Chapter 26
WHERE MRS LAWRENCE NAPS VERY SOUNDLY, AND MR DARCY GIVES ELIZABETH A TOUR OF THE HOUSE.
Lady Carlisle stayed above two hours with them, taking tea in the solarium with Mrs Lawrence, whose sunny disposition thawed the countess’s cool demeanour considerably within half an hour of their meeting.
Her ladyship had warmed to Elizabeth as well and was disposed towards conversation, a rarity in Darcy’s experience.
She spoke of going to Covent Garden, of the actors and the performance, as well as Colonel Fitzwilliam’s pleasure at being included in Darcy’s party and the enjoyment he received from making Mrs Lawrence’s acquaintance.
Apparently, Elizabeth was not the only lady whom Fitzwilliam had spoken of so highly.
Though it was not four o’clock, Darcy took a leaf out of Mrs Lawrence’s book and poured a bit of brandy in his tea when the subject shifted to Rosings.
As he listened to his aunt recite his cousin’s glowing commendation of Elizabeth’s virtues, he wondered whether much of what she related was calculated to provoke a reaction from him.
That Fitzwilliam not only liked, but esteemed Elizabeth in Kent was no secret; but had he truly entertained the idea of marrying her?
The possibility made Darcy’s stomach lurch unpleasantly.
Lady Carlisle glanced at him from the corner of her eye with a sly turn of her mouth and raised her teacup to her lips.
Her smile, though rare, appeared identical to her second son’s.
I will be damned, Darcy thought as he shook his head at her antics, thoroughly baffled by such blithe behaviour from such a dour woman.
She was teasing him, much like he knew Fitzwilliam would be if he were present.
Though Darcy had always known his cousin’s light-heartedness did not come from the earl, he was startled by the revelation that Fitzwilliam’s uncanny ability to torment him might have come from the countess.
It was in that moment Darcy realised his jealousy was not only misplaced, but entirely unfounded.
His cousin would never injure him by declaring himself to Elizabeth—not then, and certainly not now.
He was the one who suggested Darcy return to Hertfordshire and follow his heart.
Aside from Bingley, he was Darcy’s oldest and dearest friend—his most beloved cousin and truest confidant.
No one knew him better, nor was there another person he trusted more.
Could he fault Fitzwilliam for being attracted to Elizabeth?
Could he resent him for admiring her intelligent nature and generous heart?
Darcy looked to the woman he loved and was startled to see her dark eyes gazing back at him.
She raised one slender brow, a gesture Darcy interpreted as a silent enquiry as to whether he was well.
He answered her with a reassuring turn of his mouth.
He was fine. In fact, he had never been better.
Elizabeth ran her fingers lovingly over the polished ivory keys of the pianoforte as Darcy watched from across the room. “It is a beautiful instrument,” she said softly, almost reverently.
You are beautiful, he thought with equal reverence. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but instead of allowing them to escape he kept them to himself.
“Miss Darcy is correct. You are a most generous and considerate brother.”
Darcy wanted to tell her she was mistaken, that if he had truly been a considerate brother, he would have kept Georgiana with him instead of procuring an establishment for her in London, hiring an unsuitable companion for her, and allowing her to be taken to Ramsgate where she was preyed upon by Wickham.
He cast his eyes upon the floor, studied the pattern of the carpet, and concentrated on keeping those words to himself as well.
He would not ruin this precious time alone with Elizabeth by broaching a subject that would afford neither of them any satisfaction.
“Will you play something for me?” he asked instead. He required a distraction, and it had been far too long since he had the pleasure of hearing her play.
To his delight, Elizabeth smiled at him. “If you wish,” she replied, settling herself upon the smooth, polished bench, “but I am afraid my performance will be a sad substitute for your sister’s exceptional abilities, for I do not play half so well as Miss Darcy.”
Darcy claimed a seat upon the couch to her left, where he could better admire her figure and the delicate profile of her face. “You undervalue your own talent. I have always thought you play remarkably well. I have never found anything lacking in your performance.”
