Chapter 9
ELIZABETH
I saw Pemberley as we rounded a hill and understood why Fitzwilliam rarely spoke of it.
Some places lose their beauty the moment words try to capture them.
The estate stretched across a wide valley, a river cutting through it that reflected the June sky.
The house rose beyond the trees, imposing without ostentation, fashioned from pale stone that the light warmed.
Nothing seemed placed to impress a visitor.
The landscape had been respected—enhanced rather than conquered.
I looked at my husband.
He was watching my face more intently than he had watched his estate.
“Well?” he asked.
I searched for an answer light enough to hide the emotion that had caught in my throat.
“I am beginning to grasp the gravity of my error.”
His expression closed.
“What error?”
“Judging you before I knew the man of Pemberley. I would have enjoyed the view far more.”
He remained still.
I immediately regretted my flippant words. They cut too close to our wound.
“I am sorry,” I said.
“Do not be.”
His voice had grown rough.
“Fitzwilliam…”
“You said before knowing. I shall hold to that.”
He took my hand and held it until the carriage reached the house.
The servants were waiting on the steps. Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, received me with a warmth that held neither misplaced curiosity nor coldness. She had known Fitzwilliam as a child. I could tell by the way her gaze softened when she turned toward him.
“We are happy to welcome you, madam,” she said. “The master has told us a great deal about you.”
I looked at my husband.
“A great deal?”
A slight flush crept across his face.
“The instructions necessary for your comfort.”
Mrs Reynolds smiled.
“Naturally, sir.”
Within the first hour, I learned that my apartments had been redecorated in the colors he had most often seen me wear, that the library now contained several works I had mentioned at Netherfield, that a gentle little horse had been chosen for me, and that the gardens near the house had been altered so I might walk there even after rain.
“You did all this in five weeks?” I asked when we were alone.
“I had resources.”
“And an army of terrorized servants.”
“Mrs Reynolds is terrorized by no one.”
“Not even by you?”
“Especially not by me.”
He was right. The housekeeper loved him. The servants respected him without fear. The farmers who came to greet him in the following days spoke to him frankly. He knew the names of their children, the state of a roof repaired the previous winter, the illness of an aging mother.
I discovered a man Meryton had never had the chance to see.
At Longbourn, his silence had resembled contempt.
At Pemberley, it was the concentration of an attentive master.
He did not speak to please, but he listened so that he might act.
A widow asked for more time on her rent; he already knew of the loss of her son and granted her more than she had dared request. A young boy had injured himself in a stable; Fitzwilliam knelt in the straw to examine his ankle, heedless of his coat.
Each gesture shifted something within me.
The next day, Mrs Reynolds led me to the small estate school. About twenty children shared two long tables there. The boys occupied the front seats; four younger girls copied the alphabet near the window.
The schoolmistress explained that the girls generally left school as soon as they were old enough to help their mothers. Books were scarce, and arithmetic was rarely taught to them.
“Why?” I asked Fitzwilliam when we stepped outside.
“Because their families withdraw them earlier, and custom…”
He stopped at my look.
“Custom is not an answer that will satisfy you.”
“It explains a habit. It does not justify it.”
We walked a few steps in silence.
“Would you like to examine the school accounts and speak with the schoolmistress?” he asked at last.
“Yes. The girls may only have two years to give to their education. That’s a reason to teach them more during that time, not less.”
He inclined his head.
“Then let us see what Pemberley can do better.”
It was the first project I’d considered my own since my arrival.
My desire, however, needed no moral arguments.
It was enough to see him return from a ride.
On the fourth morning, I came down earlier than expected and crossed the gallery overlooking the courtyard.
Fitzwilliam had just dismounted. He wore a dark riding coat, open over a shirt with the collar loosened.
His hair was windswept. He ran a hand over his horse’s neck, spoke to the groom, then looked up toward the window.
He saw me.
The distance didn’t stop the look from turning intimate.
I remained motionless behind the glass. He removed his gloves finger by finger, never breaking his gaze. The gesture was nothing extraordinary. Yet my body received it as a caress promised.
When he entered the gallery a few minutes later, my cheeks were still warm.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I had lands to inspect.”
“Did your shirt suffer for it?”
He looked down at his open collar.
I regretted the question as soon as a slow smile appeared on his lips.
“Does my appearance concern you, Elizabeth?”
“Only because you’ll frighten Mrs Reynolds.”
“Mrs Reynolds has seen me covered in mud more than once. She’ll survive.”
He approached.
I didn’t retreat.
“And you?” he asked.
“I’m not easily frightened.”
“I’ve noticed.”
We stood in the middle of a gallery where any servant might appear. That possibility made every breath sharper. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then to my neck.
“Your ribbon is undone,” he said.
I raised my hand to my collar. One of the ties holding the small muslin fichu had come loose.
“I’ll fix it.”
“May I?”
The question now carried a meaning that went beyond any single gesture.
I nodded.
He raised his hands. His fingers brushed my nape as he took up the ribbon. He could have tied it without touching me; he didn’t quite manage that. The backs of his fingers traced the skin beneath my ear. I felt every movement deep in my belly.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
“The gallery is cool.”
“Liar.”
The word was not a reproach. His voice had changed—lower, more intimate than I’d ever heard it.
I looked up.
His face was so close I could make out the fine dark line of his lashes. His mouth was no longer severe. It was parted, restrained by visible effort.
“You could kiss me,” I said.
He stopped breathing.
“What if you regretted it?”
“I would tell you.”
His thumb stilled beneath my ear. He leaned in with a slowness that still gave me every chance to pull away.
I didn’t retreat.
When less than a breath separated us, I raised my face and closed the last distance myself.
A footstep echoed at the end of the gallery.
We separated before the servant appeared. Fitzwilliam tied the ribbon with almost violent precision. I had to turn my face away for a few seconds to hide my disappointment.
“The post, sir,” the valet announced.
“In my study,” my husband replied, his eyes fixed intently on mine.
The servant bowed and departed.
Silence returned.
“We could call him back and ask him to wait until you’ve finished,” I suggested.
Fitzwilliam looked at me, then burst out laughing.
I had never heard that laugh before. Deep, free, almost young. It transformed his face.
My throat closed on a response I couldn’t find.
“Tonight,” he said.
“Is that a promise?”
“It’s a hope.”
“You’re becoming cautious.”
“You make me cautious.”
He brought my hand to his lips, then walked away toward his study.
I remained alone in the gallery, the ribbon tied too tightly around my neck, every part of me impatient for evening to come.