Chapter Eleven
The carriage pulled beneath the portico at Pemberley and Darcy’s leg began to jump with nervous energy.
Normally the picturesque drive through the park and the slow unveiling of the house between the trees acted as a balm upon him.
Today, he scarcely noticed any of it. His attention had been almost entirely occupied by Elizabeth, who had spent the final approach leaning towards the window with an expression he could not read.
She had gone very quiet when the first glimpse of Pemberley appeared between the trees, and Darcy had immediately begun imagining every possible interpretation of that silence.
Perhaps she thought it ostentatious or too large.
Perhaps, despite her recent words on friendship, she was realising with mounting horror that she would be trapped with him there for the rest of her natural life.
By the time the carriage stopped, he had worked himself into such a state that he was grateful for the interruption.
A footman opened the door and Darcy descended before turning to offer Elizabeth his hand.
She took it without hesitation, and he tried to maintain a level expression.
Friendship, he reminded himself. It was perfectly ordinary to help a friend from a carriage.
A very beautiful friend with perfect rosebud lips and eyes like pools of melted…
oh Lord, this was not an encouraging start.
Friends probably did this sort of thing all the time without every particle of their body feeling like it was on fire.
Elizabeth stepped down beside him and the breeze caught the loose curls around her bonnet.
She was close enough that Darcy caught the faint scent of lavender and something else that was simply Elizabeth.
He inhaled before he could stop himself.
He released her hand at once and stepped back, hoping fervently that she had not noticed him behaving like some sort of hound catching a scent.
Thankfully, Elizabeth was looking up at the house.
Darcy followed her gaze and immediately forgot his embarrassment.
Pemberley rose pale and elegant before them, softened by the green of the surrounding hills, every familiar line suddenly strange because he was seeing it through her eyes.
He had imagined bringing her here more times than he cared to admit.
In those imaginings she had always loved it immediately and told him so with shining eyes before reaching up on her toes to favour him with a kiss.
Reality was not quite as straightforward.
"Well?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Elizabeth turned towards him. "Well what?"
"What do you think?"
Her mouth curved and she looked at him in that teasing way that made him want to fall to his knees. "Are you fishing for compliments, Darcy?"
Darcy glanced towards the waiting servants and lowered his voice to a murmur. "I hoped you might like it."
"I do," she said simply. "Very much. It is the most beautiful house I have ever had the fortune to look upon." Elizabeth watched him for another moment before her smile widened. "You really were worried?"
An excited shout drew Darcy's attention back towards the house before he could answer.
"Fitzwilliam!"
Georgiana was already hurrying down the steps, one hand lifting her skirts as she came hurtling past the line of servants waiting to greet them.
By the time she reached him she had abandoned any attempt at a dignified greeting and simply threw her arms around him.
Darcy laughed and caught her close, surprised by the force of his own relief at seeing her.
"You are finally here," she said, drawing back after a moment with her face bright from excitement. "I had begun to think you would never arrive. Mrs Reynolds said before luncheon, but..." Her voice trailed away as her eyes moved past him and settled upon Elizabeth.
For one brief second, Georgiana looked stricken by the recollection that her brother had not returned alone. Colour rushed into her cheeks and she straightened at once, smoothing her skirts and attempting to recover her composure.
"Mrs Darcy," she said shyly, dropping into an elegant curtsey.
Elizabeth smiled and stepped forwards before Georgiana could straighten fully, taking her lightly by the hands and drawing her back up. "Please call me Elizabeth. I think we may dispense with some of the ceremony. We are sisters, after all."
Georgiana looked at her with clear relief. "Then you must call me Georgiana."
"Gladly."
"I am so excited you are here. When William wrote... well, it was beyond anything I could have imagined, and, oh, you are so pretty! Come, come, I will have tea sent."
Darcy looked between them and felt an alarming sting behind his eyes. He blinked hard and turned away before either woman could notice. This was absurd. He had returned to Pemberley after far longer absences without becoming emotional.
Georgiana was talking quickly now, betraying both her nerves and her delight.
Elizabeth met the barrage of questions with easy warmth, and within moments the two of them were moving towards the house together as though Darcy had been forgotten entirely.
So much for friendship, he thought with a flicker of peevish amusement before catching up to take his place beside his wife as Mrs Reynolds came forwards to welcome her and the introductions to the rest of the household began.
???
By late afternoon Darcy was beginning to despair of ever seeing his wife alone again.
Georgiana had monopolised almost every moment since their arrival, something Elizabeth had allowed with so much grace and apparent pleasure that he could hardly object without looking like the worst sort of brother and husband.
They had toured the family rooms, listened to Georgiana play, walked through the rose garden and even ventured below stairs so Elizabeth might discuss her favourite dishes with Cook.
Darcy had trailed along behind them for much of it, becoming increasingly exasperated.
How was he supposed to build a friendship with his wife if he could barely get a word in?
Elizabeth did occasionally look back at him.
Once in the music room she had caught his eye over Georgiana's head and given him a little smile when his sister became particularly enthusiastic over a new piece.
Later, in the rose garden, she had touched his sleeve in passing and asked where a certain path led.
Each small scrap of attention left him feeling like a starving man being offered crumbs.
By the time Georgiana announced that she wished to show Elizabeth the small watercolour she had begun of the eastern woods, Darcy had had enough.
When Georgiana excused herself to fetch the painting, Darcy followed her into the passage and caught up before she reached the stairs. "Georgiana, I wondered whether you might allow Elizabeth and me to dine alone this evening."
She stopped and turned towards him, brows lifting. "Allow you? Are you not master of this house, brother?"
Darcy frowned. "You know perfectly well what I mean. You have scarcely permitted her out of your sight since we arrived."
"I like her," Georgiana said simply, and the pleasure in her face made it difficult to be truly frustrated.
"So do I. And I would very much like to spend some time with her."
Georgiana pressed her hands to her heart and looked at him with far too much understanding for his comfort. "New love! Oh William, it is so romantic."
"Georgiana..."
"I only meant that you married her." Her mouth twitched, but then she took pity on him. "Of course you may dine alone. I had not realised I was keeping her from you."
"You are making too much of it," Darcy said, which only caused Georgiana's smile to widen. "I merely thought Elizabeth and I might spend a little time together."
"Very well. I shall surrender her for one evening, although I intend to have her back tomorrow."
Darcy watched her disappear up the stairs and wondered when his quiet, often painfully shy little sister had become quite so knowing.
???
Darcy prepared for dinner methodically under Burke’s less than tender ministrations, while his mind returned again and again to Elizabeth.
He could still see her standing beside him in the little church at Hunsford, pale and solemn as she spoke the words that made her his wife.
Some selfish part of him had leapt at the sound of them.
Elizabeth was his. They were joined for life, and the joy of that knowledge had been so fierce that he hated himself for feeling it when she looked so miserable.
He had wanted her for months, and the knowledge that she was finally his wife ought to have brought nothing but joy.
Instead, it was tangled with the guilt of knowing how little choice he had given her in the matter.
He had promised himself then that he would ask nothing more of her.
He would give her distance and wait for her to come to him, if she ever wished to do so.
It had seemed the only gentlemanly course.
But she had interpreted his silence as a slight.
Then came the remark about needing wine to want her.
As if he did not ache from the want of her through his every waking hour.
The words had sliced through his heart. He had wanted to pull her against him and kiss every foolish notion from her head.
There had never been anything reluctant in his desire for her.