Twenty-One
The first three weeks at Pemberley unfolded like a slow, golden dream.
The estate was vast in a way Elizabeth had not fully comprehended until she walked it.
From the long gallery windows she could see rolling parkland stretching towards distant woods, the Derwent glinting silver in the valley below, and paths that disappeared over hills she had not yet explored.
The house itself felt less like a building and more a presence of its own, old, elegant, and sturdy, with rooms that opened into one another with graceful inevitability.
She and Anne explored the grounds every morning after lessons.
The child was in paradise. She darted ahead along gravel paths, crouched beside flowerbeds to examine beetles with scientific solemnity, and waded into the shallow stream near the south meadow to hunt for frogs. Her questions never stopped.
“Why do frogs sing at night, Miss Bennet? Are they telling each other stories?”
“Perhaps they are. Or perhaps they are simply happy to be frogs.”
Anne considered this, mud on her knees and a frog cupped carefully in her hands. “I would be happy to be a frog. They have very simple lives.”
Elizabeth laughed, the sound rising easily from her chest. She was relaxed here in a way she had never been in London.
The walls of Grosvenor Street had pressed close; here they felt miles away.
It reminded her of the years she had spent in the countryside around Longbourn.
The air smelled of cut grass and warm earth and wild roses, similar to the paths that led to Oakham Mount.
She caught herself smiling without deciding to—a small, private curve of the mouth as she watched Anne release her frog back into the stream.
Mrs Reynolds became a friendly, welcome presence during those weeks.
The housekeeper had greeted her on the first day with polite formality and a measuring look that missed nothing.
But Elizabeth quickly noticed the older woman’s approval whenever she watched her with Anne.
Mrs Reynolds saw the way Elizabeth listened to the child’s endless questions, the patience with which she answered even the most absurd ones, the gentle correction when Anne’s enthusiasm threatened to become imperious.
One afternoon, as they returned from the stream, Mrs Reynolds met them at the side door with towels and a faint smile.
“You are good for her, Miss Bennet,” she said, handing Elizabeth a fresh cloth for Anne’s muddy knees. “She has always been a bright child, but she laughs more since you came.”
Elizabeth accepted the towel with a small nod. “She makes it easy to laugh.”
Mrs Reynolds studied her for a moment longer, her sharp eyes softening. “And you make it easy for her to be a child. Her nature is far too serious for her years, if you ask me.”
The trust between them grew slowly, built on small shared moments: Mrs Reynolds showing Elizabeth the best spot in the stillroom for drying lavender, Elizabeth asking the housekeeper’s advice on recipes for cinnamon biscuits, both women exchanging glances when Anne made one of her solemn pronouncements about the proper way to address a duck.
It was during one of these conversations, while they folded linens in the upstairs airing cupboard, that Mrs Reynolds first let slip a hint of something deeper.
“She is very like her father in some ways.” The housekeeper smoothed a sheet with practised hands. “The same stubborn curiosity. The same way of looking at the world as though it owes her answers.”
Elizabeth smiled. “She is very much his daughter.”
Mrs Reynolds paused, her hands stilling on the linen. She glanced at the open door, then back at Elizabeth, weighing something.
“Yes,” she whispered. “In every way that matters.”
Mrs Reynolds did not elaborate, but the look she gave Elizabeth was knowing. Something in the words reminded Elizabeth of Charlotte’s letter, but she waved the thought away.
The pond became one of their favourite places.
It was a wide, shallow stretch of water fed by the stream, ringed with reeds and willow trees.
One warm afternoon Mr Darcy joined them there, carrying fishing rods and a small basket of bread for bait.
He had changed into a plain coat and breeches, looking more the country gentleman than the master of Pemberley.
Anne was delighted. “Papa! Are we going to catch fish?”
“We are going to try,” he said, handing her a small rod. “Though I suspect the fish might have other plans.”
They settled on the grassy bank. Mr Darcy showed Anne how to bait her hook with endless patience. Elizabeth sat a little apart, watching them. The sun was warm on her shoulders, the air filled with the drone of bees and the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface.
Anne’s first cast landed in the reeds. Her second tangled in a willow branch. Her third nearly hooked Mr Darcy’s sleeve. Each failure was met with laughter rather than frustration.
“Papa, the fish are laughing at me.”
