Chapter 6 #2
Darcy didn’t flinch. “She saved Mrs Reynolds life. You may consider this house her own.”
A long silence followed, broken only by the scratch of his pen as he resumed writing.
The staff left without further comment, though Mrs Evans was smiling as she went.
* * *
They walked in silence until the corridor curved out of earshot.
“He looks like a mooncalf,” Mrs Evans muttered, half to herself. “Mark my words, he’s courting her.”
Giles sniffed. “Nonsense. She’s some sort of healer from London. Widow. Not Society.”
Mrs Evans’ brow arched. “And that explains the greenhouse flowers, the Blue Room, and three-footed fruit displays?”
Giles didn’t answer right away.
“He’s grateful,” he said finally. “That’s all. Mrs Reynolds nearly died.”
Mrs Evans made a noncommittal hum. “And gratitude makes a man stare at a closed door like it’s going to breathe?”
At that, Giles stopped walking. “He stared?”
“Like a man trying to pray and commit sin at the same time,” she said crisply. Then added, with wicked satisfaction,
“And she’s not just some widow, Giles. She had half the cottage reordered before dawn. That boy Jacob says she knows more medicine than a surgeon.”
Giles resumed walking, his expression unreadable.
“Well,” he muttered, “if she does stay the fortnight, you and I may finally get to see him smile.”
Mrs Evans gave a sly smile of her own. “Or catch him sneaking down the corridor in his shirtsleeves.”
“Mrs Evans!”
She only shrugged. “One must plan linen accordingly.”
* * *
The crystal chandelier cast a warm glow across the table, where Darcy had seated Elizabeth at his right hand.
Silver gleamed against damask; footmen moved like well-trained ghosts between courses.
Elizabeth had never seen such elegance wielded so effortlessly, not as spectacle, but as the natural language of the house.
Pemberley did not perform. It simply was.
“I must confess, Mr Darcy,” said Mrs Gardiner, accepting a glass of amber wine, “Pemberley surpasses even the wildest fantasies I formed in my childhood about it.”
“You are too kind,” he replied, but his eyes strayed not to her, but to Elizabeth. “I find myself increasingly aware of its… potential.”
Elizabeth’s fork paused mid-air. That was not a neutral word.
She cleared her throat and turned her attention to the roasted duck. The sauce was exquisite, fragrant with rosemary and something elusive she couldn’t quite name. She would ask the cook, if she could be certain it wasn’t part of Darcy’s larger campaign to seduce her via condiments.
“Mrs Morley,” he said with gentle precision, “I understand from Jacob that you have promised to show him how to prepare a tincture for chest complaints.”
She glanced up, caught off guard by the conversational pivot. “I did. He is bright. He needs only some structure and less of your Apothecary’s scolding.”
Darcy’s mouth quirked. “Structure and less scolding. Noted.”
“Much like our Lizzy,” Mr Gardiner said, beaming. “My brother-in-law always said she absorbed knowledge like soil takes rain.”
“Uncle,” Elizabeth warned.
“No, no, he is right,” Mrs Gardiner chimed in. “Though I suspect Mr Darcy has already formed his own opinion on her… talents.”
A beat of scandalized silence.
Elizabeth nearly choked on her wine.
“I must admit I am a long time admirer of Mrs Morley’s many talents,” Darcy said mildly, as if unaware he’d just thrown a match into a keg of gunpowder.
Conversation meandered from there, to harvests, roads, the possible scandal of replacing the footbridge at Lambton with ironwork.
Elizabeth found herself laughing more than she expected.
Darcy’s wit was as dry as over-steeped tea and twice as sharp.
Their eyes met once, then again, and she began to suspect it wasn’t an accident.
When the final course was cleared, Darcy stood and offered his hand.
“Mrs Morley,” he said, eyes glinting, “might I tempt you with a view of the gardens? I promise no further opinions on your… soil.”
She narrowed her eyes at him as he led her into the night.
The terrace was quiet, touched by moonlight, the air cool on Elizabeth’s flushed skin. Far behind them, laughter and silver clinking echoed from the dining room, but here, there was only stone, silence, and the man watching her too closely.
“You are not subtle, Mr Darcy,” she said, folding her arms.
He smirked, just slightly. “I was not aware I was required to be.”
She exhaled sharply and turned away, hands gripping the balustrade. The stone was cool beneath her fingers. Steadying. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
She faced him again, eyes fierce. “You know what. This.” She gestured back toward the dining room, the warmth, the wine, the perfectly curated ease. “You are making a point.”
He stepped closer. Not too close. But close enough. “I am merely extending hospitality to the woman who saved someone dear to me.”
