Chapter 14
The next two days passed more quietly.
After the storm of confessions and tensions surrounding Wickham and Georgiana, it seemed an unspoken truce had settled between them—not one of avoidance, but of reprieve. As if they had agreed, without words, that there was more to discover from that history than old wounds and painful truths.
And so, they talked.
Not of magic, or vanished identities, or ruined reputations—but of childhood mischief and peculiar relations, of foolish school pranks and pet goats and near-drownings in lily ponds. As other passengers came and went, Elizabeth sat at Darcy’s side, whispering stories of her youth.
It began with her telling the tale about Kitty’s ill-fated attempt to ride a neighbor’s pony sidesaddle—a venture that ended with a broken fence, a broken bonnet, and a broken courtship with Mr. Long’s son, who never quite recovered from being kicked in the shin at the tender age of thirteen.
Darcy laughed. Not politely—not with the reserved, careful chuckle he had once given her in Kent—but openly. Freely. It changed his whole face. And it made Elizabeth’s heart flutter in a way she tried not to examine too closely.
Not in a shared, public coach, that is.
She then went on to share stories of Sunday games with her sisters, of treks to Oakham Mount, of hiding books behind embroidery frames to escape her mother’s lectures on lace and propriety.
“You must not think too poorly of us,” she said, lifting her chin with a wry smile. “Though I grant you, Longbourn is rarely quiet.”
“I have no objections to noise,” Darcy said, and his eyes glinted. “When it comes with such entertainment.”
She arched a brow, then launched into another tale—the infamous incident of Mary and the poetry book.
Mary had composed an original sonnet for Easter and insisted upon reading it aloud before the entire parish over supper.
Elizabeth had attempted to spare her family the embarrassment by feigning a coughing fit halfway through the second stanza, only for Lydia to shout, “Lizzy is faking it!” and pour a cup of water over her head to test the theory.
“I imagine the sonnet continued?”
“To the bitter end,” Elizabeth replied, deadpan. “Though Papa excused himself early. I am still not sure if it was to laugh or to weep.”
Darcy covered his mouth with a gloved hand, visibly shaking.
She described Longbourn in summer—the way the roses grew wild around the kitchen door, how Mary insisted on practicing her pianoforte during thunderstorms because she believed the lightning added drama.
And how Lydia once claimed to have seen a ghost in the west field.
“My youngest sister often woke in the middle of the night to go downstairs and sneak biscuits and other treats from the kitchen,” Elizabeth said, doing her best to repress her mirth. “She looked out the window on her way down, and there was a pale specter moving across the west field by moonlight.”
“What did she do?” Darcy asked, intrigued by this wholesome view of the lively youngest Bennet daughter.
“She roused the entire house in alarm. Mr. Hill fetched his blunderbuss. But it was only the milk cow, poor thing, who had managed to snag a sheet off the line. It was draped across her horns like a death shroud.”
Darcy gave a quiet, helpless laugh. “I do not know what is better—the ghost cow or the poetry.”
“Oh, just wait,” Elizabeth said, warming to her subject.
“One time, Mama insisted that Kitty debut her new cap at Lady Lucas’s garden party, even though I told her the feathers made her look like a goose.
But Mama said it was fashion-forward, and then of course it rained, and the feathers matted straight down her face. Lydia started quacking.”
He shook his head, smiling with disbelief. “You exaggerate.”
“I do not. Jane tried to help by offering her bonnet, but the damage was already done. Charlotte could hardly speak for trying not to laugh, and Mr. Lucas asked if we had brought a new breed of domestic poultry with us.”
Darcy’s laughter faded into something softer. “You… you remember everything so vividly.”
She paused. “Of course I do. This is my whole world.”
Her voice broke slightly on the last word. Will I ever regain my family again?
∞∞∞
Darcy looked down at his wife with a feeling of awe. There was no boast in Elizabeth’s voice. Just quiet affection. It made something stir in his chest—something that longed for warmth like that.
What would life at Pemberley have been like with so many siblings and a warm, loving family?
She went on to tell him about the time she read all of Robinson Crusoe aloud to Jane during a week of fevers—and changed the ending so that Crusoe married Friday and opened a lending library on the island. “She was nine and crying about Friday dying. I could not bear it.”
Darcy blinked. “You rewrote Crusoe?”
“With a happy ending. Naturally.”