“Then we must outsmart them,” he replied, his voice warm with amusement. He adjusted her grip, his large hand covering her small one. “Steady now. Let the line drift.”
Elizabeth was smiling as she watched them.
There was no stiffness here, no careful distance.
Mr Darcy was unguarded with his daughter, more than ever.
When Anne finally hooked a small perch and squealed with triumph, he laughed outright—a full, delighted sound that made Elizabeth’s chest tighten with tenderness.
He glanced up and caught her watching. Their eyes held for a while. The laughter faded, but he did not look away. Neither did she.
Later, as they packed up the rods, Anne ran ahead to show her catch to one of the gardeners. Mr Darcy fell into step beside Elizabeth.
He was silent for a few paces. Then, “Pemberley suits you.”
Elizabeth looked out over the parkland, the house visible in the distance like a benevolent guardian. “It is beautiful beyond anything I imagined.”
“It is better with you here.”
The words were simple, spoken without flourish, but they landed with weight. She did not answer. She simply walked beside him, the late afternoon sun warming them, the sound of Anne’s laughter drifting back to them on the breeze.
For the first time since arriving, Elizabeth allowed herself to feel the quiet rightness of being here, of walking beside him, of watching his daughter play in the light.
It terrified her how much she wanted it to last.
Another afternoon in early July brought the kind of sudden summer storm that Derbyshire was famous for.
Elizabeth and Anne had been in the rose garden, examining the blooms of the season.
Anne was crouched beside a splendid pink rose, asking whether flowers dreamed when they closed at night.
The sky darkened without warning. The first fat drops of rain splattered onto the gravel path, then the heavens opened.
“Come, quickly!” Elizabeth caught Anne’s hand and they ran towards the house, but the rain was faster. Within moments they were drenched, Anne squealing with delight rather than distress, her small legs pumping as she tried to keep up.
A shout came from the terrace.
Mr Darcy was running to them, his coat-tails flapping. He reached them in seconds, his boots splashing through puddles already forming on the path.
Without hesitation he removed his coat and wrapped it around Anne, lifting her into his arms in one smooth motion. The child laughed, clinging to his neck as rain streamed down her face.
“Papa! We are having an adventure!”
“So we are,” he replied, voice warm despite the downpour. He glanced at Elizabeth, rain dripping from his hair, and extended his free arm. “Come.”
She took it without thinking. They ran the last stretch together, Mr Darcy shielding Anne with his body, Elizabeth half-laughing, half-gasping as cold water soaked through her dress and plastered her hair to her head.
They burst through the side door into the entrance hall, a wet, laughing tangle. Anne was still giggling in her father’s arms. Elizabeth pushed wet strands from her face, her breath coming fast, her dress clinging to her skin in a way that would have mortified her a year ago.
She looked up.
Mr Darcy was staring at her.
The laughter died on her lips.
His coat was discarded, forgotten on the floor where he had set Anne down. Rainwater ran from his hair down the strong column of his throat. His shirt clung to his chest and shoulders, translucent in places, revealing the lines of muscle beneath. But it was his face that held her.
Desire, naked and unguarded, burned in his eyes.
He was not hiding it. Not now, in this moment of chaos, laughter, and sudden intimacy.
His gaze moved over the wet strands of hair curling against her neck, the way the soaked fabric of her gown outlined her figure, the flush of exertion and laughter still colouring her cheeks.
He looked at her as though she were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Elizabeth did not avert her eyes. She wanted his eyes on her.
For one suspended heartbeat the entrance hall narrowed to the space between them.
The sound of rain drumming against the windows, Anne’s delighted chatter to a footman, the distant voice of Mrs Reynolds calling for towels, all of it faded.
There was only the heat in his eyes and the answering warmth low in her belly, a slow, liquid awareness that made her breath catch.
Then Mrs Reynolds appeared with a stack of thick towels.
“Here we are, soaking wet the lot of you. Miss Darcy, come with me before you catch a chill.”
Anne was swept away in a flurry of towels and gentle scolding. Mr Darcy turned to accept a towel from the footman, his expression sobering, though the flush across his cheekbones remained.
Elizabeth took the towel offered to her and pressed it to her face, buying a moment to calm her racing heart. When she lowered it, Mr Darcy was watching her again—this time with restraint, the fire banked but not extinguished.