Chapter 9
Elizabeth
We had left Northampton at dawn, changed horses at several posting stations, and spent most of the day on the road. When the gates of Pemberley finally opened in the evening light, they seemed to open like arms.
I had seen this estate once before, as an awestruck tourist, a visitor who had asked for nothing and whose breath had been stolen by its beauty.
I had walked through these gardens thinking that the woman who lived here would have the most beautiful park in England to wander with her dreams.
I had not imagined that woman would be me.
The avenue of oaks. The lake. The pale stone fa?ade that caught the evening light with the nonchalance of buildings that have never needed to prove anything. Pemberley did not try to impress. Pemberley simply existed, with a certainty that even my pride could not contest.
In the carriage, Darcy watched me watching. He had said nothing for a quarter of an hour. His silence was that of a man holding his breath.
“It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” I said.
Something in his shoulders relaxed.
Part of the staff awaited us in the great hall, Mrs. Reynolds at the center, with that warm dignity I had known since my first visit. Georgiana stood slightly back beside Mrs. Annesley, her hands clasped, her face lit with a shy joy that squeezed my heart.
My little sister. The thought passed through me with unexpected tenderness.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Darcy,” said Mrs. Reynolds.
Home. The word should have frightened me. It warmed me.
Georgiana kissed me on the cheek with a boldness so unlike her that I found it magnificent. I held her close, and when I released her, her eyes were shining.
Mrs. Reynolds showed me the private apartments.
The mistress’s chamber, adjoining the master’s.
The words rang in my head like a bell. The room was vast and bright, draped in pale blue silk.
The canopy bed occupied the center like a ship anchored in port.
The sheets were white, the pillows soft, the curtains half-open to the park.
Through the window, the lake glittered in the dying light.
And there was the door.
To the right of the bed, between two landscape engravings, a dark oak door, closed. The connecting door. The one that led to Darcy’s chamber. The one that, tonight, would open.
My gaze kept returning to it. Mrs. Reynolds, whose discretion was an ancestral art, pretended not to notice and showed me the dressing room, the vanity, and the small writing desk near the window. I nodded, smiled, thanked her.
I saw only the door.
?
We were served in the family dining room, more intimate than the large room reserved for receptions.
The table, set for three, gleamed under the candlelight.
The silverware bore the Darcy arms, but nothing in the room had the solemn coldness I had dreaded.
Fresh flowers graced the center of the table, and a fire burned in the hearth despite the mildness of the evening.
Georgiana sat across from me. Her gaze moved from her brother to my face before fixing on her plate with exaggerated concentration.
“The journey wasn’t too tiring?” she asked.
“It was long. But I’m happy to finally be here.”
“We all are,” Darcy replied.
His voice was calm. Yet his knee brushed mine under the table.
I turned my head slightly toward him.
He continued cutting his meat with impeccable focus.
A few moments later, his knee found mine again.
This time, neither of us moved away.
Georgiana told me about the piece she was practicing on the pianoforte and the room she’d had aired three times despite Mrs. Reynolds’s protests.
“She claims a properly maintained room has no need to be checked every morning,” she explained.
“Mrs. Reynolds is a sensible woman,” Darcy observed.
“She said exactly the same thing about you when you asked that Elizabeth’s apartments be checked a fourth time.”
He froze, his glass halfway to his lips.
I turned toward him.
“A fourth time?”
“Georgiana exaggerates.”
“Barely,” his sister murmured.
Color rose to her cheeks when she realized she had just contradicted her brother. I smiled.
“I’m touched that you took such precautions.”
“I wanted everything to be ready.”
His gaze met mine.
He was no longer speaking of the room.
The warmth that had been smoldering since our arrival stirred beneath my skin.
Georgiana suddenly lowered her eyes.
“Lizzy…”
She stopped, horrified that she’d let my nickname slip.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be so familiar.”
“I quite like hearing you call me that.”
Her face brightened.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Then you may call me Georgie, if you wish.”
Darcy slowly set down his glass.
“Georgiana.”
“Between sisters,” she added with an innocence that fooled no one.
I laughed. Darcy tried to keep his composure, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
After that, the conversation flowed more naturally.
Georgiana opened up, first cautiously, then with an enthusiasm she could no longer contain.
I learned of her taste for Italian composers, her fondness for Mrs. Reynolds, and her worry that she’d prepared me a room that was too cold, too warm, or too blue.
Darcy said little. Yet every time I looked up, I found his eyes on me.
