Chapter 38
Darcy leaned against the partition separating his horse from the others at the stables.
He rubbed his hands together, then ran them up and down his arms, trying to restore feeling to his numb limbs.
Travel by post coach became more appealing with every step of the nondescript gelding he had purchased for the journey.
But having his own horse gave him the freedom he needed to follow unobserved—far enough to avoid notice, close enough to intervene if circumstances demanded it.
Wickham was desperate. The private parlors and generous tables secured at the coaching inns, the eager attentiveness to the Bennets’ comfort, this final stop at a posting inn that members of the nobility were known to frequent…
it all surely strained the purse of a man who had squandered his personal resources long ago.
He was spending freely on the strength of an inheritance he did not even possess.
Wickham’s debts must be considerable. He had regarded himself as the heir to Pemberley for so long, had borrowed against that certainty so freely, that he now had no choice but to secure it.
He did not pursue Elizabeth out of admiration; he pursued her out of necessity.
He must know Darcy was nearby. He would also be aware that Darcy could not risk being seen, so more of his borrowed coin ensured that there were no rooms to secure anywhere in the village.
Darcy had spent the last hour inquiring, to no avail.
The loft above the stables would have to do.
Thoughts full of Elizabeth, he prepared to spend a cold night with the horses and the vermin on a hard bed of prickly straw.
He would smell like a horse and look like a beggar by the time he reached Pemberley.
He chuckled under his breath. Brenner would have a few choice words for him, but the promise of a hot bath, a shave, and a comfortable bed would be well worth the impending tongue-lashing.
He ran his hand over his beard, recalling the feel of Elizabeth’s fingers running over his cheeks and winding around the hair at his neck.
Darcy pulled a roll out of his pocket, grateful Wickham had not also bought all the bread from the bakery to add hunger to the list of hardships on this journey. He did not care. If Elizabeth needed him, he would be nearby. All the way to Pemberley.
Elizabeth could recall traveling to London when she was a child, but she had not been beyond Hertfordshire since she was a girl of eight years.
The changing view through the carriage glass provided a glimpse into the change coming to her own life.
During their second day of travel the hedgerows disappeared, replaced by stone walls.
Hills rose high in the distance. Cottage chimneys clustered around the slag heaps of mines.
Even the air felt different, colder and sharper.
At every stop, Mr. Wickham attended to their needs, and at every meal, her father’s subtle comments reminded Elizabeth of the obligation she was supposed to feel toward a man by whom she felt increasingly repulsed.
The weight of what she soon faced grew as the peaks loomed higher and the valleys fell deeper on the third day.
This was a different world—grander, wilder, imposing.
In many ways, harsh and unwelcoming. However, there was a beauty about the stark moors, a strength in the stone buildings, hardy heather, and gorse dotting the heights they passed that drew her in.
The enormous sky made her feel both small and free.
This was nothing like home. It was harsh, wild, grand…
nay, magnificent. It reminded her of Robbie, though she did not understand why, only that it did. Everything did.
By late afternoon on the third day of travel, Elizabeth thought she might burst with excitement and apprehension. She gripped the side of the carriage, her nose pressed against the glass, her heart galloping in her chest.
And then, the carriage crested a hill, and she saw Pemberley.
Her breath caught in her throat. The grand house sat in a natural valley backed with a lush forest and a gleaming stream ribboning through the clipped grounds.
The structure did not bully the landscape.
It belonged to it. Like a pearl in a bed of green velvet, tied with a shiny satin ribbon—beautiful and grand but not ostentatious.
Elizabeth imagined a young Mr. Darcy riding his horse over the fields, fishing in the stream, exploring the woods.
Why would anyone run away from such a place?
“Well, Lizzy.” Her father lowered the window, his voice hushed with reverence. “What do you think of your future residence?”
“It is beautiful,” she said honestly. “But we do not yet know if it will be my residence.”
Mr. Wickham rode up alongside the window, gesturing toward the valley with a proud sweep of his arm. “Welcome to Pemberley, Miss Elizabeth.” He spoke as if claiming the estate as his own. His presumption grated on Elizabeth.
The carriage wound around the road, the wheels crunching on fine gravel until it rolled to a stop in front of the entrance of the grand house. A line of servants stood waiting, more than Elizabeth had ever seen in one place.