“I cannot tell if I should be impressed or appalled.”
“Both,” she said sweetly. “You will learn that about me.”
He smiled again, then realized he had probably done so more in the last week than in his entire life.
Later still, she told him how her father had once gifted her a volume of Shakespeare’s comedies for her thirteenth birthday. It was the only time he had remembered her birthday without her mother’s prompting.
“I read Much Ado first. And I decided then and there that I would never marry anyone who did not at least attempt to banter with me.”
“High standards,” Darcy murmured.
“You have not yet heard what happened to Mr. Poole a few years ago,” she said with mock severity. “He told me that girls had no head for Shakespeare. I challenged him to a sonnet contest. He fled the next day.”
Darcy pressed a hand to his heart theatrically. “Remind me never to slight the Bard in your presence.”
“Oh, you are quite safe,” she said lightly. “You read. You laugh. And you have not yet compared me to a summer’s day, which is frankly the dullest of all options.”
“I shall aim for something more original, then.” He met her gaze. “You deserve it.”
The air shifted.
Just slightly.
Not enough to change the tone. Not enough to make either of them look away. But something had passed between them—an understanding. A recognition.
I want this kind of joy for the rest of my life, he thought.
The moment ended when they stopped once again for a change of horses and a few minutes to stretch their legs.
Once they had resumed their places side-by-side in the carriage, Elizabeth said playfully, “Now that you have heard all of my stories, Mr. Smith, it is only fair that you return the favor. What was growing up like for you?”
“Not nearly as interesting as your upbringing,” he said. “It was, in comparison, quite dull. I was not raised among ghost cows and feathered tragedies.”
She smiled. “No, I imagine Pemberley is quite devoid of poultry mishaps—too dignified and highbrow to be otherwise.”
“There was a peacock once,” he admitted to her delight. “My father purchased one from a collector in Bath. It screamed outside the nursery window every morning for a week. My mother declared it a harbinger of doom and made the steward sell it to the vicar.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That is not so very far from my world.”
“No,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps not.”
His heart leaped when she reached out to touch his knee. “I wish to hear everything,” she said in a serious voice.
And so he told her about Pemberley. About climbing the stone bridge as a boy and leaping into the river, much to the horror of his nursemaid.
About stealing apricots from the glasshouse and blaming the footman, then confessing with such guilt that the entire staff forgave him at once.
Of sneaking into the library at night to trace his fingers along the spines of forbidden books by candlelight.
And did you read them?” she asked, amused.
“Some,” he said. “But mostly I liked the smell. The heavy, dusty scent of old bindings and dried ink. It made me feel… important, somehow. As though knowledge were a secret I was about to uncover.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I think I would have liked young Master Darcy.”
“I think he would have adored you.”
That silenced her—but not unpleasantly. After a few moments, she smiled brightly and said, “Tell me about your Grand Tour.”
He blinked, surprised. “How did you—?”
“Well, you are a wealthy young man in England… and I believe you mentioned it during that first dinner at Rosings.”
He huffed a laugh. “Ah. Yes. That dinner. I should thank you for that, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For not stabbing my aunt with your fork.”
“I was sorely tempted.”
He smiled faintly and looked down at his hands.
“I went when I was twenty years of age. You are quite correct. It is a tradition of sorts—my father had done the same. My cousin Fitzwilliam went before his commission. I was meant to spend four years abroad in France, Italy, Greece. But then Napoleon had other plans.”
Elizabeth nodded soberly.
“So, I revised my course. I went north instead. The Low Countries, some of Germany, then to Denmark and briefly to Sweden. It was cold. Uncomfortable. But beautiful. Austere. I wrote pages and pages about the architecture. I thought I might collect art, once.” A beat. “I never did.”
“What happened?”
He was quiet a long moment, letting the memories flood over him. Then: “A letter came. My father had been thrown from his horse.”
Her smile faded. “Oh.”
“I returned at once, but he had already passed.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I am so sorry.”
Darcy’s eyes drifted to the window. “He was a complicated man—not prone to strong emotion. At least, not with me. But I admired him greatly. I thought I had years more to learn from him. Instead, I was left with a large estate, a grieving sister, and more responsibility than I felt equipped to bear.”
She reached for his hand, unthinking. He did not pull away.
“You were only twenty-three,” she said gently. “That is a great deal to carry.”