Her breath hitched. “And that is all?”
A pause. Then, quietly, deliberately, “No.”
Her stomach dropped like a stone. And she hated it. Hated that guilt coiled under her ribs. Hated that she wanted it to be more, and didn’t know how to deserve it. So she snapped. “You are wasting your efforts.”
Darcy tilted his head. “Am I?”
“Yes,” she said, voice sharp. “Because you do not know me. Not truly.”
“Then tell me.”
The words hit her like a jolt. And before she could stop herself, she blurted: “I never meant to mock you.”
His face changed; softened, blinked back something. “I should apologise,” he said quietly. “For what happened in the surgery. It didn’t go at all how I intended.”
She arched a brow, fighting a smile. “What did you intend, Mr Darcy?”
“I wanted to know if you were… comfortable. Ever since I heard you were the widow of a physician, I…” He hesitated. “I worried.”
Her smile faded. He was sincere. “And if you had found me desolate?” she asked, voice quieter now.
Darcy huffed a faint laugh. “Then I would have purchased enough laudanum under an assumed identity to keep you comfortable. That would have been the only way you would let me help.”
She laughed, a shocked, breathless sound. And then, without quite meaning to, she reached out. Her hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye.
“Oh, God…” she breathed, smiling like she’d stumbled upon treasure. “You are a good man.”
Darcy didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the way he looked at her, like she was sunlight and ruin, said enough.
* * *
Mrs Gardiner’s voice, warm and brisk, floated from the doorway like a bell rung to end a duel.
“Here you are! Mr Darcy, Thank you for a wonderful evening but I believe it is time for me to retire for the night.” she said with a fond smile, though her eyes twinkled. “Lizzy, do not linger too long, you especially, need rest.”
Elizabeth dropped her hand from Darcy’s cheek as if burned. Her heart slammed against her ribs, scattering any words she might have said.
“I… I am… I was just about to retire myself, aunt.” She turned her head towards him again. “Good night, Mr Darcy” she bobbed a curtsy, and made the mistake of looking into his eyes…
Darcy only inclined his head, the look between them burning with unresolved need and longing…
“Good night, ladies,” he said evenly.
She caught her breath, lifted her skirts, and turned with her aunt back inside and into their respective rooms.
The drawing room was hushed now, the candles guttering low, the last traces of wine and laughter fading into comforted silence. Mr Gardiner rose from his chair with an expansive yawn, stretching his arms.
“Well, Mr Darcy,” he said heartily, clapping the younger man on the shoulder, “you host a fine table. I shall have to revise all my prejudices against great houses.”
Darcy allowed himself a real smile, rare, warm, and wholly unguarded. “You are most welcome, sir. Stay as long as you wish.”
The men exchanged goodnights, soft and polite.
The house settled into stillness.
Darcy remained standing by the fire, his glass forgotten in his hand. He should leave it alone. He should let her sleep. Let himself sleep.
But there were words between them still hanging in the air, unfinished, unsaid. He needed to finish the conversation they had begun tonight. He needed her to hear him clearly, without laughter or wine or well-meaning relatives to scatter their thoughts.
He needed to make sure all was understood, to start anew.
Darcy set down the glass, crossed the floor in three determined strides and climbed the stairs two at a time, quiet as breath.
The corridor stretched before him, lined with portraits and the fading scent of beeswax and rosewater.
He entered his chamber, looked at his bed - pristine, empty. He shrugged off his tight coat, sat in the chair next to the fire and tried to list all the reasons why it was wrong to visit her in her chamber, but the need to talk to her, to know her, to make himself known to her….
His hand hovered at the door of The Blue Room. Just for a breath, a heartbeat. Then curled into a fist.
Softly, he knocked.
When the door creaked open, the look in her eyes made him a liar.
* * *
She stood up from the vanity, startled by the knock, and opened the door a crack, then stopped.
Darcy stood there in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, cravat gone, hair raked through like he had fought a battle and lost. No coat. No armour. Only him. Bare and burning.
His mouth went immediately dry with one sweeping look at her…
Barefoot. Nightgown slipping from one shoulder.
And her hair,
His breath caught.
All that hair! Thick, dark, falling wild and loose nearly to her hips. Not pinned. Not braided. Not hidden, and the reality wrecked him.
“Elizabeth…” So much reverence in his voice. He took a strand of her hair, and wrapped it around his finger. “I have been dreaming about your hair for years!”
She didn’t say anything; she just watched him. He came closer, his hand diving into the hair at the back of her head. She leaned into his touch, narrowing her eyes with pleasure, almost purring.