Chapter Twenty #2
He smiled to himself as they approached the house, already anticipating her surprise and delight when she discovered what the evening held.
After they parted ways—Elizabeth to change from her riding habit, Darcy to attend to estate business—he made his way to his study with instructions for Mrs Reynolds to find a musician who could perform that evening.
The housekeeper had looked startled but pleased, and Darcy knew she would manage it somehow. She always did.
His steward had left the account ledgers on his desk as requested.
Darcy was particular about such things—he liked to cross-check the figures himself, ensuring no errors had crept in.
It was tedious work, but necessary. A single miscalculation could compound over time, leading to significant problems.
He settled into the familiar rhythm of reviewing numbers, making notes, and occasionally referring to previous months' records for comparison.
But his mind kept drifting to Elizabeth.
To her laughter as they raced across the meadow, the way her eyes lit up when he promised to arrange her ideal evening.
And the easy conversation they had shared.
This marriage, which had begun so inauspiciously, was becoming something real. Something he increasingly valued beyond other aspects of his life. Elizabeth was becoming essential to him in ways he had not anticipated or thought possible, given their circumstances.
He had been working for a few hours when the study door burst open without warning. A maid stood there, young and clearly distressed, her cap askew and her apron spotted with what seemed like splatters of mud.
"Mr Darcy, sir—" She was breathless, her words tumbling over themselves.
"It's Mrs Darcy. She went to visit the Galpin family this afternoon—Mrs Galpin has been ill, if you recall—but she has not returned, and there is a storm coming.
A bad one, sir. The grooms say it will be here within the hour or even earlier, and Mrs Darcy is still out there somewhere—"
Darcy was on his feet before she finished speaking. "How long ago did she leave?"
"Nearly two hours, sir. We thought she would be back before now, but—"
He did not wait to hear more. He strode from the study, calling for his horse to be saddled immediately. The grooms scrambled to obey, and within minutes, he had mounted the animal and was riding hard towards the Galpin cottage.
The sky had darkened ominously, heavy clouds rolling in from the west. Wind whipped across the fields, bending the grass flat. The first drops of rain began to fall as Darcy urged his stallion faster.
His heart pounded with something beyond the exertion of riding.
Elizabeth was out there, soon to be caught in the approaching storm.
She would be cold, wet and possibly lost if the rain came down hard enough to obscure the paths.
The image of her shivering and alone made his chest constrict painfully.
The rain intensified, quickly progressing from scattered drops to a steady downpour. Darcy's coat was soon soaked through, water running down his face and obscuring his vision. He wiped it away impatiently, squinting through the deluge for any sign of his wife.
She was one of the only certain things in his life now.
In this strange existence where a portion of his memories were missing and he sometimes woke unsure of what was real recollection and what was story, Elizabeth had become his anchor.
She was present and constant. The thought of something happening to her—
"Elizabeth!" He called her name, though he knew the wind and rain would carry the sound away. "Elizabeth!"
He scanned the landscape desperately. The path to the Galpin cottage was clear enough, but if she had become disoriented in the rain, she might have wandered off course. The temperature was dropping rapidly; she would be dangerously cold if she had been out in this for long.
Then he saw her—a figure in a dark cloak, walking slowly along the path, hunched against the rain. Relief flooded through him so intensely that it was almost painful.
"Elizabeth!"
She turned at the sound of his voice, her face pale and streaming with water. Her cloak was completely drenched, clinging to her frame. She tried to smile as he approached, but her lips trembled too much to hold the expression.
"Fitzwilliam? What are you doing here?" Her voice was nearly lost in the storm.
Darcy dismounted, his boots squelching in the mud. "Fetching my wife."
He crossed to her in three strides and pulled her into his arms, feeling her shiver against him. She was freezing, soaked to the skin, and the fierce protectiveness that surged through him was almost overwhelming.
"You are frozen," he said, already lifting her. "Come."
"I can walk—"
"Indulge me."
He lifted her onto his horse, then mounted behind her. Elizabeth settled against his chest without protest, clearly too cold to maintain any pretence of independence. Darcy wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her close, using his body to shield her from the worst of the rain.
"I visited Mrs Galpin," She said, her teeth chattering. "She is improving, but the storm came up so suddenly—"
"Hush. We can discuss it later. Right now I simply need to get you home."
They rode back towards Pemberley, Darcy keeping his horse to a steady pace despite his urgency.
She leaned back against him, and he could feel her gradually relaxing as his body heat began to warm her.
He held her closer, one hand maintaining the reins while the other pressed her firmly against his chest.
The rain continued to pour down, but he barely noticed it now. All his attention was focused on the woman in his arms—making sure she did not slide from the saddle and monitoring the terrible chill that had taken hold of her.
She fit perfectly against him, he realised. As though she belonged there, safe in his arms and sheltered by his strength. The rightness of it struck him with added clarity—this was where she should be. Where he wanted her to be. Not just now, in this moment of crisis, but always.
The realisation settled over him with calm certainty, as natural as breathing.
Pemberley came into view through the rain, lights blazing in every window. Clearly, the household had been alerted to the situation. Grooms ran forward as they approached, and Mrs Reynolds appeared in the doorway with blankets and heated bricks and a stream of instructions for the other servants.
But Darcy was not ready to relinquish Elizabeth to their care just yet. He dismounted first, then lifted her down, cradling her against his chest as he carried her towards the house.
"I can walk," she protested weakly, but she made no move to extract herself from his arms.
"I know," he replied. "But I am not yet ready to put you down."
And as he carried his wife through the rain towards the warmth and safety of their home, he felt any lingering bits of uncertainty about this marriage dissolve like mist in sunlight.
She was his. And he was never letting her go.