Page 30 of Mistress of Pemberley
The journey from Pemberley to London was the longest and most dreadful of Elizabeth’s life. Nothing could soothe her—not the scenery, not the swaying of the carriage, not Anna’s attempts at conversation, and not even the books she had stacked beside her within easy reach.
“Mr Darcy is well,” Anna repeated at least a hundred times a day. Still, nothing could calm her fear that she might find a message about him at every inn they stopped at, while at the same time she hoped with a desperate fervour for an answer from the colonel that did not come.
Finally, she reached London after travelling from morning till night.
“Where is Mr Darcy?” she cried. And only when the butler told her he was in the library could she breathe again, running straight to him without glancing about her or greeting anyone.
Yet, no one took offence. Mr Talbot quietly closed the door behind her and stationed himself there to prevent anyone from entering.
And she continued to run until she was in his open arms, that had been waiting to receive her for such a long time. She forgot all the restrictions, all the precautions they had upheld for so long, and nestled into his embrace in the armchair. The next moment, their lips met in their first kiss, both suddenly paralysed by the intensity of that brief touch in which months of longing and obstacles were swept away, and love became possible for one fleeting instant. He held his breath and closed his eyes, savouring her lips, while Elizabeth believed she had died. Horrified by what she had done, she let herself slide gently to the floor, her eyes filling with tears, her heart stopping in a pain as vast as the universe.
“Darcy,” she murmured, shaking him slightly. He opened his eyes in surprise.
“Elizabeth, what are you doing down there? Come back into my arms.” So elated by her kiss, for a moment, he, too, had believed he had died. “I want to kiss you again. Do not leave me like this,” he said, attempting to lift her up. But she sprang to her feet, even more frightened, and stepped away from him.
“No! What are you saying? What are you doing? I could have killed you with my madness!”
“And what is the name of your madness?” he asked, plunging into bliss, for this was the first time since he fell in love with her that he felt she had feelings for him in return. Before leaving for home, Mr Bennet had told him many things about her and her feelings. Still, they had been just that—words narrated by a man unaccustomed to articulating such emotions. Darcy had received them as a kind of consolation prize. But the woman who had just leapt into his arms, the trembling lips that had given themselves to him without hesitation, and the small, unmistakable sigh he had heard—those told another story. Yet Elizabeth’s stories were unlike anybody else’s, and he did not dare to imagine more than affection.
“You know well what it is called,” she said evasively, once again fully aware of his circumstances and their situation. Once more, she was ready to make any sacrifice to keep him by her side for as long as possible.
“Do not answer me with riddles,” he said thoughtfully, though his eyes shone with laughter. And she smiled.
“Love,” she whispered, but it was so unconvincing that Darcy did not know what to think.
“Louder, Elizabeth Darcy,” he commanded, full of hope.
“Do not torture me,” she begged. She did not meet his gaze, for she feared she would lose herself and surrender to whatever he wanted to know and, even more dangerously, accept whatever he wanted to do—everything she desired with a passion and a pain that had burned within her since the first moment she had realised she loved him.
“I just love you[JA1][DO2],” he said, and only when she heard his rough voice did she open her eyes, startled, undecided, desperate, and happy at the same time.
She wanted to cry about how much she loved him, but still afraid to cause him harm, she closed her love in her soul, shrouding him in complete darkness.
He could not understand what was happening with her. There were clear signs she liked him; her affection had always been evident, yet her eagerness to see him was the purest testimony that her soul had stronger feelings for him. Suddenly, he did not care any longer what the names of those things were. All he wanted was to make her his woman, even if that meant leaving her forever. But at least he would leave her and the world as a man and not a cripple in a wheeled chair.
“Come here. I want to show you what a kiss truly means—”
“No!” she cried, shaking her head violently. “No,” she repeated, more tempered, fearing again to display strong feelings in his presence.
“Elizabeth, what did we discuss before you left? You agreed to be mine.”
“No, Darcy, no. How can you believe I would take such a risk now?”
“But you promised,” he replied, and the joy that had lit his face only moments ago vanished, replaced by an expression of frustration and helplessness.
And then she saw that he was not in the wheeled chair but in one of the library’s armchairs.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, astonished by his ruse. “You waited for me in this chair, knowing that I would fly into your arms—”
“Hoping,” he admitted, for the three weeks without her had been tormenting, and each day, he had reproached himself for sending her to Pemberley instead of keeping her by his side.
“Please, Elizabeth, that conversation was the most important of my life.”
“I know,” she said with conviction and determination, settling on the arm of the chair and wrapping her arms around him. “It will be as you wish. But grant me a little time. Let me savour this moment… It was my first kiss, after all. Let me savour…you,” she added in a murmur, blushing as those were the most daring words she had ever said.
“You cannot savour anything from ten paces away ,” he muttered like a disappointed child, for he had imagined her arrival as the moment he had been waiting for—when Elizabeth would finally be his.
She leant in and brought her face close to his when she felt his hand taking possession of her head, his lips brushing over hers, caught in a grip so strong that she could not escape. But this time, the kiss was no mere caress. With hunger, he crushed her lips until they learnt to follow his rhythms, and then, to Elizabeth’s surprise, with infinite tenderness, he opened and conquered her in their first deep and intimate kiss that made her tremble and cry out, wanting him to stop yet hoping he never would.
