Chapter 7
Darcy sat in the silence of his library, the small prayer book open on his lap. If the weather was too inclement to attend church, he always read the service at the hour for Matins, and he had been reading it this morning, when he had heard music faintly down the corridor.
While shepherds watched their flocks by night. The tune had reached him that morning, just as it must have been being sung at Lambton, and he had placed his book down and hurried to the music room to find Elizabeth there.
Her hair gleamed in the light from the window, and her expression was calm, almost reverent.
Was she thinking of the service, or just enjoying the music?
He didn’t know her well enough to be sure, but he joined her, almost hoping that she would sing.
They had enjoyed a companionable time, listening to her play, reminiscing — until he had been dismayed by her words about her books.
Why had he not been able to respond appropriately? His distant words had clearly distressed her, and she had invented an excuse and hurried away.
Darcy, too, had hastened to his study, unable to think of anything but how he had failed Elizabeth. His wife. He had taken her from her home, from everyone she knew, married to a man she had barely spoken to before reluctantly exchanging vows.
How had he repaid her? By avoiding her presence, thinking that was what she would prefer in her resentment. It meant that he had not known her cares and her worries. Had she been a great reader? She must have been to reread her own books again and again, just because she had nothing new to read.
He put the prayer book aside. He would have to return to it later when he had considered what he must do; he could not concentrate on the words of the service at the present time.
It pained him deeply to think that they had been together at Pemberley for more than two months and she’d had nothing but a few of her own books to read in all that time.
He sat back in the chair and glanced around the room. Thousands of books, more than in many bookshops — although it was nothing to the Bodleian, of course. She could have taken comfort from this library.
He dropped his gaze. He was surrounded by comfort and luxury, by long-serving staff who attended to his every wish.
And what had he given Elizabeth? She had her chambers, her maid and all the necessities of life.
But how could that possibly be enough? He had not given her any of his attention.
He had not ensured she had books to read, music she might wish to play; or anything else she might need — embroidery materials or the like, he supposed.
He had not brought Georgiana here to be company for her, or suggested she have a companion, having taken her from her large family.
And then … he had gone through for lunch, unsure what he should or would say, but determined to bear her company. But she had not come downstairs. Mrs. Reynolds told him that she had sent her apologies down, Mrs. Darcy was suffering from a headache.
He rose to his feet, and glared around the room. It would never be the same again until he had enjoyed time in here with Elizabeth, discussing and enjoying the books.
“I will make amends,” he vowed. “I will.” He crossed to the mantel and rang the bell. When the butler answered the bell, he took a deep breath. “Mr. Jones, please find Mrs. Reynolds and instruct her that I am to be informed the moment Mrs. Darcy comes downstairs.”
Darcy crossed the hall into the drawing room, and hesitated in the doorway. Elizabeth was standing at one of the tables beside the side wall, arranging greenery in a white vase.
“Elizabeth,” he said quietly, and she turned slowly.
“Mr. Darcy, I am sorry, I did not see you.” She dipped a slight curtsy. His heart sank, would she retreat into coldness again?
“Elizabeth, I want to …”
But she had begun speaking at the same moment. “I must apologise, sir, for making such a dreadful remark this morning. You must have thought me the most grasping of …”
He had crossed the room towards her, and found himself reaching for her hand.
Even as she gasped, he relished the feel of her soft warmth.
“No, Elizabeth, you must never apologise for saying what you wish for. The fault is all mine for not even considering that you would need to be free to take whatever books you wish to,” he pressed her hand in his.
“Nor that I had not even thought to tell you.” He shut his eyes.
“I am so sorry, Elizabeth, that I have been so cold, so unobservant of your needs and wishes.”
He looked up and met her gaze. “Might you permit me to show you the library?”
She smiled gently at him. “William, I would be delighted.”
He smiled awkwardly, and offered her his arm. “Then, shall we?” Her delicate hand sending heat through his arm was exhilarating but terrifying to him as they crossed the great hall and he held the door open for her as she entered and gave a soft cry of pleasure.
Darcy looked around the familiar room as if with new eyes.
It was one of the largest rooms in the house, comparable with the ballroom, and appeared even larger with the double-height ceiling.
There was a narrow gallery running round the upper walls and giving access to the highest shelves.
The smell of leather and beeswax, the flames leaping in the great fireplace and the comfortable wingback leather chairs, old, sturdy and welcoming those who wished the opportunity to sit and read.
Elizabeth’s hand slipped from his arm and she crossed to the nearest shelves, running her fingers across the spines in the way of bibliophiles through the years.
His heart softened and his eyes misted over. She fitted beautifully here. He would watch her just as long as he was permitted to.
“I see you are a true gentleman book collector, William,” she spoke to him and he determined to listen properly. “Can I imagine it was this library inspired Dibdin’s book a few years ago?”
He laughed. “I believe he did visit here a decade or so ago, but I did not imagine you knew of his book.”
“Oh, the title really caught my attention when I saw it.” She laughed — was it the first full, genuine laugh he had seen from her? “And since it was four shillings, Papa made me pay half!”
“And here you have another copy to read and enjoy.” Darcy crossed the room to the shelf of miscellaneous books that he did not yet quite know how to catalogue and drew the book out to give her.
She was smiling as she took it from him and laughed merrily as she read from the title page.
“The Bibliomania, or Book-Madness. Containing some account of the history, symptoms and cure of this fatal disease.” She closed it, shaking her head.
“Seeing your expression, sir, I believe that, like me, you do not wish to be cured.”
He took the book from her and placed it on the table beside her.
“Certainly not! And I can see from your expression, Elizabeth, how much you already love this room.” He grimaced.
“I am so sorry that my thoughtlessness has deprived you of the enjoyment and peace you might have found here over the last months, and I insist that, going forwards, you spend as much time as you wish here, and also acquire as many as you wish to take to your chambers.”
Her gaze wandered around the room. “I thank you, William. It is a great gift.”
“Let us sit down,” he indicated the chairs. “May I order tea? We could discuss your favourite books, and then I will show you where the various categories are shelved and you may choose whatever you wish.”
“I would like that; and to know what books you love to read will help me to know you better.” Her voice was quiet as he rang the bell and ordered tea and pastries.
Then he joined her. Sitting opposite, he met her gaze. “I, too, would wish to know you better through your love of reading. Bibliomania tells me only that you love to see the ridiculous in things.”
She laughed freely, and he was happy that she had not remained above stairs today, being offended that he seemed not to wish to share his library with her.
It was very late, and Elizabeth had long retired — with a number of books.
Darcy sat quietly before the banked fire, looking around the library, remembering the laughter and joy between them as they had shared their love of reading.
He remembered Elizabeth’s teasing words as he confessed to his love of poetry — “I see you are a romantic at heart!” and his rejoinder, “… and you like adventure and mystery, I see!” Her laughter had been a relief — he had hoped not to offend her, but he wished to make the attempt at light-heartedness and was ridiculously satisfied that he had made her laugh.
In truth, their tastes aligned very well, and he had been happy to hear laughter in this room again, so silent since Mother had died.
The best of the day was that Elizabeth had been happy. She had forgiven him and she was happy. And when she was happy, he was, too. His heart swelled. Did this … this feeling of joy at her happiness mean he …?
He knew he admired her, respected her, appreciated her looks. He wished for her respect and her acceptance of him as her husband. He wanted to be her husband in truth, not just out of duty.
He smiled, slightly melancholy. Mother would have loved Elizabeth. He could, too.