Twenty #2
He did not approach her. He gestured to the table, poured her a glass of wine, and sat across from her.
At first the conversation was ordinary—the condition of the road, the quality of the inn, Anne’s tireless commentary on sheep.
Then it shifted, gently, to the household at Pemberley.
He spoke of Mrs Reynolds, who had been at Pemberley for forty years.
“She will like you,” he said, and did not elaborate on why he had spoken with such certainty.
The conversation slowed. They were not racing towards anything. They were simply talking. It was the first time they had spoken at length without pressure, without interruption, without performance.
Elizabeth told him what she had noticed at The Polygon: the flowers in the jug, Lydia reading poetry, Jane’s quiet hope, her mother’s sharp affection. He listened without interrupting, refilled her glass when it was empty, and when she finished, he said simply, “I am glad.”
A long silence followed. Then Elizabeth rose and he rose after her.
He did not move closer to her. He stood on his side of the table and she on hers, three feet of polished wood and the rest of their lives between them.
“Goodnight, Miss Bennet.”
“Goodnight, Mr Darcy.”
She ascended to her room. She closed the door, leaned against it, and pressed a hand to her chest where her heart beat too loudly.
He had not touched her. Not once.
She understood, with sudden clarity, that this was how he meant to court her.
Not with grand gestures in shadowed libraries, not with desperate pleas in corridors.
With choosing, again and again, not to close the distance until it was proper.
With restraint offered as proof of respect.
With patience that felt, in its own way, more intimate than any touch.
She lay in the small inn bed and did not sleep.
The second day passed in much the same manner. Anne narrated, asked questions, eventually slept. The silence between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy grew heavier with everything they did not say.
They stopped for the night at another coaching inn, smaller but clean.
The same ritual: Anne to bed, a note from Mr Darcy, a private parlour, a cold supper, two glasses of wine.
They talked of Pemberley again, of the library she would soon see, of the gardens Anne loved.
He spoke of his mother’s rose garden with affection.
She told him about the flowers her mother had once grown at Longbourn.
Again, he did not touch her.
Again, she lay awake in her room, understanding the shape of his restraint and feeling it like a caress.
On the third morning they set out early. The countryside had changed—gentler hills, wider skies, the first distant promise of Derbyshire. Anne was quieter today, sensing the journey’s end approaching. She fell asleep sooner, her head once more in Elizabeth’s lap.
The carriage hit a deeper rut. Anne stirred but did not wake. Elizabeth reached to hold her.
Mr Darcy leaned forward at the same moment to adjust the blanket.
Their hands met, his fingers brushing the back of hers where they rested on Anne’s shoulder.
The contact was brief, accidental in origin, deliberate in duration.
He did not pull away immediately, and neither did she.
For three heartbeats their hands rested together, warm skin against warm skin, while Anne functioned as an unwitting chaperone.
Then he withdrew, slowly, his fingers trailing across hers in a touch so subtle it might have been imagined.
Elizabeth looked up.
His eyes were on her, dark and full of everything he had not said for three days.
She did not look away.
The carriage climbed steadily into Derbyshire.
The landscape around them was greener, hillier, the fields giving way to stone walls and scattered woodland.
Elizabeth had never been north of Hertfordshire in her life.
Everything felt larger here, the sky wider, the air sharper.
She kept her face to the window, absorbing each new vista as though committing it to memory.
Mr Darcy named things as they passed, his voice low and unhurried. “That is the Derwent. Chatsworth lies two valleys over. That ridge marks the southern edge of my land.”
Anne, however, had taken charge of the narration.
She had been to Pemberley every summer of her life and spoke with the authority of a seasoned guide.
“There is a pond with very fat fish. They come to the edge when you throw bread. The library has a ladder taller than the one at Darcy House. You must be careful on the top rung or Papa will worry. In the stable there are six horses, and all of them are called Muffin because when I was three, I named every horse Muffin and the grooms gave up arguing.”
Elizabeth laughed, the sound soft in the enclosed space. “I look forward to meeting all the Muffins.”
Anne nodded solemnly. “They are very distinguished.”
Mr Darcy watched them both, his expression quiet, almost fond. He said little, content to let his daughter hold court, but his eyes returned to Elizabeth constantly.
The carriage crested the last rise and Pemberley appeared.
Elizabeth had read about it. She had heard descriptions from Georgiana, from Mr Darcy himself in passing remarks. She had imagined it in the quiet hours as grand, imposing, perhaps a little draughty. The reality was unlike any image her mind had constructed.
It was not merely a house. It was a world.
The great stone facade rose from the valley floor with graceful authority, its windows reflecting the afternoon light like polished mirrors.
Parkland rolled away on either side, ancient trees standing sentinel, the Derwent glinting in the distance.
The proportions were perfect: neither ostentatious nor humble, but exactly, inevitably right.
It looked as though it had grown from the land rather than been imposed upon it.
She did not describe it to herself. She simply looked.
Mr Darcy sat opposite her, watching her as she took it in. He was silent, and Elizabeth felt the weight of his gaze, unwavering and intent, as though he were waiting for her verdict on the place that defined him.
She turned her head and met his eyes, then she returned to the window and continued to look.
The carriage drew up at the broad stone steps. Wilkins, the butler, stood ready with a small line of staff. Elizabeth climbed down, Anne in her arms, Alice following close behind once the second carriage stopped. Mr Darcy descended last.
A woman in a dark, impeccably cut dress emerged from the great door at a measured pace. Grey hair neatly pinned, a chatelaine at her waist, her hands folded in front of her.
Mr Darcy stepped forward. “Miss Bennet, this is Mrs Reynolds, our housekeeper.”
Mrs Reynolds curtsied. She held the curtsy for the proper count, then rose and looked at Elizabeth directly. Her eyes lingered a fraction longer than strictly required.
“Miss Bennet. Welcome to Pemberley. We have heard a great deal about you.”
The line was perfectly polite. It was also loaded. Who was “we”? What had they heard? From whom? Elizabeth did not ask. She returned the courtesy with equal composure.
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds. I am very pleased to be here.”
Mrs Reynolds took Anne from her arms with genuine warmth. “Come along, my lamb. You must be tired after your journey.”
Anne went willingly, resting her head on the housekeeper’s side as she had done a hundred times before. Elizabeth followed them inside.
Pemberley’s entrance hall was not marble like Darcy House.
It was panelled in oak so old it had darkened to near black, the grain deep and rich with age.
Portraits rose on either side—generations of Darcys looking down with varying degrees of severity and amusement.
The air smelled of cut flowers from the conservatory and beeswax polish.
Sunlight fell through tall windows in broad, golden shafts.
Elizabeth took three steps into the hall and stopped, speechless.
Mr Darcy came to stand beside her.
“I had heard it was beautiful,” she said quietly.
“And now?”
She turned her head to look at him. “Now I have seen it.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and there was acknowledgment, perhaps, or the beginning of understanding. Then Mrs Reynolds returned from the inner hall, her step brisk.
“Miss Bennet, your chamber is prepared. Would you like to be shown up?”
Elizabeth turned to follow her. As she moved to the staircase, she felt Mr Darcy’s eyes on her back burning and watchful, full of everything left unsaid.
She did not glance back. She carried the weight of his gaze with her up the stairs, into the unfamiliar grandeur of Pemberley.