Chapter 6
SIX
They stepped out into the early light together. Mist still clung to the fields, and the trees along the lane dripped with yesterday’s rain. The air smelled of damp earth and distant lavender.
Darcy walked at her pace. Not too close, not too far.
Elizabeth tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, then stopped near the gate.
“I must return to the inn.”
Darcy turned to her, his brows drawing together slightly. “You are exhausted.”
“I shall be better once I have rested,” she said, her chin lifting.
“You have had no food, no sleep. You very nearly collapsed in that chair.”
She straightened, trying to smooth the defensive edge in her voice. “I have endured worse.”
Darcy’s gaze softened, but he did not press her at once.
Elizabeth gestured down the lane. “If you would be so kind as to call a carriage for me, I shall gather what’s needed and return presently. I ought to change before I resume my duties.”
“You would be more comfortable at Pemberley,” he said calmly. “It is less than a mile; the inn is five times that.”
She blinked. “I had no intention of staying. Only to refresh myself and return here. There is still work to be done. Linen to launder. I,” She faltered.
“You must recover,” he said gently. “You have given everything you had to Mrs Reynolds. Let someone else tend to you now.”
Her brow furrowed. “I cannot impose.”
Something flickered in his eyes, though he masked it quickly.
“I suppose,” she said, after a moment, “if you have a spare chamber. A governess’s room. A maid’s rest.”
He let out the faintest breath through his nose, almost a laugh.
Elizabeth hesitated, disliking the idea of being managed, but more than that, disliking how much she longed to say yes.
Her feet ached. Her head throbbed. Her spine had begun to curl in on itself like an old letter.
“…Very well,” she muttered. “A little rest.”
“That is all I ask.”
As they walked on toward the large house, she shot him a sidelong glance.
* * *
The walk passed in a blur.
Elizabeth barely registered the golden rise of the hills or the winding approach through the woods.
By the time they stopped beneath the great portico, she felt more spectre than woman.
Mr Darcy guided her to a small sitting room near the entrance.
He apologised for not being able to play host properly due to a meeting with his steward, but assured her, his staff would take care of her every need. Then, he left with a bow.
Soon, a maid entered the room. Young, composed, not a hair out of place. “Mrs Morley,” she said with a quick curtsy. “We’ve prepared a room. If you’ll follow me.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”
She expected to be led up the narrow back staircase. Perhaps down a side hall with low ceilings and shuttered windows. Instead, they turned toward the main stair. The one carved in marble and lined with portraits.
Her footsteps slowed.
The maid did not.
They climbed in silence, turned left at a gilded landing, and proceeded down a hallway filled with soft morning light.
Then the maid stopped at a door, opened it without fanfare, and said, “Here we are. The Blue Room.”
Elizabeth stepped inside.
And stopped cold.
The chamber was expansive and filled with light. Pale blue walls, touched with silver leaf. A canopied bed draped in embroidered linen. The windows looked out over a stretch of green so wide it could have been the edge of the world.
A great rug muffled her steps. There was a writing desk in the corner. A small stack of books. Fresh flowers in a low porcelain vase.
She turned slowly.
A second maid entered behind her, arms full of folded towels. She curtsied, murmured a greeting, and slipped into the adjoining chamber.
A moment later, two footmen appeared, hauling in a steaming copper tub.
Hot water sloshed gently as they maneuvered it beside the hearth. One returned with a kettle; the other lit the fire anew with practiced efficiency. The scent of lavender began to rise with the steam.
Elizabeth could only stare.
They were drawing a bath.
For her.
As if she were still a gentleman’s daughter. Someone to be cared for. Considered. Important.
She swallowed, hard.
No one had treated her this way in years. Not since her father had died. Not since she’d married a man with more patients than patience. Not since London taught her that widows were more useful than welcome.
She turned away sharply, eyes stinging, hands clenched at her sides.
When she spoke, her voice barely sounded like her own. “You are sure this is meant for me?”
The maid glanced up from arranging linen on a nearby chair. “Yes, ma’am. Mr Darcy was quite specific.”
Elizabeth looked down at her mud-stained hem. Her scuffed boots. The knotted braid barely held her hair. It didn’t fit. None of this did. And yet, it was hers. Just for now. She took a breath, then another, and began to unlace her boots.
* * *
Darcy had made it as far as the library before he stopped walking and stared blankly at the shelves.
He didn’t need a book. He didn’t need anything.
