Chapter 3
Three
The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the Pemberley library, casting long, golden ribbons of light across the Aubusson carpet.
Outside, the Derbyshire landscape rolled away in a tapestry of lush summer greens, but within the great room, a comfortable, deeply affectionate quiet reigned.
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat at his large mahogany desk, his attention apparently fixed upon a thick ledger of estate accounts. Yet, for the past quarter of an hour, his gaze had strayed with increasing frequency to the sofa near the window, where his wife was seated.
Anne Darcy, née de Bourgh, was resting gracefully against the cushions, a book of botanical prints open upon her lap.
The pallor and frailty that had so defined her youth at Rosings Park had long since vanished, replaced by a quiet vitality which Pemberley—and happiness—had gradually nurtured.
Her pale hair caught the sunlight, turning it to spun gold, but it was her expression that held Darcy captive.
Her soft blue eyes were fixed thoughtfully upon the middle distance, her delicate brow slightly furrowed.
It was a look of gentle, serious contemplation that Darcy had come to know intimately; it usually meant his wife was turning over a matter of the heart, weighing how best to approach him without causing him uneasiness.
He set his pen down quietly, the scratch of the nib ceasing. The silence seemed to draw Mrs. Darcy’s attention, and she turned her head, catching his eye. A slow, deeply tender smile spread across her features, instantly softening the thoughtful shadow.
“You have stopped working, Fitzwilliam,” Anne observed, her voice carrying the quiet, melodic gentleness that always felt like a balm to his spirit. “Have the accounts of the northern tenantry become too tedious? Or are you merely indulging in your habit of watching me when you think I am unaware?”
Darcy leaned back in his leather chair, a matching smile touching the corners of his mouth.
“I assure you, my love, the accounts are as demanding as ever. It is my wife who distracts me. You have been staring at the same illustration of a fern for twenty minutes. I begin to suspect you are not finding your botany as engaging as you claimed at breakfast.”
Anne closed the book with a soft snap and set it aside, rising from the sofa.
Her pale muslin gown whispered against the carpet as she crossed the room to his desk.
Darcy watched her approach, his gaze softening with an adoration that had only deepened over their years of marriage.
Mrs. Darcy came to stand beside his chair, resting one hand lightly upon his shoulder.
The warmth of her touch seeped through his coat, grounding him as it always did.
He reached up, covering her slender hand with his own, his thumb brushing gently over her wedding band.
“And what matters are occupying that beautiful mind of yours?” Mr. Darcy asked, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register. “You look as though you are preparing to ask a favour, and are trying to decide if I am in a sufficiently pliable mood.”
Anne laughed softly, a sound that never failed to warm him.
She moved closer, allowing him to turn his chair and gently pull her forward until she was standing between his knees.
She looked down at him, her eyes bright with affection, her free hand coming to rest lightly against his chest, over his heart.
“You are always pliable where I am concerned, Fitzwilliam, though you would never admit it to anyone else,” she teased gently, her fingers smoothing the fabric of his lapel. Then, her expression grew earnest. “But it is a favour, of sorts. Though not for myself.”
Darcy’s posture shifted imperceptibly, his hands resting lightly on her waist. “You have only to ask, Anne. You know there is nothing I would deny you. Who requires your gentle intercession today?”
“It concerns Georgiana,” Anne said softly, her thumb pausing its tracing over his coat. “And... Mr. Elias Bennet.”
Darcy’s eyebrows rose slightly, though he did not pull away.
He looked up into his wife’s face, reading the deep, empathetic concern in her eyes.
“Elias Bennet? The second son from Longbourn? The one who has recently returned from Oxford. A quiet, sensible young man. He intends for the law, as I remember, does he not?”
“He does,” Anne confirmed, her eyes meeting his directly, drawing courage from his steady gaze.
“It seems he has a brilliant mind for it, Fitzwilliam. Georgiana has spoken of him often since our visit to Rosings. Mr. Bennet is meticulous, patient, and deeply honourable. But... he is a younger son. And while his father’s estate provides a comfortable living, it does not stretch far enough to easily purchase the kind of articles or secure the sort of position in London that would allow Elias to establish himself truly. ”
Darcy watched her carefully, his hands tightening gently on her waist as he began to see the shape of her request. “And you—and Georgiana—wish to help him.”
