Chapter Twelve
“Are we nearly home, Lizzie?” Ambrose’s eager question punctuated the rhythmic clatter of wheels against cobblestones as their carriage wound through the Derbyshire countryside.
The boy had grown restless during the final hour of their journey, his excitement at returning to familiar surroundings after his extended stay at Netherfield—and without Georgiana, who had departed for London only days before to prepare for her coming out ball with her aunt—warring with the fidgeting that came from too many hours confined within the vehicle’s plush interior.
“Very nearly, dear,” Elizabeth replied, adjusting the small pillow she had placed behind his back when he complained of aching. “I can see you’re eager to show me all your favourite places.”
Yet even as she offered comfort to the child, her mind churned with harsh possibilities that she could not seem to banish no matter how she tried to focus on the present moment.
What if all their careful planning came to naught? What if Wickham’s claim to Ambrose was validated by the courts? The thought of this precious boy being torn from their arms made her stomach clench with dread.
She had seen how easily Wickham could charm those who did not know his true character. There was a good chance of him convincing the judge that he was indeed a devoted father wrongfully separated from his child.
Worse still was the possibility that their hasty marriage might be seen as evidence of guilt rather than protection.
Would the courts view their union as a desperate attempt to strengthen their legal position, thus casting doubt on the legitimacy of their claim to Ambrose?
The very notion made her feel physically ill.
She smoothed an unruly curl from Ambrose’s forehead, noting how the afternoon light caught the rich brown of his hair.
The child had been thrilled when they departed Netherfield, his natural excitement at returning home heightened by the knowledge that everything would be different now, with Elizabeth as his new stepmother.
Across from them, Mr Darcy observed their interactions with an intensity that made Elizabeth increasingly self-conscious.
His dark gaze seemed to catalogue every gentle word she spoke to Ambrose, every small kindness she offered.
She could not determine whether his scrutiny sprang from approval of her treatment of the child or from some more critical assessment of her suitability for the role she had undertaken.
“I look forward to seeing the peacocks again,” Ambrose said, settling more comfortably against Elizabeth’s side. “Will you help me feed them like I used to do with Georgiana?”
“Indeed I shall,” Elizabeth promised, touched by his assumption that she would participate in his familiar routines. “And you must show me all the best places to watch them display their magnificent feathers.”
The carriage began its descent into a valley of such breathtaking beauty that Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat.
Rolling parkland stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with ancient oaks and crossed by a meandering stream that caught the late afternoon sun like scattered diamonds.
And there, rising from this pastoral perfection like something from a fantasy book, stood Pemberley House.
“Oh my,” she whispered, pressing closer to the window for a better view.
The mansion commanded its setting with effortless grace, its honey-coloured stone glowing warmly in the golden light.
Classical proportions spoke of architectural genius, while the placement of windows and terraces suggested a building designed to live in harmony with its surroundings rather than dominate them.
Gardens flowed seamlessly into parkland, creating an impression of boundless beauty that made Elizabeth’s chest tighten with something approaching awe.
“Look, Lizzy!” Ambrose exclaimed, his nose pressed against the glass. “You can see my favourite window from here—the one in the library where I like to read! And there’s the terrace where I take my lessons when the weather is fine!”
“Your home is magnificent beyond anything I had imagined,” Elizabeth said honestly, though she directed her comment to both her companions. “I can see why you love it so dearly, Ambrose.”
Yet even as she spoke, darker thoughts intruded.
Would this become merely a memory for the little boy if Wickham succeeded in his legal claim?
Would they be forced to watch him be carried away from everything he held dear?
It was an awful thing to consider indeed.
Elizabeth pushed the thoughts from her head, deciding to focus on the positives instead.
Mr Darcy’s gaze remained fixed on her reaction. “What do you think, Mrs Darcy? Does it meet with your approval?”
The formal use of her new name sent an unexpected flutter through her chest, though she could not determine whether it sprang from pleasure or apprehension.
“It is magnificent beyond anything I had imagined,” she replied honestly.
“Though I confess it makes me rather nervous about my ability to manage such an establishment.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, at her frank admission of uncertainty. “Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, has managed the domestic arrangements for many years. She will guide you in whatever way you require.”
The carriage drew to a halt before an imposing entrance where liveried servants had assembled to greet their arrival.
Elizabeth’s stomach clenched with nervous energy as she contemplated the magnitude of the responsibility she had assumed.
These people would look to her for guidance, would judge her worthiness to bear the Darcy name, would expect her to fill a role for which her modest upbringing had provided little preparation.
Mr Darcy descended first, then turned to assist her from the carriage with the same formal courtesy he might have shown any lady of his acquaintance. His touch was brief and impersonal, yet she noticed the warmth of his gloved hand through her own thin kidskin gloves.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced to the assembled staff, his authoritative tone carrying clearly across the courtyard, “I am pleased to present my wife, Mrs Darcy, and to welcome Master Ambrose home to Pemberley.”
A murmur of respectful acknowledgement rippled through the gathering as Elizabeth attempted to project confidence she did not feel.
The sea of curious faces seemed to blur together—housemaids and footmen, gardeners and grooms, all united in their obvious speculation about the woman their master had so unexpectedly chosen to wed.
Just as her composure threatened to desert her entirely, Ambrose tugged insistently at her skirt, his small voice piping up with characteristic forthrightness.
“Lizzie, may I show you my favourite hiding place in the library? There’s a chair behind the big globe where no one can find you when you want to read stories. ”
The innocent request broke the formal tension like sunshine piercing storm clouds.
Several of the servants smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm, while Elizabeth felt her own rigid posture relax at his unconscious reminder that she was not just acquiring a grand house and its responsibilities, but also gaining a place in this child’s affections.
“I should be delighted to see your secret reading spot,” she replied warmly, taking his offered hand. “Perhaps after we have properly settled in.”
The introductions that followed passed in a more comfortable blur.
Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, proved to be a woman of middle years with intelligent eyes and a manner that suggested both competence and kindness.
The butler, Morrison, maintained the dignified bearing appropriate to his position while managing to convey welcome without overstepping proper bounds.
When the formal presentations concluded, Mr Darcy offered Elizabeth his arm. “Perhaps you would care to see the principal rooms? I should like you to feel at home here as soon as possible.”
The tour that followed revealed chambers of such elegance and proportion that Elizabeth felt increasingly overwhelmed by their magnificence. Each room seemed grander than the last, decorated with an artistry that spoke of generations of refined taste and unlimited resources.
The morning room glowed with soft yellow silk and delicate Chippendale furniture, while the formal drawing room displayed portraits of Darcy ancestors whose aristocratic bearing seemed to judge her humble origins from their gilded frames.
The library alone contained more volumes than she had seen in her entire life—leather-bound treasures reaching from floor to ceiling, their spines bearing the names of authors both familiar and exotic.
Elizabeth ran her fingers along the smooth wood of an antique writing desk, imagining the correspondence and literary endeavours that had taken place there.
“My father spent most of his time in here,” Mr Darcy revealed, his voice carrying a note of fondness she had rarely heard. “He always said a gentleman’s library revealed more about his character than his finest clothes or grandest entertainments.”
The music room proved equally impressive, boasting not only a pianoforte of such exquisite workmanship that her fingers itched to test its capabilities, but also a harp whose strings caught the afternoon light like spun gold.
“Georgiana practices here each morning,” he explained, noting Elizabeth’s admiration for the instruments. “Perhaps you might join her when she returns from London. She would benefit from a musical companion.”