He needed air. Or distance. Or, ideally, a few decades of monastic solitude.
Instead, he was here. At Pemberley. In his own home.
Where Elizabeth Bennet, Mrs Elizabeth Morley, widow, healer… the saviour of his oldest friend, was currently naked. One floor above him, in a bath he had ordered for her.
He closed his eyes.
The image arrived uninvited.
Steam curled against her throat. Skin flushed from heat. Hair piled in a haphazard knot, damp tendrils clinging to her neck. The faint scent of lavender rising as water lapped at her shoulders.
He swore, softly and with great feeling.
He wasn’t proud of it.
He turned sharply away from the window and paced the length of the carpet, hands clenched behind his back. He had done everything right. Offered her rest, arranged for her comfort, and behaved with perfect restraint.
He understood now what he had failed to see in London, what he had misunderstood in her touch, in her guarded words, in her choices.
She was not a woman waiting to be claimed, or rescued, or even loved in the way he had imagined love.
She was self-governing. Entirely unto herself.
And anything she gave, whether her body, her time, her trust, was not a plea or a bargain, but a gift freely chosen.
She had once told him, “Your honour will have to live with the fact that I am my own responsibility.”
He had thought her unreasonable when she said it. Perhaps even wayward.
Now he knew better.
She had no idea what it meant to him. To see her there. To have her here.
He dragged a hand through his hair, already half wild with it.
He didn’t know what he could offer her, except perhaps the one thing she had never demanded and yet always deserved: respect, unqualified and unguarded.
Not the gallant, patronising sort he had once thought noble, but the kind one offers an equal. A partner.
She had made herself, entirely, defiantly, without protection, without patronage, without privilege. She had taken what the world allowed her, and then refused to stop there. She had built a profession, a reputation, a life. She had not asked for help. She had not waited for it.
And what he had witnessed in that cottage was not mere competence, it was command. She had saved Mrs Reynolds’ life not by chance or instinct, but by knowledge, discipline, and grit. He was a fool.
He was half in love with a woman asleep in the room opposite his, dreaming of nothing but a hot bath and clean linen while he stood here, drowning in the idea of her.
Another oath, softer this time. Almost a prayer.
He crossed the room again. And again.
And still, behind his eyes: the ghost of steam and skin and water.
He pulled the bell.
* * *
Darcy was already seated at the writing desk when Mrs Evans and Giles arrived, summoned by the bell. The butler entered first, but it was the housekeeper who caught the full weight of Darcy’s focus.
He didn’t rise.
“I will be receiving guests tonight,” he said, still writing. “Mrs Morley’s relatives. Her Uncle and his wife - possibly more, though I’m unsure of the exact number in their party. Make up three rooms at minimum. The East Wing will do, sunlight in the morning, privacy in the evenings.”
Mrs Evans blinked. “Yes, sir.”
“They are to stay for the remainder of their holiday, should they accept the invitation.”
Giles gave a faint nod, though his brows rose slightly.
“I want dinner laid in the smaller dining room. Something elegant. A proper table, none of the estate supperware. Flowers from the greenhouse. Hydrangeas, if they’ve survived the frost. And fruit. The best you can manage.”
Now he looked up. His tone did not rise, but something in his eyes had shifted.
“Elizabeth Morley is the daughter of a gentleman,” he said, enunciating every word. “Her family is dear to her, and therefore… they are to be treated as my most esteemed guests. Their wishes are to be considered my own.”
They both nodded.
“And one more thing.” He set his pen down. He hesitated. Just for a breath. Then:
“Is she,”
He cleared his throat. “Is Mrs Morley settled?”
Mrs Evans, not unkindly, gave a small nod. “She was asleep before the water cooled. The Blue Room suited her, sir.”
Darcy’s gaze dropped to the corner of the desk. “Was it… to her liking?”
“She didn’t say much, but she didn’t look displeased. She drank the tea, let the maids help her, and fell asleep before the maids were out.”
He exhaled through his nose, just once, and gave a small nod. “Good.”
Another beat. Then, lower:
“Is she warm enough?”
Mrs Evans paused, a flicker of something, curiosity or amusement, dancing behind her eyes. But her voice was neutral when she replied, “The fire is strong. The quilt is the finest we have. She’ll not want for comfort, sir.”
This time, both servants paused.
Even Giles blinked.
Mrs Evans, whose command of facial expression was usually faultless, made a small, audible sound in her throat.