“I do,” she said softly, leaning into him slightly, so that he was enveloped in her faint, signature scent of rosewater and vanilla.
“I know how difficult it is to feel constrained by circumstance, Fitzwilliam. To have a quiet heart, but no means to act upon it. Elias would never accept charity, nor would he wish to feel he was trading upon an acquaintance. He wishes to work. To earn his place. But he needs a door opened for him—a door that his own merit can then keep open.”
“And you have a specific door in mind, have you not, Anne?” Darcy murmured, a hint of fond amusement threading through his tone.
“I was thinking,” she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, “of Mr. Fletcher.”
Darcy’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.
Mr. Fletcher was his primary solicitor in London—a man of exacting standards, formidable reputation, and immense influence in legal circles.
To be taken on as a clerk or assistant in Fletcher’s office was almost a guarantee of future success, provided one could survive the man’s rigorous demands.
“Fletcher?” Darcy repeated, a soft chuckle escaping him. “You aim very high indeed for the young man, Anne. Mr. Fletcher eats young law students for breakfast and complains of indigestion by noon. He is not known for his gentle disposition.”
“Neither was my mother,” Anne countered smoothly, a rare, playful spark lighting her eyes, “yet I survived her for two and twenty years. Elias has spent his life surviving his own family’s.
.. exuberances. I assure you, Mr. Fletcher’s temper will seem manageable by comparison.
Elias has a quiet strength, Fitzwilliam. Much like yours.”
Darcy’s heart turned over at the comparison.
He reached up, cupping her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her soft cheeks.
“You are a fierce champion, my love, for all your gentleness. But tell me—how did this sudden inspiration regarding Mr. Fletcher come about? We have not spoken of Elias’s prospects in weeks. ”
Anne’s gaze faltered for a fraction of a second, a delicate blush creeping up her neck. She looked down at his cravat, her fingers playing nervously with a button on his waistcoat. “I merely... I was reflecting upon it this morning. After breakfast.”
Darcy studied her face, his mind working quickly.
He thought back to breakfast. He had left the table early to meet with his steward, leaving Anne and his sister, Georgiana, lingering over their tea.
He recalled, now, the quiet, earnest conversation the two women had been having when he departed—a conversation that had ceased abruptly the moment he had re-entered the room, leaving Georgiana looking uncharacteristically flushed and Anne looking deeply protective.
He also recalled the way Georgiana had spoken of Elias Bennet during their journey back from Rosings. The shy smiles. The way his usually timid sister had seemed to bloom in the presence of the steady, soft-spoken young man.
A slow, knowing smile curved Darcy’s lips. He let his hands slide down from Anne’s face to wrap fully around her waist, pulling her a fraction closer.
“Reflecting upon it, were you?” he murmured, his voice rich with suppressed amusement and deep affection. “All by yourself? In complete solitude?”
Anne’s eyes snapped back to his, narrowing slightly at his tone, though her blush deepened. “Of course. I am perfectly capable of independent thought, Fitzwilliam.”
“I have never doubted it for a moment, Mrs. Darcy,” he replied smoothly, pressing a kiss to the back of the hand that rested on his chest. “But I also know that my sister has spent the better part of the morning looking as though she were harbouring a state secret, and that you have been looking at me with exactly the expression you wear when you are trying to shield her from my supposedly intimidating presence.”
Anne opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again, a reluctant, loving smile breaking through her serious facade.
She sighed, resting her forehead against his for a moment, her posture relaxing entirely into his embrace.
“You are entirely too observant, Fitzwilliam. It is very inconvenient when I am trying to be subtle.”
Darcy laughed softly, a deep rumble in his chest, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her down so that she was sitting sideways upon his lap. She went willingly, curling against him with a natural, trusting grace, resting her head against his shoulder.
“It is one of my primary duties as your husband,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “To observe, and to adore. So, Georgiana put you up to this. How clever.”