Page 12
Story: Mr. Darcy’s Runaway Bride
Elizabeth
Pemberley, Derbyshire
T he journey from Gretna Green to Derbyshire was taken at a more leisurely pace—there was no longer any need for haste, now they were wed.
Elizabeth easily adapted to the rhythm of travel with Darcy.
The early awkwardness between them had softened into a comfortable companionship, marked by quiet conversations on literature, landscapes and memory—though both carefully avoided mention of their families or the unconventional nature of their marriage.
They had spent one night at an inn along the way, maintaining the appearance of a newlywed couple while preserving decorum behind closed doors, courtesy of the same pillow barrier employed at Gretna Green.
On the morning of their departure, Elizabeth had woken to find that the barrier remained mostly intact—save for one significant detail, Darcy’s arm had crossed the divide in sleep, his hand resting lightly upon her abdomen.
The contact had stirred a quiet warmth in her.
She had turned her head, studying the softened lines of his sleeping face—unguarded, peaceful.
For several long moments she had lain still, uncertain whether the gesture had been intentional or a careless product of slumber.
Either way, it felt right. Safe. As though it were meant to be.
But sense had prevailed. She had gently shifted away, careful not to disturb him. The loss of his touch left behind a hollow ache, a surprising sense of absence. She had said nothing of it to him. Whether accident or design, she did not wish to embarrass him—or herself.
Even now, on the third day of their journey, she could recall the sensation with disquieting clarity.
“Miss B—” he began, then caught himself. “Elizabeth, we are nearing Pemberley.”
She looked up. “We are?”
“We crossed into Derbyshire two hours ago. Pemberley lies just beyond that ridge.” He nodded towards the distant blue line of hills. “We shall arrive before nightfall, assuming there are no delays.”
A flutter of anticipation stirred in her. “I confess I am eager to see it, after all you have said.”
“I hope it meets your expectations,” he replied, his tone touched with something between pride and apprehension.
The afternoon waned as their carriage wound through roads of increasing beauty. At last, rooftops appeared through the trees.
“There is Lambton,” Darcy said. “Your aunt’s childhood home.”
Elizabeth leaned forward, searching for the familiar landmarks Mrs Gardiner had described. “It looks just as she painted it—the church spire, the little stone bridge. How strange to think she once walked these very lanes.”
“You shall visit once you are settled. Perhaps write to her and ask if any friends of hers still remain in the area.”
The thoughtfulness in the offer warmed her. It might, she supposed, soften the inevitable disappointment her aunt must have felt at Elizabeth’s abrupt departure. “That would please me very much. Thank you.”
They spoke little more as the carriage turned off the main road and passed through ornate iron gates flanked by stone pillars, each topped with a carved bird in flight. A long, curved drive carried them through immaculate parkland.
“This is Pemberley’s entrance road,” Darcy said. “The house lies three miles ahead.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Three miles? I had no notion the estate was so large.”
“It has belonged to my family for generations. Each master added where he could, though the greatest expansion was under my grandfather.”
They crested a hill—and there it stood. Pemberley.
The house was grand, but without ostentation. Its broad windows caught the afternoon sun and threw it back in warm glints. It stood proudly on a rise above a glassy lake, framed by formal gardens that gave way to fields and woods beyond. It was not just fine—it was magnificent.
“It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen,” she said, moved despite herself. “Grander than Netherfield by far.”
Darcy glanced at her, something quiet and pleased in his expression. “I’m glad you find it agreeable.”
“Agreeable hardly suffices. One might imagine Capability Brown himself designed these grounds.”
“He did consult on the lake and lower slopes. My great grandfather, however, insisted the ancient oak woods remain untouched.”
“A wise choice,” Elizabeth said. “The balance between the cultivated and the wild is perfect.”
The drive swept down towards the house, and she saw a small party had gathered on the steps.
Darcy turned to her. “Are you ready?”
She smoothed her travelling dress and gave a faint smile. “As ready as one may be for such an arrival.”
As she stepped down from the carriage, the significance struck her. She was not entering as a guest, she was entering Pemberley as its mistress. In name, at least.
A composed woman of about sixty stepped forward and curtsied. “Welcome home, Mr Darcy.”
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds. May I present Mrs Elizabeth Darcy?”
A shiver of something—surprise, perhaps even pleasure—ran through her at hearing the name aloud.
The housekeeper betrayed no reaction. “Mrs Darcy,” she said, curtsying again. “Welcome to Pemberley. We had word of—well, that is, we are delighted by this most joyful news.”
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds,” Elizabeth replied, mustering her composure. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
“We have prepared the East Wing suite,” the housekeeper went on. “The rooms formerly occupied by the late Mrs Darcy. I hope they will suit.”
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy. His mother’s rooms. Surely he had directed the servants; they would not have assumed such a thing on their own. The honour of it struck her keenly—and so too did the reality. She was mistress now.
They stepped into a soaring entrance hall of marble and oak, flooded with light. Portraits of ancestors gazed down from the walls. A massive urn spilled fragrant flowers across a side table. The house radiated grace, history, and power.
“Would you care to refresh yourself before seeing the rest of the house?” Mrs Reynolds asked.
“That would be most welcome,” Darcy answered before Elizabeth could.
“If you’ll follow me, madam,” the housekeeper said. “I shall show you to your rooms. Mr Darcy has business to attend to.”
Elizabeth followed her up the wide staircase, through a gallery filled with paintings, along endless passages. Finally, they stopped at a set of carved double doors.
“The mistress’s suite,” Mrs Reynolds announced, opening them.
Elizabeth stepped inside and stared.