“You are too kind, sir,” she said lightly, “no doubt because you are biased. But I shall accept your generous compliments in any case, if for no reason other than they gratify my vanity.” She glanced at him with an impish gleam in her eyes. “Now, what would you like me to play?”
Darcy shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting with a smile. “Anything. Whatever you wish, Elizabeth.”
She chose Mozart—the twenty-first piano concerto.
It was light and pleasing, so much like Elizabeth, Darcy decided.
He let the music wash over him and felt himself relax in a way he had not been capable of in a very long time; not since the summer when she had been with him at Pemberley.
Having Elizabeth in his home again—hearing her play his instrument so beautifully—stirred feelings and emotions that went far beyond the physical.
Darcy’s pleasure in having her with him this way was spiritual.
It was transcendent. He closed his eyes.
If he were to die right now, he would die a happy man, knowing he had everything he could possibly desire in life: Elizabeth, happy. Elizabeth, in love with him.
She played for half an hour, her fingers moving over the keys with energy and grace. When she had done, he rose from his seat and applauded.
Elizabeth blushed. “You are far too generous.”
“I am nothing of the sort,” he assured her, extending his hand.
She accepted it and permitted him to assist her as she rose from the bench. “You most certainly are, sir, and therefore, far too partial to mention my flaws.”
“While I admit to being far too taken with you,” he confessed, “I certainly cannot find it within me to repine it. You have no flaws.”
She laughed. “So, I am a woman without flaws! That is unlikely. No one is without flaws, though I am exceedingly flattered you are gentlemanly enough to take it upon yourself to ignore mine.”
“I stand by my opinion, but I will not quarrel with you. We must agree to disagree.” He ran his thumb across the back of her hand, a slow caress, and watched her eyelids flutter.
In that moment he dearly wanted to kiss her, but feared once he started, he would not be able to stop.
Elizabeth had referred to his conduct as gentlemanly. He would adhere to it.
A change of venue was in order. “You have seen the solarium,” he told her, “the drawing room, the dining room, and the music room, but you have yet to see the rest of the house. Allow me to show it to you before Mrs Lawrence awakens from her nap and demands more tea.” He raised her hand to his lips and then, rather than place her hand upon his arm, linked their fingers together and tugged her towards the door.
Darcy led her into the main foyer, where a wide, sweeping staircase rose to the second floor.
He escorted her up the carpeted steps, through a long gallery containing numerous portraits of his ancestors, and into the guest wing, where he proceeded to throw open the doors and name every room depending upon what he found inside: the blue room, the yellow room, the green room, the room with the enormous chandelier.
After what seemed to Darcy an indeterminable length of time, they entered another corridor, more secluded than the first, which contained the family’s private apartments.
He bypassed each one without opening any of the doors until he approached the mistress’s apartment.
Drawing a fortifying breath, he turned the gleaming brass handle, opened the door, and stepped aside so Elizabeth could enter.
It had been a long time since he had been in these rooms. Though they were tastefully decorated, there was no question in his mind they needed to be updated.
“Once we are married, these rooms will become yours. You can do anything you like to them. You can order new furniture, window dressings, paper for the walls, anything you desire.”
They were in a finely appointed sitting room with pale green and ivory papered walls, elegant but comfortable furnishings, and a well-stocked bookcase that lined the entire length of the room, save for the marble fireplace situated in its midst. Elizabeth smiled at the sight of so many books.
Darcy smiled as well, both upon seeing her pleasure, and the recollection of his own enjoyment of the room.
He had passed many pleasant afternoons here as a young boy, curled upon the couch as he and his mother read companionably together.
He imagined Elizabeth doing the same with their children, perhaps even with him.
The double doors leading to the bedchamber were open and he noticed she had paused at the threshold. He joined her, then hesitated for a moment before he placed his hand upon the small of her back and guided her through the doorway.
The bed was large, with delicately carved spindles set between rich, burled maple posts.
Elizabeth ran her hands over the intricately embroidered counterpane.
“It is lovely,” she said softly. “Everything is lovely.” She proceeded to the window, brushed the heavy drapes and sheer lace curtains aside, and peered through the glass.