His gaze followed the movement of my hand around my glass, lingered on my mouth, dropped to the sapphire, then rose back to my face.
By the end of the meal, I barely tasted what I was eating.
After dessert, Georgiana and I withdrew to the drawing room. Darcy joined us so quickly he could hardly have spent more than a few minutes with the port.
His sister looked at the clock.
Then at her brother.
“Mrs. Annesley recommended that I not stay up late.”
“Mrs. Annesley is a woman of remarkable judgment,” Darcy replied.
“You find her judgment remarkable this evening.”
“Particularly so.”
Georgiana rose, barely concealing her smile. She kissed me on the cheek, wished her brother good night, and joined Mrs. Annesley, who was waiting near the door.
“Good night… Lizzy.”
“Good night, Georgie.”
She all but ran from the drawing room.
The door closed.
The silence changed immediately.
Darcy stood near the fireplace. The flames lit one side of his face and left the other in shadow. His cravat remained impeccable, his coat perfectly fitted, but nothing in his gaze was controlled any longer.
I felt my breath grow shallow.
He set down his cup.
“Are you tired?”
“No.”
A single word.
He remained motionless.
“The journey was long.”
“I know.”
“Elizabeth…”
His voice had darkened.
I stood.
“I am not tired,” I repeated.
He stared at my mouth a second too long.
Then he crossed the room.
He did not rush. Darcy never rushed. Yet something in his bearing, in the tension of his shoulders, and in the way his fingers closed around mine betrayed the effort each additional second cost him.
He brought my hand to his lips.
The kiss fell just above my wedding ring.
“I will join you soon.”
The warmth of his mouth lingered on my skin long after he released me.
I left the drawing room without looking back.
I knew he was watching me.
I felt it on every stair.
?
My lady’s maid was waiting in my apartments.
She removed the pins from my hair, undid the buttons of my dress, and loosened the laces of my corset. The garments piled on the chair, layer after layer, while I stared stubbornly at my reflection.
The woman in the mirror had flushed cheeks.
Her lips still seemed to be waiting for a kiss.
When the nightgown slipped over my skin, its muslin seemed almost indecent after the thick fabrics of the day. The material was fine, held at the throat by a simple ribbon. I kept the sapphire.
My lady’s maid brushed my hair, then let it fall freely down my back.
“Do you need anything else, madam?”
Madam.
Mrs. Darcy.
The wife of the man whose footsteps I could already hear in the adjoining room.
“No. Thank you.”
She curtsied and left.
The door closed.
Silence descended upon the room.
I stood before the mirror, one hand resting on the edge of the dressing table. Candlelight glowed on my shoulders through the muslin. The sapphire lay in the hollow of my throat, dark and gleaming against my skin.
A faint sound made me turn my head.
The handle of the connecting door turned.
Darcy entered.
He no longer wore coat, waistcoat, or cravat. His white shirt was open at the collar, his sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair fell across his forehead in such disarray that he was almost unrecognizable.
He closed the door.
Then his gaze found mine.
He stopped.
I stood before the dressing table, arms at my sides, unable to decide what to do with my hands. The muslin of my nightgown suddenly seemed far too thin. I felt the room's air on my shoulders, the weight of the sapphire at my throat, and my pulse beating all the way to my wrists.
Darcy said nothing.
He looked at me slowly, without harshness or haste: my loosened hair, the skin bared by the neckline, my stockingless feet.
Heat rose to my face.
“Elizabeth.”
My name in his voice went straight through me.
He approached.
I did not move. Not because I feared him coming closer, but because I did not know what to do in such a moment. No book explained it. No conversation had been precise enough. Even Jane, despite our closeness, could not have taught me what she herself did not yet know.
Darcy stopped before me.
“Look at me.”
I raised my eyes.
His fingers found the sapphire's chain. They trailed slowly down to the stone, grazing the skin above my nightgown.
I shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
My voice was barely audible.
His gaze held mine as he moved behind me. The clasp yielded beneath his fingers. The chain slid along my neck, then he set the jewel on the dressing table.
His hands came to rest on my shoulders.
The contact made me hold my breath.
Fitzwilliam pushed my hair to one side, and his lips touched my nape.
Fitzwilliam. For months I had thought of him as the rest of the world did—Mr. Darcy, Darcy, that family name that carried an estate, a fortune, and ten thousand pounds a year. One closed door had been enough for the name to fall away like everything else.
I closed my eyes.