Chapter 23
A few days later, Elizabeth and Mr Bennet arrived at Darcy House at six o’clock. As the rest of the family was expected to join them for supper, the arrangement afforded the lovers three extraordinary hours alone.
Darcy opened the door himself, unwilling to lose a single moment of Elizabeth’s company. He led them at once to the library.
Mr Bennet looked about him with keen interest. He was rarely admitted into such a place, and here, the abundance of books was the only wealth that truly held value for him.
It would have been untrue to say that he had not already decided, from the very instant Darcy asked this favour.
The library was the work of generations who had loved reading; to spend even a few hours there was, to Mr Bennet, a gift of the highest order.
He spoke, however, with a certain severity, as if to disguise his eagerness to be left alone.
“You understand, I hope, that this visit is exceptional, and shall not become a habit. You have a year before you may marry, and at the end of that year I expect Elizabeth’s reputation to remain entirely untouched.”
“Yes, sir,” Darcy replied. “We shall not abuse your indulgence.”
“No one knows that we are here, three hours before supper,” Mr Bennet continued.
“Of course.”
“You may go and converse. When the others arrive, they will find us here together.”
Elizabeth and Darcy left the room with perfect composure, but the moment the door closed, he caught her in his arms.
“Stop,” she whispered, trying to free herself. “Someone may see us.”
He released her at once, though only to take her hand and lead her upstairs.
“We are alone, my dear. No one is permitted into our house before supper. And Georgiana is at the Matlocks.”
She relaxed as they walked along a corridor filled with beautiful objects—Greek statues set upon marble pedestals, and elegant glass cases displaying delicate pieces collected from across the world. She wished to pause and admire each one, but Darcy would not allow it.
“You shall have the rest of your life to admire this hall. For now, give me your hand and come.”
He opened a pair of double doors into a beautiful parlour, lined with bookcases, with a writing desk placed before a large window.
She looked at him, waiting.
“This is your apartment—your parlour and bedroom.”
“You would not dare…” she said, still in a whisper.
He drew her to him. “I would dare this—and more.”
He showed her the bedroom, arranged in warm, honeyed colours, with burgundy curtains and Venetian lace draperies. Paintings adorned the walls, and there were exquisite objects—a clock, vases, and a large bouquet of roses.
She touched the flowers, then turned to him.
“We have a greenhouse here,” he said, smiling at her delight. “Here, and at Pemberley—they were built for my mother.”
Standing before her future bed, she blushed as he embraced her gently.
“I can hardly wait for you to come here—and to change everything, here and at Pemberley.”
“I would not change anything,” she replied.
“You will. You will come with your own ways, and before long, both houses will be yours.”
She coloured again when they entered his bedroom, where his dressing gowns lay upon the bed. He did not kiss her there. It is too dangerous, he thought. One touch, and I shall lose all command.
He led her next to the music room, where the pianoforte stood ready for Georgiana. Sheets of music lay scattered everywhere.
“No one has the right to interfere here and impose order upon my sister’s music.”
Back on the ground floor, she saw the parlour, the drawing room, and the dining room, where the table was already set for supper.
He then took her into the ballroom, inviting her to imagine the first ball they would hold after their marriage. He bowed, and they danced together to music heard only by themselves.
In the greenhouse, she moved happily among the plants and flowers, while he stood watching her, absorbed by the grace of her figure.
“Thank you, Anne de Bourgh,” he murmured more than once that day, each time he looked at the woman who would be his wife.
They took tea, interrupted by kisses and caresses, and at last spoke of how they were to pass the coming year.
“Lady Eleanor and Lady Wharton will guide you, and in two weeks we shall go to Lady Axton’s.”
Elizabeth smiled—that particular smile he had already learnt to recognise.
“Lady Axton, you say. Miss Bingley assured me I should never be invited to such a place.”
“It appears she was mistaken.”
“Imagine what a wealth of gossip they now possess,” she said, still teasing him.
She did not care for gossip or malice, and he was beginning to learn this from her. His life must depend on what stood openly before him, not on what was whispered behind his back.
“Tell me about your family and friends,” Elizabeth said as she moved about the parlour.
Darcy drew her before his mother’s portrait and held her there.
“I am afraid she would not have approved of me…” Elizabeth whispered.
“Do not speak so, Elizabeth Bennet. My mother wished only for our happiness. Before she died, she told me she hoped I would marry a kind and worthy woman. I believe that thought guided me—though I mistook it when I chose Anne. It is strange to think that our mistakes have led us here. I almost feel that my mother spared me a far greater error.”
Elizabeth touched his face with tenderness. Between them, there was not only passion, but affection—and something steadier, which neither had expected so soon.
He then spoke to her of his family and friends, and of Lady Axton, who seemed to govern the most fashionable circles of London.
“Are you certain she will like me?” Elizabeth asked.
“I am entirely certain.”
And he told her the story of the lady who had conquered London and now ruled it with ease.