Page 47 of An Offer of Marriage (Engaged to Mr Darcy #7)
One month later, at Pemberley
My dearest Jane,
Or shall I address you as Mrs Bingley? Then you may call me Mrs Darcy, and we may languish in our respective delightful matrimonial states as our own mother and aunt have done before us. I am laughing as I think of it and am resolved to continue calling you Jane as I have my life long.
I am so glad to hear that you have found your new home to be to your liking.
My husband told me a little bit about it, and I confess I am mad to come see it.
But I do understand how it must be first refurnished and refitted, and I daresay your plans for the drawing room have quite captured my fancy.
I am, as ever, very fond of green, and the small scrap of paper you have tucked in here will do very well for the walls, I am sure.
You mentioned the nursery as well; dare I hope you have news in that quarter to share ?
My husband and I are doing very well and seem to have handily untangled the knots which snarled round us from the first moment of our acquaintance.
Did I ever think him reticent? I must have been very foolish to think so, for we have spent almost a month complete here at Pemberley doing nothing but talking.
H ere Elizabeth paused in her writing, resting her chin in her hand.
With a little smirk, she thought, Well, talking and…
other things as well. Very agreeable things.
Likely in equal measure, if I am being honest about things.
She would not write that to Jane of course, but then again, she imagined Jane knew enough of it for herself by now.
I knew from those first days in London, immediately after his proposal, that Darcy was a very different man from the picture I had painted of him.
Here at Pemberley, I am coming to know the truth of it.
Here at Pemberley is he able to be wholly himself; he is easy and happy, fully exposing his dry wit and yet able to candidly express his feelings and thoughts on anything and everything.
I confess that I am rather…besotted with him, this Darcy I have found here at Pemberley.
She paused again, staring out the window absently. Her escritoire boasted a charming prospect of the rolling lawn and, in the distance, the trout stream. She understood that her husband’s mother had arranged it so and thought it was simply perfect, ideal for writing and thinking and planning.
Her thoughts had tended to the same direction of late.
She loved him. Alas, she had not told him, a fact which made her twist with guilt as he was unstinting in his own declarations of love to her.
He told her he loved her first thing in the morning when he brought her tea in bed.
He told her he loved her when she brought him biscuits at the desk in his study while he worked and when they strolled together in the afternoon.
She reckoned that he expressed his love to her no less than twenty times a day.
And yet, she had not yet told him she loved him. But she would. Today. The thought sent a flutter up from within her gut, but she reasoned it would only get worse with more delay. She wanted him to know it, that her heart was wholly his. It was merely difficult to speak it.
I am so eager for you to come to Pemberley.
You have asked me a number of times now to describe it, but I fear my talents as an author are far too inadequate to do it justice.
I think I would much rather you experience it as I did—there is a particular spot along the road coming into the park where you can stop and behold Pemberley in its magnificence.
Pray, do stop your carriage there and imagine your frizzle-haired little sister to be mistress of such a place. It quite defies reason!
What a merry party we shall be, you and Bingley and the Gardiners as well!
Georgiana is due to arrive tomorrow, being escorted here by Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I daresay we can expect our other Fitzwilliam relations as well, for Matlock is not ten miles from Pemberley.
Yes, I shall make us play lawn games, and yes, I mean to make you play them as well!
As for the other matters you asked me about…
There has be en no sign of Mrs Jenkinson.
We suspect she might have fled England, perhaps to Wales where I understand she has family.
I have told my husband that I feel we might do best to drop that pursuit.
A peculiar wish, I know, but I do earnestly wish for that unhappy time to be complete.
Strangely, I do not really feel that Mrs Jenkinson was the culprit; yes, she grew the berries and made the breakfasts and tincture that brought on my illnesses and would ultimately have killed me; but it was Anne who wished me dead and arranged the whole scheme.
Mrs Jenkinson only carried out her orders.
Darcy is less willing to allow her freedom, but I do not think there is much to be gained in perseverating in the matter.