At their head, advancing with purpose before Mr. Wickham could dismount, was a small, silver-haired woman whose smile reached her kindly eyes.
Elizabeth decided then and there that this woman was a friend.
“Miss Bennet.” She took Elizabeth’s hands as she stepped down from the carriage, warm and firm.
“We are so very pleased to have you at Pemberley at last. I am Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper.”
At last. The words comforted Elizabeth. Mrs. Reynolds spoke as though they not only expected her arrival but wished for it.
Behind Mrs. Reynolds, Colonel Fitzwilliam descended the steps with the ease of a gentleman sure of his place, confident in his welcome reception. Elizabeth was, indeed, pleased to see him again. “Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
She introduced Charlotte to him and noticed with pleasure that his eyes lit up with intrigue at the sight of her dearest friend. “Miss Lucas, it is a privilege to meet you. Any friend of Miss Bennet’s is most welcome.”
Charlotte smiled softly. “I found I could not in good conscience allow my friend to be outnumbered on unfamiliar grounds.”
“A most admirable principle, Miss Lucas.” He turned to Elizabeth. “You did not mention that your friend is a perceptive strategist. You did well to bring an ally.” Elizabeth smiled and said nothing. She had not arranged to bring Charlotte, but she was grateful to the gentleman who had.
“An ally? Are we at war?” Papa chuckled.
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward and tapped his nose. “Not all of Pemberley’s guests are eager for this match.”
Match? Could there be a match? Did the colonel know if Mr. Darcy lived? Was he here? There were too many questions to ask only one. She looked at the steps, but no one else descended.
Mr. Wickham joined them, all smiles and charm, though his demeanor shifted into sober gravity as he placed his hand on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s shoulder. “We shall all remember the late Fitzwilliam Darcy with fondness. His memory shall forever linger at Pemberley, as he will in our thoughts.”
The colonel leaned back against his heels, his eyes narrowing at Mr. Wickham. He clucked his tongue. “You will forgive me for holding out hope still. One cannot trust everything one reads in the newspaper.”
Charlotte stopped. It was only for half a second, and her face betrayed nothing to anyone who did not know her well. But Elizabeth did know her very well, and she saw it—the fractional stillness, the slight widening of the eyes before composure reasserted itself.
“A sentiment I share entirely, Colonel.” She took his arm and allowed him to lead her inside. Elizabeth did the same with her father’s arm, and together they ascended the steps and crossed the landing into the great hall.
Mrs. Reynolds was already directing the servants carrying the luggage.
She moved with the efficiency of long practice, guiding their party up a broad staircase and along corridors of polished wood and silk-hung walls to a suite of rooms that stopped Elizabeth in the doorway.
“I hope this will suit,” the housekeeper said.
Elizabeth tried to speak and was grateful to Charlotte when she said, “It is magnificent,” for her.
“Good. I hope you will be comfortable after your long journey. If you need anything at all, you have only to ask.”
Again, Charlotte spoke before Elizabeth could find her tongue. “Might we trouble you for a tour of the house once everyone is settled and we have refreshed ourselves?”
Mrs. Reynolds beamed. “It would be an honor!” With a promise to return shortly, she departed to see to her other guests.
Elizabeth stepped further inside the bedchamber.
It was larger than the combined size of the drawing room, dining room, and parlor at Longbourn.
She walked over the Turkish rug to look out the window at the rose garden beneath them, its beds mulched and sleeping.
It would be stunning when the blooms woke up in the spring.
Everything in the bedchamber—from the silk wallpaper and the matching canopy on the bed, the polished wood and the swept fireplace, the gentle perfume of the flowers placed throughout the room—was perfect.
It scared her how easily she could imagine herself waking up here every morning.
“It truly is magnificent,” she spoke through a sigh.
“But I do not know if I belong here. This is so… grand.”
Charlotte’s chin lifted. “Why should you not belong? You are the daughter of a gentleman. You are capable, intelligent, and kind-hearted. You would do any establishment credit, even one so grand as this. Perhaps even more so.”
“But what if Mr. Darcy is truly gone? What if Mr. Wickham inherits and I am expected to…” She shivered, unable to utter the words aloud.