Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
TRUTH IN HER LOOKS
Georgiana elected to remain in London for an additional fortnight, after which Fitzwilliam would bring her to Pemberley—she was working with her music master on some pieces and said she would surprise them with a performance when she came in July.
And so it was only Darcy and Elizabeth who went thither at the end of June.
“I hope, my love, that you will not object to a brief stop tomorrow?” They had arrived at a coaching inn, the second night they would spend in such a place on their journey.
It was a fine place, but she was eager to see Pemberley.
The notion of stopping somewhere was not entirely agreeable to her, but Darcy had the air of a man who had a surprise meant to delight her and so she did not offer objection.
“It is a place called Woodthorpe,” he told her. “A charming estate that is not far off the road.”
“Woodthorpe? Who lives there?”
“No one in particular,” he said. “A family called Thorpe once had it, but they are selling it.” He paused and then said, “I am thinking of it for Jane and Bingley.”
His words were somewhat startling in a manner she could not immediately comprehend.
Once, she might have exclaimed her delight in such an arrangement, but now…
? Now she had no idea what to feel. She forced herself to smile and betray no consternation, but she could not deny there was a part of her which revolted at the idea.
When she was not forced to, it was easy to forget all that happened, and she was loath to bring to the surface the painful bruise of her family’s betrayal of her.
I must forgive them. Forgive them and perhaps one day even forget all of it. Alas, she knew it was not yet that day. She worried she had grown spiteful, but she could not help herself.
When they arrived at Woodthorpe the next day, she found a large, elegant home of three storeys, the proportions long and low and unhurried, as though it had grown from the hillside by the same patient processes that had produced the great beeches which were in abundance.
She knew she was very quiet as Darcy spoke his approval of the surrounding fields and tenants, and mentioned some little concerns, easily remedied, for a new master’s attention.
They did not spend long in their examination of the house; their only real purpose was to see if she thought it as suitable as Darcy did.
He glanced at her frequently as they walked through elegant, airy rooms—some were somewhat dated, as might be expected, but a new mistress did like to put her touch on things regardless—and she offered a smile and a compliment on whatever they were looking at when he did.
“What do you think of it?” he enquired as they returned to the carriage.
“Lovely,” she said. “Perfectly lovely. And the price of it?”
“Well within reason for them,” he said with a nod, his eyes searching her countenance with such naked hope, such a wish of pleasing her that she had to look away and swallow hard. With Darcy, she had found a new life, a veritable heaven. To bring the pains of the spring into that?
And yet another part of her longed to just forget about it all. I want things to be the way they always have been, with Jane at least, she thought. Is such a thing possible?
“Would you like it, to have your sister settled so near to Pemberley?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Above all things.” Her voice, to her own ear, was hollow. “But she may not wish to leave my mother, and Netherfield is very lovely too.”
He nodded and then a silence drew long between them. After it had begun to seem strained, he said, “Shall we be on, Mrs Darcy?”
“Please,” she said with her best approximation of an incandescent smile. “Let us do.”
When at last they entered the drive that would take them to their house, he could do no more than watch her.
He had moved to sit across from her, rather than beside her, so that he might better view her response.
He had been watching her since they left Woodthorpe.
Her response to that estate had not been as he might have wished, and he prayed, desperately, that her view of Pemberley would not be so muted.
As they travelled the road familiar to him and new to her, he had observed her eyes become aglow, her clever gaze darting about as if wanting to know every inch of it all at once. She had questions as they went, betraying her interest in the journey as much as the destination.
Then the wood opened, and there it was.
Pemberley stood in the middle distance, the stone warm in the afternoon light, the water below it catching the sky in long, silver pieces.
The park spread in every direction, graceful and natural, ancient and unhurried, and to his eye, very beautiful.
He hoped she thought it beautiful too. He hoped she saw it as a place where she could be, at last, wholly happy.
He had imagined this moment, the moment in which she beheld her new home, with rather more embarrassing frequency than he would ever confess.
