3. The Writing Desk
CHAPTER THREE
THE WRITING DESK
One thing Darcy knew with certainty about Elizabeth was that she never spoke merely to fill the silence; for her, conversation was a sport to be enjoyed, not a duty to be endured.
Her silence since their ceremony could be attributed either to exhaustion or to the shock of the event that had bound them together.
A more sensitive man might feel guilt for removing her from her family, but she was the only woman he considered.
Many would have accepted his name, Pemberley, and his ten thousand a year, but he required a woman who possessed the natural tenderness to care for a little boy who did not understand what had happened.
He remembered clearly how she had attended to her ill sister, how she had pressed her mother’s trembling hands to calm her fears and kissed her father’s brow with a kind jest to lift his spirits.
That Elizabeth had never inquired about pin money, fashionable dresses, or her forthcoming social calendar convinced him beyond doubt that he had chosen wisely.
Her father’s illness and Longbourn’s decay had left her little choice, and he acknowledged how unfair it was for her to be married out of necessity.
But he would be a good husband to her, even if she did not love him.
That was not an expectation he could entertain—not after he had locked himself in a marriage of convenience.
The day had spent itself entirely by the time the lights of Hatfield came into view.
“We shall stay the night at the White Hart,” he told his wife, who opened her eyes as the carriage rattled to a stop in the courtyard. “Are you well, madam?”
She offered a weary yawn and a slight nod, appearing smaller and more fragile than she had at Longbourn. “I shall be most grateful for refreshment. Please forgive my brevity, sir; I find I have very few words left to me.”
“The second carriage containing your trunks is several hours behind, so I hope you will not require your lady’s maid immediately.”
She hazarded a tired smile. “Mr. Darcy, I have never had a lady’s maid, so I believe I shall do fine without her. Thank you, sir, for the consideration.”
“You need not be so polite, Mrs. Darcy.” He tasted the name on his lips; it felt strange, formal, and yet, surprisingly right. “You are my wife, and you shall have every comfort. We shall dine in the private parlor. When we are finished, your trunks will be brought up to your chamber.”
“The rooms…” she blinked, pressing her lips thin. “I assume?”
“We shall, during this journey, occupy separate bedchambers. I mean no slight to you, Mrs. Darcy, but we are not as well acquainted as I would have preferred.”
“No, I suppose not,” she replied, her tone dry. “Might I ask if you would call me Elizabeth? I do not believe we have established that particular familiarity yet.”
He had observed during the long hours in the carriage that they had barely exchanged more than a few glances.
It wasn’t disregard, at least from his part, but a certain shyness, as though he was supposed to be more intimate with her than he was.
But when the footman opened the door, they would have to behave as husband and wife.
They were Pemberley servants, the coachman and outriders, and he could not afford the gossip might include awkwardness with his bride.
“Elizabeth,” he ventured, testing the name on his tongue, “I believe we should conduct ourselves with the appearance of newlyweds.” He placed a chaste kiss upon her cheek and descended the carriage first so he could hand her down.
He couldn’t describe the feeling of having a wife on his arm—a real Mrs. Darcy.
It was not pride, but the feeling of having someone walk in step with him—of possessing something he did not know he was missing—although he tempered this thought fiercely.
She was not with him because she wanted him as a man.
The innkeeper’s greeting was altogether too knowing for Darcy’s comfort.
Rumor galloped along the Great Northern Road faster than any post-horse, and he could well imagine the tales already in circulation: a hasty marriage, a country bride, the Master of Pemberley swept up like a man in a squall.
His relations would be scandalized, but that, too, was beyond his consideration at the moment.
A little boy had lost his mother, and no amount of coin or capable nursemaids could soothe a child the way a mother could. He had often wondered why his father had not remarried to give his younger sister a mother. But Darcy was determined to do what was necessary, and he had done exactly that.
“Mr. Darcy, welcome, welcome,” the landlady exclaimed, her eyes roving curiously over Elizabeth. “And this must be your lady, then.”