The rooms were exquisite: soft blue and cream furnishings, a view of the lake from tall windows, a writing desk by the light, vases of fresh flowers. The adjoining chamber boasted a canopied bed and a private dressing room with a copper bath.
“These rooms have not been occupied since the late Mrs Darcy,” Mrs Reynolds said. “Mr Darcy’s mother. I have had everything cleaned and restored. The connecting door”—she gestured— “leads to the master’s suite.”
Elizabeth’s stomach fluttered. She had assumed his rooms were elsewhere in the house, but of course this made more sense. They were married, after all.
“I see. Thank you.”
“I have assigned Sarah to you as lady’s maid. She is young, but deft with hair and fine stitching. If she does not suit, we shall make other preparations.”
“I’m sure she will do well,” Elizabeth said. The idea of a maid at her personal service still sat oddly with her.
“Dinner is served at seven, though Mr Darcy may choose to dine privately this evening. I shall enquire.”
“You have been very kind, Mrs Reynolds. Thank you.”
The housekeeper hesitated. “If I may say so, madam, we are all pleased at Mr Darcy’s marriage. He has been alone too long.”
The simple remark caught Elizabeth off guard. Warmth and guilt rose together in her chest. She was not the devoted wife this woman imagined—merely the occupant of a role born of necessity. Still, she inclined her head.
“You are generous to say so. I hope I may not disappoint.”
“You shall not,” Mrs Reynolds said with quiet certainty. “Mr Darcy has excellent judgement in all things.”
When she had gone, Elizabeth stood alone in the sitting room. One week ago, she had prepared to marry Jonathan Blackfriars in reluctant dread. Now, she was married to a man she barely knew, in a world entirely foreign.
A soft knock broke her reverie. “Come in,” she called, expecting Sarah.
It was Darcy. He had changed into a fresh coat and waistcoat.
“I trust the rooms are acceptable?”
“They are far beyond anything I imagined.”
He gave a nod, satisfied. “They were my mother’s. They have stood unused for ten years.”
“Mrs Reynolds told me. I hope it does not pain you to see them occupied again.”
“Not at all,” he said quietly. “It pleases me to see them alive again.”
There was something in his tone that held her still—something raw and unspoken.
He cleared his throat. “Would you prefer a tour first, or shall we dine quietly together?”
“I confess I am rather tired. A quiet supper would be lovely. I should like to explore Pemberley tomorrow, if I may.”
“Of course. Shall we say seven?”
“That would suit, thank you. And thank you—for your patience, these past days.”
He smiled faintly. “There is nothing to thank. I hope Pemberley will be as much a sanctuary for you as it has been for me.”
After he left, Sarah arrived to help her dress. As the girl washed and styled her hair, Elizabeth’s thoughts lingered on Darcy’s words.
A sanctuary. That was what this place felt like already—a refuge. Whether it would prove so for her heart remained uncertain.
***
When she met Darcy in the small dining room, she was struck once more by how naturally he fit into these refined surroundings. Pemberley suited him as a second skin.
Their conversation flowed more easily than she had expected, freed from the confinement of the carriage. Darcy spoke of estate matters, and she was quickly drawn in.
“You understand these things better than I anticipated,” he said as they lingered over a dish of stewed pears.
“My father was inattentive in many things,” Elizabeth replied, “but not in stewardship. Longbourn may be modest, but it still requires care.”
“Indeed. The principles apply at any scale. And Pemberley’s size brings no shortage of headaches. I should like to show you the estate tomorrow.”
“I would like that very much.”
“And perhaps the library. I suspect it may tempt your affections.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
After dinner, he offered his arm to escort her to her chambers. Their steps echoed gently along the marble hall.
“The east gallery connects directly to your rooms,” Darcy said, guiding her towards a different passage than she expected. “I thought you might wish to see it, even briefly. The moonlight through the windows creates quite an effect.”
Elizabeth followed, curious. The gallery stretched before them, lined with paintings on one side and tall windows on the other. True to his word, silver moonlight spilled across the polished floor.
“Oh,” she breathed, stepping forward. The gallery seemed to float between earth and sky, suspended in the night. “How beautiful.”
“It was my favourite place as a child,” Darcy said quietly. “I would slip from my bed and wander here when sleep would not come.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, struck by this small confession of boyhood rebellion. “I can see why. It feels like another world entirely.”
They walked slowly through the gallery. At the far end, he stopped before a portrait.
“My mother,” he said simply.
Elizabeth studied the painting. A serene woman with Darcy’s same thoughtful eyes gazed back at her.
“You have her expression,” she said without thinking.
Something flickered in his face—surprise, perhaps pleasure. “Few have ever noted that resemblance.”
“It’s unmistakable. Particularly when you are deep in thought.”
Their eyes met, and Elizabeth felt a curious suspension of time—as if they stood not merely in a moonlit gallery, but at the threshold of something neither had anticipated.
Darcy looked away first. “Your rooms are through that door,” he said, his voice not entirely steady. “I shall see you in the morning. Rest well, Elizabeth.”
“And you,” she replied, unable to find more words.
She entered her chambers alone, closing the door behind her. But instead of readying herself for bed immediately, she moved to the window, drawn by the same moon that had illuminated the gallery.
Pemberley’s grounds stretched before her, mysterious in shadow and silver light. Somewhere below, a nightingale began to sing.
Elizabeth pressed her palm against the cool glass, watching her breath create a small cloud of warmth that quickly faded. Like her old life at Longbourn—present one moment, vanished the next.
Yet here, in this place of ancient trees and moonlit waters, something new was taking root. Not the life she had planned, certainly. But perhaps, a life she might one day cherish.
The nightingale’s song continued, its melody both question and answer in the quiet night.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12 (Reading here)
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37