Chapter Nine
Darcy
Thank you, but I believe I shall ride with my family. There are matters I must attend to before we all depart tomorrow.
Her words echoed in his mind as the carriage rumbled on. It was a sensible point, but also unusual given that she was now his wife and might reasonably be expected to prefer his company to that of her relations.
He shifted against the leather seat, watching the countryside blur past the window. She sought familiarity, that was all. The comfort of her sisters’ chatter and her mother’s familiar complaints. One could hardly fault her for desiring such solace amidst so much upheaval.
She had married a stranger, after all. Was it any wonder she clung to what remained constant?
Still. The sting lingered.
He had hoped that their marriage might begin with at least a semblance of partnership.
That they might face this journey together.
Instead, his wife had retreated into the safety of her family circle, leaving him to travel in isolation whilst she laughed, conversed and existed in a space he could not occupy.
Stop being maudlin, he chided himself. Give her time. She will adjust.
The journey progressed in stages marked by inn stops and fresh horses. At each halt, Darcy descended from his carriage to ensure the Bennet party required nothing, offering assistance and performing the duties expected of a husband and son-in-law.
Mrs Bennet received his attentions with effusive gratitude.
She spoke constantly of Matlock, of the Earl’s consequence and how advantageous the connection would prove for her other daughters.
At one particularly unfortunate inn, her voice pitched to ensure the entire world appreciated her good fortune.
“Approaching ten thousand a year, I believe! Though some say it is closer to twelve. And Elizabeth is now mistress of Pemberley, such a grand estate! I have heard it rivals Chatsworth in magnificence.”
A merchant near the fire smirked and two young gentlemen exchanged knowing glances. Even the innkeeper’s expression held a quality Darcy found distinctly uncomfortable.
Elizabeth’s face had gone pale, then flushed crimson. She stared fixedly at her teacup as Mrs Bennet continued her oblivious enumeration of the family’s good fortune.
Darcy had considered intervening and firmly requesting that Mrs Bennet moderate her volume and discretion.
Yet what possible words could achieve this without causing offence?
Without humiliating Elizabeth before her own mother and creating precisely the sort of family discord that would make their already tenuous situation intolerable?
So he remained silent, enduring the mortification and mentally cataloguing this as yet another reason why long visits with his new in-laws would require deliberate management.
Lydia and Kitty proved no less troublesome.
Their animated discussions of eligible gentlemen they hoped to encounter at Matlock carried to neighbouring tables at every meal.
They speculated loudly about which officers might be stationed nearby, whether the Earl’s household included any unmarried sons beyond Darcy’s cousins, and what sort of entertainments might be arranged during their stay.
“I do hope there will be dancing,” Lydia declared at one coaching inn, her voice ringing enthusiastically. “Lizzy’s marriage has put us all in the way of meeting gentlemen of consequence. We must make the most of such opportunities!”
These drew more stares and whispers. Darcy focused on his meal and said nothing.
Elizabeth said nothing either, although her knuckles had gone white where she gripped her fork.
Watching her endure her family’s thoughtless indiscretions whilst maintaining dignity stirred something close to protective fury within him.
But what could he do? Rebuking Mrs Bennet would mortify Elizabeth further.
Silencing Lydia and Kitty would only earn their resentment and mark him as an overbearing husband.
The only respite came from Jane and Mary, who at least demonstrated some awareness of appropriate public conduct. And from Mr Bennet, who remained pleasantly absorbed in whatever book he had brought for the journey, offering only the occasional dry observation when directly addressed.
At each stop, Darcy made his way to Elizabeth, offering his hand to help her descend from the carriage. He asked after her comfort and ensured she wanted for nothing.
She accepted his attentions with unfailing courtesy, thanking him appropriately and responding to his enquiries with answers that revealed nothing of substance.
Polite words delivered in a pleasant tone, accompanied by smiles that never reached her eyes. She might have been addressing a helpful stranger rather than the man to whom she was bound for life.
Distraction came in the form of letters forwarded to the various inns by his steward at Pemberley, amongst others.
At the second posting inn, a letter from Bingley had awaited him—filled with effusive congratulations, three pages of genuine delight, and a single question so blunt it took Darcy by surprise.
Are you contented? Darcy had folded it away unfinished.
He lacked the equanimity required to respond.
After a few days of travel, Elizabeth’s pattern made one thing clear. She was maintaining distance deliberately. She was too well-bred for rudeness, but maintained a reserve that permitted interaction whilst preventing intimacy.
Darcy recognised the strategy because he had employed it himself countless times.
The art of being present whilst remaining fundamentally inaccessible.
Of fulfilling social obligations without surrendering anything personal.
He had perfected this dance during years navigating London society, deflecting unwanted attentions.
Now his own wife wielded the same techniques against him, and he had no notion how to counter them.
Perhaps this was her way of protecting herself from a marriage she did not choose freely.
If so, then it was best to leave her be.
He would not counter her defences at all.
Attempting to breach them would only rouse suspicion that he intended to diminish and transform her into some pale echo of the vibrant woman she had been.
Many marriages functioned on the basis of maintained distance.
His aunt and uncle’s union was by all accounts a love match, yet they still maintained distinct lives.
Lady Matlock had her charitable work and correspondence, Lord Matlock his estate management and political interests, and they seemed perfectly content with this arrangement.
That could be his fate with Elizabeth. Or worse, a lifetime of affection that never deepened beyond cordial regard.