As for Miss de Bourgh, there is little to say.
The sanatorium reports no progress, nor repentance, but it has only been a short time.
She continues to aggrandise herself, to imagine herself superior to other persons and thus not restrained by the common strictures others must be held to.
Darcy feels that she has earned worse than the place she has arrived at which is, he says, little more than a resort for those who fancy themselves sick in the head.
Here again I am weak, for I do not like the idea of someone suffering at my hand.
If she is content to stay there, and be away from us all, then I am content to forget about her.
Shockingly she has indeed written over a substantial legacy to be settled on our children.
I was not of a mind to accept it until I remembered the agonies I felt hunched over my chamber pot—then I decided I would not be remiss in accepting it!
In any case, I do not wish her more ill, for if I did, then I would be just as evil, or as deluded, as she is .
She had just finished her letter when her husband entered the room behind her, enquiring, “Should you like a walk?”
She turned to look at him, her heart giving the pleasantly painful lurch she always felt at such times. “Need you ask?”
Not so long thereafter, they strolled together, arm in arm, into the garden. This is it , she told herself. This is the time. I will tell him now.
“Such a drought we are having this summer,” Darcy said, his mind clearly on matters of the non-romantic sort. “But I understand we may expect rain tomorrow. I only hope it does not interfere with the travel of our guests.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I am particularly eager for Jane and my aunt and uncle to see Pemberley.”
“Your aunt and uncle have been making tours of so many great houses, Pemberley will seem commonplace.”
“There is nothing common about Pemberley,” Elizabeth assured him. “Yes, there are other fine houses, richly furnished, but Pemberley has so much more than that.”
“I like to think it does,” he said, smiling down at her.
“I love Pemberley,” she said, feeling her moment come upon her. “I love the natural beauty of it, I love the household and how they, all of them, seem to take such pride in their positions. I love the furnishings, the paint colours, and the paper on the walls, but most of all…”
She paused, swallowed, and took a breath. “Most of all, I love the master.”
His look turned searching and she, blushing, paused and gave him a quick kiss. Quickly she said it again, “I love you.”
And he, after another kiss and a little smirk, said, “I know.”
“Now that is surely not what I expected you to say.” She put her hand on her hip in mock pique. “You know? I have been twisting with guilt, working up my courage to say this for weeks, and you already knew?”
He raised one hand and traced her cheek with his finger before they walked on.
“Your tender feelings always show in your eyes. Thinking back to when we met, I saw your sparkle, your fire within your eyes…perhaps even a slight bit of interest? Which alas I interpreted wrongly to believe you were attracted to me.”
“I was,” she said. “I can admit that now, but what sane woman would not be? You are a fine figure of a man.”
She was treated then to the uncommon and uncommonly diverting sight of Darcy blushing.
“In any case,” he said, with a light clearing of his throat, “in the beginning weeks, I saw misery. Loneliness. And yes, all too many times, fearfulness.” He shook his head. “I do not know whether I can ever forgive myself that, what my anger did to you.”
“Well, you should,” she said. “Because I have.”
He sighed but then continued. “And then I could see when you began to like me…when you were happier in our marriage. And then the day, the blessed day, when I saw you look at me like you loved me.”
“When was it?”
“A typical morning,” he said. “I cannot even remember the exact date. You were already awake when I woke, and you looked over at me and said, ‘Good morning, darling’. And my heart knew. Somehow I had planted myself within your heart.”
“You have, and I am so glad to have you there.”
“However,” he said brightly. “Just because I already knew does not mean I do not relish hearing it. In fact, I have so enjoyed hearing it, I daresay I will ask you to say it again. ”
“I love you,” she said, very simply, then laughed. “Only a small bit of anxiety that time. I suppose it gets easier each time.”
“Then I must urge you to practise saying it,” he teased. “Over and over until you are proficient.”
“That,” she said, “I will be very happy to do.”