Chapter 7
Darcy went down to breakfast early the next morning, wary and silently reproaching himself for being so.
He hardly knew whether he more hoped or feared to find his new wife at the breakfast table.
It was not entirely a propitious sign that she had refused to come down the night before.
Perhaps it signified only that she was tired from the journey.
That was the most promising explanation.
But others came more readily to mind, first among them dislike of him coupled to an unwillingness to make the best of the situation in which they found themselves.
Taking the last steps down to the main floor, Darcy shook his head ruefully.
He should not think much of it if Elizabeth did not choose to come down for breakfast. After all, his own mother had preferred to break her fast in the privacy of her own rooms and appear later in the day.
Elizabeth had every right to do the same, if she wished, and perhaps most ladies of great houses followed the practice.
After composing so many excuses for her not appearing, Darcy was taken aback upon entering the breakfast room and finding his wife already seated. She offered him a smile, a little shy and tentative, perhaps, but nonetheless welcome.
He cleared his throat and hurried to his usual place at the table. “Good morning,” Darcy said. It felt as though he ought to say more, perhaps much more, but he had not the least idea what that might be.
“Good morning,” Elizabeth replied softly.
“I trust you slept well?” Darcy asked.
“Ah — well enough,” she said, her smile turning a little forced. It had been a polite untruth, then. Elizabeth, like himself, seemed to have chosen careful civility as the best path forward. He frowned, wishing there were a way to put them on a more stable footing, to make her feel more at home.
But he had to remember that she was not a guest. She was his wife.
He could only do his best to ensure she had everything she needed to begin the arduous task of folding herself into the life of Pemberley.
Elizabeth might take that opportunity, or she might not. He could not make the choice for her.
A long silence ensued while the butler served his breakfast and poured him a cup of tea. He did not add anything to his tea, preferring to take it plain in the morning. His bride seemed to be the opposite, stirring a cube of sugar and a splash of cream into her tea.
He shifted in his seat and reached for the newspaper. But mid-reach, he stopped. Perhaps she would think it rude for him to read with her sitting right there.
Elizabeth seemed to sense his indecision. “Please, Mr Darcy, do not change your routine on my account.” She motioned for him to take up the paper.
Darcy did so, still feeling guilty.
Though he might as well have spared the effort.
He could not seem to keep his mind on anything he read, for the change in his own circumstances was far more engrossing.
To sit across the table from a young woman, from his wife, still seemed too improbable to be real.
For months, he had taken breakfast alone, gone on walks alone, and shut himself into his study to be alone.
Ever since Georgiana had run away, the house had been plunged into an oppressive silence that he had not known how to break.
It was one of the reasons he had jumped at the chance to visit Bingley and get a change of pace.
He glanced over at his new wife, peeking at her from over the top of the newspaper.
This was most certainly not how he had imagined his marriage would begin.
He had always thought he would be delighted and proud of his new bride, hopelessly in love.
It might have sounded like silly, romantic rot if he had uttered his dreams aloud, but in private, he had treasured them.
His heart faltered. He had always thought marriage would be his saving grace from the silence of those years that had plagued him after his father’s passing.
And now, here they were again. Georgiana was not dead, thank goodness.
But it was as if a piece of her had died.
She would never again be the innocent little girl he had doted on so happily.
She had proved herself capable of unimaginable frailty — and he had utterly failed her.
Elizabeth raised her eyes, and he glanced back at the paper, pretending to read.
He did not regret the choices he had made.
Having compromised an innocent young woman, through no fault or immodesty of her own, he could not do otherwise than offer her the protection of his name.
Their circumstances were an odd echo of Georgiana’s marriage.
She had fallen victim to a fortune-hunter and must therefore marry him, however unlikely happiness was to result, and he himself, through the most foolish accident, must marry lest he make himself an even greater villain than Georgiana’s husband.
Darcy peeked at Elizabeth over his newspaper again, but she did not look up.
Steeling himself, he resolved to make every effort to make this strange marriage succeed.
Certainly, he must treat Elizabeth with consideration.
After all, she must be frightened at being in a strange house, with strange servants and a husband she did not know or love.
Gathering his courage, Darcy cleared his throat and began. “If you are agreeable, I should like to introduce you to our neighbours and tenants once you are well and settled. The neighbourhood will expect bridal visits from the new mistress of Pemberley.”
Elizabeth turned to him with a warmer smile than he had yet seen. “Yes, indeed, I should like that very much. It would be a pleasure to meet our neighbours. I am a firm believer that community is of utmost importance.”
Darcy felt his own smile grow a little easier in response.
Whatever else might come of their partnership, his wife’s sense of responsibility was apparently all that he could wish.
“Well, we can discuss the timing of those visits later. But for today, I wondered if you might like a tour of the house and grounds?” Darcy hesitated a little.
“Of course, Mrs Reynolds has shown you some, and will show you anything else you might wish. But I thought I might take you over it today. Only if you wished, of course.” Darcy stumbled to a halt, disgusted at his own tongue-tied fumbling.
Elizabeth did not seem to mind. “Oh, yes, please. I am eager to see the house. The outside is impressive enough. I have never seen a view to rival it.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Darcy said quietly. In truth, he could not have been more pleased. Pemberley held a special place in his heart, and he had worked diligently to care for it since the responsibility had passed to him.
But he ought to say something more before the silence stretched out too long. “Do you, ah, do you find your room satisfactory?” he asked.
Elizabeth nodded. “It is more than satisfactory, Mr Darcy. I honestly do not know what I will do with so much space. I am used to sharing a room.”
“Well, you will not always be alone in it,” he blurted out without thinking.
At the look of sheer terror on her face, Darcy hastened to amend his words.
“That is, your maid will always be close at hand for anything you might need. Are you pleased with Mrs Reynolds’s selection?
You might choose another if you wished.”
“That will not be necessary. Mrs Reynolds has certainly chosen better for me than I could for myself.” Relief flooded her face, and he breathed a sigh, feeling that the crisis was averted — if only for a little while.
What could he have been thinking? True, he would soon move his things to the adjoining room next to hers.
The two suites had housed the head and mistress of the household for generations, but Darcy had always felt as if he would be usurping his father somehow, even though he had been gone several years.
Now that he was married, it was time for him to move into his rightful place as the master of Pemberley.
Their breakfasts complete, Darcy led his bride on the promised tour.
He took her first to the main foyer, which Elizabeth had seen the day prior, and into the gallery where numerous white marble statues were on display.
They walked side by side as he led the way to the busts of his father and mother.
His bust stood a little way off, but he conveniently skipped showing her that one.
Darcy could not feel entirely at ease with the idea of showing off his own face in marble.
In fact, he would have preferred to omit sitting for the bust entirely. However, his father had insisted.
There were several others that his great-grandfather had commissioned over the years and purchased from private collections.
Upon seeing Elizabeth’s interest in each piece, which seemed more than merely polite, Darcy made a sudden decision.
Leading Elizabeth on past the main gallery, into a nook at one side of the room that was easily overlooked, he brought them to a halt.
“This piece is my favourite,” Darcy said quietly, wondering how she would react.
It was a rather odd piece, and deliberately exiled from the others, but Darcy could remember liking it even as a boy. The sculpture was of an owl, its wings held close, looking at the observer with a strangely piercing, challenging expression.
Elizabeth did not reply at first. She walked around the plinth in silence, looking at it closely.
At last, she turned to him. “It is marvellous,” she said quietly. “And very like you, somehow. I feel he can almost hear us speak.”