“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, still kissing her. She quivered as his warm breath and soft lips touched her ear when she succeeded in escaping.
Then, to her horror or unbearable delight—she did not know for sure where the borders were—he took her hand and guided it to show her what passion and a mere kiss had done to him.
“Oh!” she cried, her eyes squeezed shut, incapable of understanding for a moment but finally fully aware that for the first time in her life, she had intimately touched a man.
She wanted to run, but her own passion, her yearning, that newly discovered pain which ravaged her body, unveiling the meaning of ardent love, were so strong within her that she caressed him, making him groan.
“Do you imagine the pleasure?” he whispered in her ear, and only then did she snatch away her hand.
As she did not answer, he continued softly, “Elizabeth, I want you to be mine. Nothing is going to happen to me. You have seen I can be ready for love and be alive…at the same time.”
“Do not speak like that about leaving me,” she ordered. Caught in that terrible dilemma, she took him into her arms again, just holding him; every fibre of her body yearned for him, yet her mind still warned her how dangerous that could be.
A soft knock on the door startled them both. Engrossed in that magical realm, they had entirely forgotten the world outside.
“Not now,” Darcy shouted, furious at the intrusion upon that special moment.
“My apologies, sir,” said the butler. “I have an urgent message from Colonel Fitzwilliam for Mrs Darcy.”
Elizabeth sprang away from him, hurriedly smoothing her hair and pressing a hand to her chest as though to still the wild beating of her heart, fearful that its sound might betray her in the hush of the room.
“It is important ,” she said, turning to him. All the memories of the world they had forsaken for those fleeting minutes returned with force—the questions, the fears that had tormented them for months.
The message was brief. The colonel was bringing the surgeon Elizabeth had requested on the morrow after breakfast.
“Come back to me,” he urged, but Elizabeth settled onto the sofa beside his chair.
“Be patient,” she said. “This is crucial.”
“Elizabeth, I have been patient for endless, excruciating days. Now, I want you beside me.”
But she smiled, unmoved.
“I asked the colonel to bring a surgeon—”
“No, absolutely not!” he cried out forcefully. He saw in her gesture nothing but an attempt to dissuade him from his plan—the only one that mattered to him now. The only one that could bring him happiness—a final fulfilment to his life.
“Be patient,” she repeated, her voice so sweet that his anger melted, dissolved in the depths of her green eyes, still clouded with the passion that had passed between them.
“Nothing will change my mind. You could bring a hundred surgeons,” he told her, and she smiled at his stubbornness.
“I am merely seeking another opinion—that of someone who has seen dozens, perhaps hundreds, of cases like yours.”
And her words took hold. He quieted, gazing at her with curiosity, for there was sense in what she said. The physicians who had examined him had admitted they had little experience with such cases.
“And where does one find such a surgeon?” he asked.
“From the front,” she answered, and he burst into laughter.
“Mrs Darcy would take a surgeon from poor wounded soldiers and bring him to me?” he exclaimed. “You are ruthless, madam, when it comes to your husband.” Yet his tone was far from reproachful—it was delighted.
“Hush! You are mad! How can you think such a thing of me?” she retorted, joining him in the playful dialogue that eased the tension between them, keeping them in that fragile realm of happiness where he would not feel frustrated or disheartened.
“The colonel will bring a surgeon who recently returned from the front.”
“And what do you think this surgeon can do?”
Elizabeth hesitated before answering. She dared not give him hope, though deep within her, a seed of it had taken root after her discussions with Reverend Buxton. Even though she did not know what the surgeon might do, the reverend had told her to have faith—for often, things were not as they seemed.
“Do you believe he will grant us permission to consummate our marriage[JA5]?” Darcy asked in the same teasing tone. “Do I require a surgeon’s consent? Did you not see for yourself that you can make me ready for love, and nothing terrible happens to me?”
She closed her eyes, for the hand that had caressed him was burning, and the memory of that touch made her lose all composure.
“Speak, madam, do not close your eyes on me!”
“All I ask is that he comes tomorrow, that we speak with him—”
“And no matter what he says, you will be in my bedroom tomorrow night, ready to be mine.”
“Yes, I shall,” she said simply. And he fell silent before the unexpected victory, which he had ceased to hope for since she had insisted on seeing the surgeon.
A hush settled between them, and when he looked at her, he saw that she had fallen asleep. Her breath was soft, like a child’s. He longed to wake her, but overcome with tenderness, he realised—perhaps for the first time—how difficult these past weeks had been for her. How much he had demanded of her without once considering that she too might grow weary, that the despair so often etched upon her face was a trial she endured at every moment beside him.
At last, he was grateful that she slept, ready to guard her slumber, content simply to watch her—peaceful, beautiful as an angel with her eyes closed.
And the stillness lasted for a time, letting him see how tired she was. Suddenly, her face twisted in anguish, and she cried, “No! Please, no!” Tears slipped from her closed eyes, and he was confident that the dream was about him.