He had imagined her delighted, or gracious, or—his least favourite possibility—politely composed in the manner of a woman determined not to be overwhelmed.
He had not imagined that she might go absolutely still.
At last he could not bear it. “What do you think?” he enquired, hating the note of needy approval in his voice.
She did not look at him as she said, in accents of wonderment, “I cannot think. It is too… I have not the words to do it justice. It is…it is perfect.” She shook her head and then laughed.
“You said to me something about redecorating last week, and now that I see this…I should never have the audacity to so much as change a pillow! It is perfection, absolute perfection. I feel as if I might have died and gone to Heaven.”
It was everything he might have wished her to feel. He slid across the carriage, taking position beside her again and drawing her into an embrace, her back to his chest. “Shall you be happy here, do you think?”
“I shall,” she said very simply. “And you? Will you be happy with me being here?”
“I am so very happy,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Happier than ever I imagined.”
They stayed that way for several minutes until he reached his arm up to rap the roof and set them once more into motion. “Come, let us go and see the rest of it.”
Mistress of Pemberley.
To imagine herself, Lizzy Bennet, in any way connected with this paradise was astonishing, but as Elizabeth was led through the rooms by her husband and Mrs Reynolds, her guilt could not be kept back.
Darcy had made her his wife, had loved her, had entrusted her with all of this, and she could no longer bear to allow him in ignorance of it.
Perhaps he would despise Jane. Perhaps he would despise her mother.
It could not be helped. They had, together, done something despicable, and it could no longer be hidden from him.
The bruise on her soul must be brought forth, even if it forever changed his ability to tolerate the Bennets, any of them.
Seeing Pemberley made her feel, more than ever, the enormity of being his wife, the enormity of being loved by him…and of loving him. For she did, more each day, realise how she had come to love her husband, but could love truly flower amid a bed of lies?
The tour completed, Elizabeth was escorted into what would be her bedchamber. It was as beautiful and elegant as every other room she had seen. Darcy excused Mrs Reynolds and closed the door.
“You are well?” His eyes searched her face anxiously.
“I am very well. Everything is just so…so wonderful!”
His gaze warmed and he turned to leave her, but a moment later, he turned back. “I know you have not been happy, not completely happy, in these first weeks of our marriage, but I hope now that we are here, you will help me learn how to—”
“No, no,” she said. “You do not need to do anything. You are a perfect husband.”
He took a step towards her. “I have not been ignorant of your low times. I have seen your moments of quiet despair, and if I am the cause in any way—”
“You are not. You are not, and neither is our marriage.”
He was unconvinced. He has entrusted you with all of this, his love, his home, his life. Can you not afford him the same?
“If not,” he said, “then pray tell me what it is, for I must admit, it does give me anxiety to see it, particularly given the hasty and unusual manner in which our marriage occurred. I fear you have regretted your decision to marry me.”
Yes, it was well past time to tell him the truth.
She could no longer protect Jane and Mrs Bennet for their actions.
Elizabeth glanced down at herself. She needed a moment to compose herself, for she truly could not imagine how he might react, having been played a fool.
He had nearly fought a duel, for heaven’s sake!
“Very well; I shall. But perhaps we might freshen ourselves first?”
He nodded. His countenance had stiffened into an unreadable expression, and she ached knowing she had made it thus.
“Come into my bedchamber when you are ready,” he said and turned, moving out of the room with deliberate strides.
Although she feared the moment of truth, so too did she wish to have it over with, and thus she hastened in her ablutions. When she was ready, she knocked on the door which adjoined his room to her own, entering when she heard his voice beckon her.
Both of their rooms boasted small balconies, and he beckoned her onto his which boasted heavy, wrought iron chairs on which to sit and gaze out over the park.
They sat and she exclaimed her delight over the view, but he barely responded to her effusions.
She reached for his hand, relieved when he easily surrendered it.
“It is difficult,” she began, “very difficult to love people who embarrass you and cause you pain. It is difficult to see the antipathy of others, to wish for an approval which is not within your power to earn.”