“My wife,” he corrected, drawing Elizabeth closer. “Mrs. Pruett, have you acquired—”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Darcy, we had your letter, sir! I am proud to say we have every article you named, and two more besides, for I took the liberty of including them. The writing desk arrived from the cabinet-maker at St. Albans not two days hence, and a prettier piece I never saw. I understand it is a wedding gift?”
“Yes, please deliver all the items to my wife’s chamber. I intend for her to have every comfort.”
Elizabeth turned to him, one eyebrow arched. “Mr. Darcy, dear, I was unaware I required furnishings.”
“It is but a portable desk. The size of a large volume, with a lid to hold your papers and an inkwell built in, that sits on your lap.” He should not have been surprised that she was unaware of such luxuries. “Did you suppose I would commission you an entire table?”
She looked chagrined as she addressed Mrs. Pruett, “And pray tell, what other gifts has my husband procured for me, or am I left to discover my trousseau by ambush?”
The landlady required no further encouragement.
“Why, Mr. Darcy, on the way down from Derbyshire, had stopped here, and he was most particular about your comforts. The writing things, ma’am: the desk, a journal bound up in green leather, the ink, and the good quills.
And then there are two shawls, a Norwich pattern and one quite plain, and a pelisse with the fur at the collar and cuffs, for the master noted particular that the lady would feel the cold going north, and a muff to match, and—” she lowered her voice to a register of reverent confidence “—a box of sugared almonds, and the lavender soap from the lady down the lane that’s famous three counties over, and if you’ll forgive me saying so, ma’am, I have helped settle a great many brides in this house and not one in fifty arrived to find her husband had thought to provide soap. ”
“My, Mr. Darcy, you appear to be quite a listmaker.” Her eyes sparkled for the first time that long day. “You even provisioned me lavender soap.”
“You will find the inns vary considerably in what they offer. I preferred not to leave such matters to chance.”
“How very thorough you are.” The corner of her mouth betrayed her delight, and he saw with relief and a faint disordered alarm that he had pleased her past the power of her irony to conceal it.
“Mrs. Pruett, you have made my husband sound a far more sentimental creature than he will own to being, and I shall treasure the information. Yes, send it all up, with my thanks, only…” she hesitated, and then, with the air of a child unwilling to be parted from a single one of her gifts even for an hour, “…might the desk come into the parlor with us? I find I am too curious to wait upon it.”
“Bless you, ma’am, of course.” Mrs. Pruett asked a boy to fetch the desk from the storeroom and led them to the private parlor. After being assured that everything was to their comfort, she accepted the coin from Darcy’s hand, curtsied, and departed.
The parlor was warm, low-beamed, and entirely theirs. Darcy was conscious, as he handed Elizabeth to the chair nearest the fire, of how privileged it was to be wholly alone with another person, and how rarely it had ever brought him anything but the wish to be alone with no one.
Yet, with Elizabeth beside him, he could not suppress the unbecoming longing that conflicted with his usual reserve.
He had purchased a bride, and here he was, behaving like a callow youth.
His face heated at the dangerous thoughts he refused to entertain as he seated himself across from her in the flickering candlelight.
Fortunately, the serving maids paraded into the parlor with the covered dishes and wine, so he was able to surreptitiously look at his wife under the guise of attending to his supper.
Elizabeth, at first, paid little attention to the repast set before her.
Instead, she drew the desk toward her across the cloth and ran her hand appreciatively over the satinwood surface, discovered the small brass plate of the lock and the tiny key dangling on its ribbon, turned the key with deliberate care, and opened the lid to reveal its fitted compartments and the green journal lying within.
Her eyes glittered as though she had discovered a long-lost treasure; it was precisely the look he remembered on Georgiana’s face the day she had first beheld her beloved pony.
“It locks,” she remarked, and lifted her eyes to him with a glint that was pure mischief.
“You have given your wife a box she may keep her husband out of, on the very first night of our wedding journey. I cannot decide whether it is the most thoughtful gift I have ever received or the most revealing. A man who gives a lady a lock has surely made his peace with the existence of secrets.”
“A lady is entitled to her own correspondence,” he replied. “I should think it presumptuous to give you a desk that a servant might open at will. The lock is for purely your convenience. Nothing more.”