Desperate, Darcy rose and shook her gently. “My love, you are having a bad dream. Wake up, I am here,” he murmured beside her.
When she opened her eyes, she found him standing, leaning over her, and for a moment, she could not tell which was the dream—the vision in which he had died or this one, where he stood upright before her, as she had not seen him do in months.
She blinked, again and again, until the warmth of his hands caressing her face, wiping the tears, assured her that he was real, alive, standing next to the sofa. And yet, reality terrified her even more. She sprang up, staring at him.
“What are you doing? Why are you standing?” she cried.
“I have begun to rise and take a few steps,” he admitted, though he had resolved not to tell her yet.
“No!” she said forcefully. But seeing him on his feet, part of her turmoil eased. It was a significant step forwards. He had been taking steps in her absence, and he was well.
“Sit, please sit,” she told him gently. And he obeyed but caught her hand in his own, in a gesture that said only one thing. And she understood what that one thing was.
“I shall return to your arms if…”
“If?” he teased.
“If it does not happen again.”
And he burst into laughter, settling carefully into the armchair.
“My dear, simply seeing you makes it happen. And it will not calm down until you are mine.”
∞∞∞
They enjoyed dinner, just the two of them and Georgiana, as if no tragedy had ever befallen their lives, forgetting the reality they had suffered day after day until that moment.
Georgiana gazed at them in astonishment, for she had never seen them so joyous and, at the same time, so utterly indifferent to anything beyond the delight of being together. They bantered and laughed, and their joy was contagious.
“He was most difficult in your absence,” said Georgiana, entering into their game.
“Who?” asked Elizabeth as if she did not understand, though she glanced at him.
“My brother,” came the reply.
Indeed, Darcy had been unbearable during Elizabeth’s absence—wheeling himself restlessly from room to room, issuing dozens of unnecessary orders, refusing to eat, and, to Georgiana’s horror, beginning to pace the house.
“I, too, have noticed since my return that things are not quite as they were when I left,” Elizabeth said with a laugh.
“I do not know what has happened in my own house, but I have come to be reprimanded by both my younger sister and my wife,” said Darcy.
Yet he was so content to be at the table with them that neither believed his scolding to be genuine.
Elizabeth recounted in great detail all she had done at Pemberley, beginning with that singular moment when she had stepped down from the carriage upon the hill to admire the house and its surrounding park.
“I was left breathless by Pemberley’s beauty—it bears the mark of a skilled gardener, one who allows nature to speak while also ordering it in such a way as to delight the eye.”
“Have the roses bloomed?” Darcy asked, and Elizabeth strove not to look at him, for she had detected the regret in his voice.
“Yes,” she said at last. “I brought a carriage full of cuttings for the garden here. And then there is the lake and the river… ”
“We used to swim in the lake,” said Darcy, continuing as he caught sight of Elizabeth’s shocked expression. “Yes, madam, we swim.”
“We?” she asked.
“Georgiana and I—”
“I have never learnt to swim!” exclaimed Elizabeth, surprised that she had never even thought of such a thing. The brother and sister, in turn, regarded her with equal astonishment, for it seemed impossible that anyone would not wish to swim.
“Do you swim in the lake?” she asked, still incredulous.
“Not the one in front of the house,” Georgiana said with a smile. “We have a cottage a few miles upriver—there is even a small waterfall—”
She fell silent abruptly, as she always did when she forgot that her brother would never again be able to return to Pemberley or to that beloved place. Elizabeth hurried on with her tale, for it was the best way to stave off despair.
“But the greatest surprise of all was the sheer vastness of the estate. Immense! That was something you neglected to mention.”
“I do not believe so,” said Darcy. “You have had every map showing the full extent of the land before you more than once.”
Elizabeth nodded. She had known the figures, but when they began to explore the estate, it became clear that she had never truly grasped what they signified.
Yet there was not much more to say of her time in Derbyshire, for Darcy had already received Mary’s letters.
“Tell us, rather, about Miss Mary,” Darcy said with a knowing smile.
“Even if you had objected to her remaining at Pemberley, I do not think I could have brought her back. My younger sister has…become attached to the place,” Elizabeth continued in the same tone, laden with meaning, her affectionate smile tinged with a hint of playful irony.
“I am glad that this attachment includes Mr Buxton. He is indeed a remarkable man,” said Darcy, and Georgiana looked at him in surprise.
“The rector of Lambton?” she asked.
“Yes, the very same. I would not be astonished if my father received a certain letter from the Parsonage.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Georgiana, who delighted in any romantic tale. “We, too, have had similar events…of that kind,” she added, blushing. But as the two merely stared at her in expectant silence, it became evident that they wished her to explain.
“Miss Bennet and Mr Bingley… It would seem that Mr Bingley has been forgiven.”
“And I, along with him, once and for all,” said Darcy, his gaze resting upon Elizabeth. “And before leaving London, Mr Bennet invited Bingley to Longbourn… But it seems he still holds the lease on Netherfield.”
Georgiana wished to enquire further, to understand more. Still, she refrained, for she knew, despite her curiosity, that there would always be secrets between her brother and his wife that she was not party to. She did not intrude upon that intimate space, leaving it for the two of them alone.