining room. Their meal was delectable, as Darcy had written ahead to inform Mrs Reynolds to direct Cook to procure all of Elizabeth’s favourite food items. Tonight was fillet of beef with boiled potatoes so excellent, she would be hard-pressed not to label them exemplary. She also recognised the flavour, if not the design, of the pastry set before her after her entree was taken away; it was her mother’s strawberry tart.
Could he be more considerate?
“I thought I might show you my favourite room after supper, my love,” Darcy proclaimed as he swiped his serviette across his mouth one last time before leaning in and adding sotto voce , “Though I think it has just become my second favourite room.”
The memory of the love they had made that afternoon elicited a blush, which she failed to disguise with the serviette in her own hands. Clearing her throat, she told him she would, of course, enjoy seeing anything he pleased.
Elizabeth did not know why, but as soon as she entered her new home, and with the events of the afternoon, all thoughts of Pemberley’s eminent and well-stocked library had fled. She almost laughed at such a memory lapse, for not three months before, she would not have entered Pemberley’s halls under any inducement but to see its renowned book-room. Looking up at the master of this great estate, she had to acknowledge with a smile that Pemberley’s library was simply no longer its greatest draw.
She followed her handsome husband, whose dark hair had grown long enough for his curls to begin to form, golden on the ends. The anticipation on his face was mirrored in her heart; he simply could not wait to give her this great gift, and she was anxious to receive it.
Opening the doors with both arms in a grand gesture, Darcy led her into the two-storey library, a stately room fitted out with soft leather chairs and sofas, dark floral Aubusson rugs, a massive hearth, and floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases filled to brimming with tomes modern and ancient. The rolling ladder to Elizabeth’s immediate right—one of three in the room, for the shelves were interrupted in two places by sets of tall, slim windows, through which trickled the fading light of day—called her name, and she felt no compunction in climbing upon it with a kick and gliding several yards in pure glee.
Darcy, closing the heavy doors behind him with a snick, laughed as he watched, and she was again struck by the blessing he was to her. Standing before the massive hearth, his handsome features bathed in the orange glow of the fire, he gazed at her with sheer adoration. Her happiness was his only object.
And his was hers. She would spend the years ahead by his side, continuing to nurse the wounds of his past while striving to eclipse their pain with countless causes for joy.
A blanket of contentment settled upon her shoulders and wrapped her in its warmth as she watched the man she loved stride along the bookshelves towards her. Placing a hand on either rail of the tall ladder, he looked into her face, nose to nose as they were from her place on the bottom rung, and kissed her soundly. She wrapped her arms about his neck and deepened the kiss, unable to resist pressing her body flush against his. He wound his arms around her and lifted her from her ladder perch, only too happy to continue in this pastime before exploring the titles, evidently.
Darcy walked her to one of the overstuffed armchairs, slid one arm behind her and caught her under the knees, then lowered himself into the seat with his wife snugly situated atop his lap. Elizabeth’s mind flitted back to that moment so many months ago when she had fallen into his loving embrace in a scene just like this one. Once again, she was transfixed by his tender ministrations as he held her to him, let his mouth rove over hers, and whispered, “Elizabeth, my dearest love.”
His kiss that day had been an intense mixture of yearning and agony, as if he felt that to acknowledge her presence in his embrace would cause the vision he had created of her to shatter to dust and blow away in the wind. This was a kiss of a man in possession of exactly what he wanted, confident in the love and loyalty of the woman in his arms and determined to hold her until she fully understood the depths of his affection for her.
And he did.
An hour later, Darcy looked down into her eyes, perched as he was upon his elbow at her side. The thick, floral rug was as soft as a meadow beneath her, and she needed no coverlet for warmth. He was her warmth. His love heated her from the inside out. As close as he was this moment, she only wanted him closer. She reached a hand up to caress his bare chest, his neck, and his beautiful face and smiled, once again overwhelmed by the contentment bubbling inside her.
“Are you happy, dearest?” he asked.
“More happy than I can express. And you?”
“Must you even ask? Elizabeth, you have made me the happiest of men,” he told her, alighting his lips upon her jaw as he spoke. “And you have made this room my favourite once again.”
His elated smile undid her. Elizabeth pulled him towards her, and all thoughts of perusing the shelves flew out of the fine, leaded-glass windows.
The books would be there later.
Particularly, the tattered, 120-year-old copy of Shakespeare’s All’s Well That Ends Well , which stood among the Bard’s other plays in an inconspicuous corner of the room, flanked by his more well-liked works. It had been in its place since the library was built, its false pages hooked to a mechanism which Darcy and Elizabeth would not find for nearly two years.
How they would react to the dust-covered pile of gowns, slippers, and toiletries just inside the entrance—or the fine lady at rest further down—is a story for another time. Right now, the enchanted couple was in complete ignorance of what— or whom —was hiding behind the walls of Pemberley’s revered library.
And they were in pure bliss.