If given the opportunity, he would opt for the former. Why did this bother him so?
He had never imagined a marriage of great passion. He’d expected, at best, a comfortable partnership with someone of suitable background and compatible temperament. Why should Elizabeth’s determined reserve disturb him when it merely represented the reality of most genteel unions?
Yet it did disturb him. The Elizabeth he had met at that garden party was quick-witted and animated by true feeling rather than mere performance. That woman seemed to have vanished and in her place remained this individual who seemed determined to keep him at arm’s length.
He had told himself, during those agonising deliberations in Ireland, that respect and compatibility formed sufficient foundation for marriage.
That affection might develop with proximity and shared experience.
Now he began to wonder whether he had been absurdly optimistic.
How could affection develop when one party refused to lower her guard?
Yet was he not refusing in equal measure? Darcy examined this uncomfortable thought as the miles rolled past. He offered assistance but not vulnerability. And he hadn’t particularly gone out of his way to grant her a closer glimpse into his inner life.
Small wonder she treated him with the same courtesy one might extend to any polite acquaintance. He had given her no reason to do otherwise.
As Matlock drew nearer, Darcy’s thoughts turned increasingly towards what awaited them.
His family would be assembling judgment even before the carriages halted.
Lady Catherine would sniff disapproval at his hasty marriage to an unknown gentleman’s daughter and make cutting observations about Elizabeth’s family and connections.
His uncle would assess Elizabeth with the calculating eye of one accustomed to evaluating social advantage, although his assessment would be tempered by kindness. His aunt would be kind, seeking evidence of his wife’s suitability while hoping for the best.
And Georgiana. What would she make of all this?
His sister deserved better than to be presented with a sudden sister-in-law acquired through circumstances bordering on farcical.
She would be polite, naturally, but she would also be bewildered and possibly hurt that he had not confided in her before taking so momentous a step.
He owed them all explanations beyond the hasty letter he’d sent off while in Ireland.
However, explaining would require admitting that somewhere between their first conversation and the hasty ceremony, he had ceased viewing marriage to Elizabeth as an obligation and begun seeing it as a possibility.
She had captivated him in ways he had not anticipated. And given certain circumstances, such as time for proper courtship, he might have chosen her freely.
And he was not prepared to expose that particular vulnerability to his family’s examination. Nor, evidently, to Elizabeth herself, who gave no indication of welcoming such a confession.
The final inn before their arrival at Matlock loomed ahead. This stop proceeded much as the others. Mrs Bennet’s loud pronouncements drew attention, Lydia and Kitty’s unseemly enthusiasm marked them as provincial.
“We shall reach Matlock by afternoon tomorrow,” he informed Elizabeth as they stood in the inn yard whilst ostlers saw to the horses. “I should prepare you. My family will naturally be curious about our marriage. They may ask questions that feel intrusive.”
“I understand. I shall endeavour to answer appropriately.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Yes, Mr Darcy?”
Mr Darcy. Not Fitzwilliam. They were married, and she addressed him with the formality of bare acquaintance. The distance embodied in that formal address made more of a statement than any overt hostility could have managed.
He wanted to question what had occurred to create this distance. He wished the real Elizabeth, the lively, sharp-tongued woman who had captivated him at that first meeting, would reemerge from behind this wall of courtesy.
Instead, he said, “Nothing. I merely wished to ensure you were comfortable with our arrival plans.”
“Quite comfortable. Thank you for your consideration.”
She curtseyed, the gesture correct and impersonal, then turned to rejoin her sisters.
He watched her go, frustration warring with reluctant understanding.
This could not continue indefinitely. They could not build any sort of life together if she refused to meet him even halfway. Yet forcing the issue would only drive her further into retreat. He had seen enough of her character to recognise that pressure would produce resistance, not surrender.
So what remained? Give her space, he supposed. More time to adjust to the reality of their union. He nursed the hope that proximity at Matlock might gradually erode the barriers she had erected.
It was a strategy requiring more forbearance than he currently felt capable of mustering. But what alternative existed? He could not force trust. He could only wait and try not to compound her unease through his own impatience.
It was the only kindness he could offer her now.
Later, lying awake in his solitary room whilst his wife presumably slept in quarters shared with her sisters, Darcy stared at the ceiling and confronted the truth he had been avoiding.
He cared what Elizabeth thought of him and whether she viewed their marriage with resignation or acceptance.
This was not what he had bargained for when he agreed to wed her. He had anticipated awkwardness, certainly. Initial discomfort as they navigated unfamiliar territory. But he had also envisioned gradual closeness, the slow building of what would become affection.
Elizabeth seemed committed to preventing precisely that development.
Very well. If she required distance, he would provide it. There would be no hovering or pressing for a connection she did not desire. He’d let her come to terms with what their marriage could be, rather than forcing her to confront his expectations of what it might become.
There was a chance that, given time and patience, she might come to see that he meant her no harm and their marriage need not be the prison she feared.
He closed his eyes and willed sleep to claim him, knowing it would not come easily. Too much remained unresolved.
How did one bridge a chasm when the other party seemed committed to its preservation?
He had no answer. Only the grim determination to endure whatever came next with as much dignity as circumstances permitted.
Dawn would bring Matlock, his family, and whatever trials awaited. For now, he could only lie in darkness and acknowledge that marriage was proving considerably more complicated than even his most pessimistic projections had suggested.