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Chapter Five

Darcy stood by the hearth in the drawing room at Pemberley, watching as the firelight cast gentle shadows across Elizabeth’s profile.

His wife of scarcely a fortnight sat upon the blue damask sofa, her fingers absently tracing the pattern of the upholstery as her gaze fixed upon the dancing flames, a glass of sherry untouched on the occasional table beside her.

The quiet intimacy of the moment struck him deeply; how often he had imagined her here, in this very room.

Now she was truly here, mistress of Pemberley, though the circumstances that had hastened their union were far from what he had once envisioned.

Darcy found himself treasuring these quiet interludes with Elizabeth, even when, as now, she seemed lost in thoughts he could not quite discern.

The evening was drawing in, the sky outside the tall windows streaked with orange and red as the sun sank behind the hills.

They were awaiting Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley before proceeding to dinner, these few moments alone a rarity in the busy household.

Darcy found himself treasuring these quiet interludes with Elizabeth, even when, as now, she seemed lost in thoughts he could not quite discern.

“The fire burns particularly well tonight,” Darcy remarked, more to break the silence than from any observation about the quality of the flames. “Johnson must have selected the oak logs.”

Elizabeth looked up, her expression momentarily distracted before she composed her features into a smile. “Indeed. Though I confess I know little about the burning qualities of different woods.”

“Oak burns slowly and gives excellent heat,” Darcy explained, grateful for the mundane topic. “At Pemberley, we are fortunate to have extensive woodlands that provide ample seasoned timber.”

“An advantage of such a grand estate.” Her voice held no criticism, yet something in her tone made Darcy wonder if she were comparing Pemberley to her more modest childhood home.

The conversation lapsed, and Darcy found himself studying her again.

She wore a gown of deep rose silk that complemented her complexion beautifully.

Her dark hair was arranged in an elegant yet simple style that suited her far better, in his opinion, than the elaborate confections favoured by women like Caroline Bingley.

Elizabeth Bennet had become Elizabeth Darcy, and though he still sometimes marvelled at this fact, he could not imagine her being anything else now.

The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable precisely, but charged with something Darcy could not name. Elizabeth’s fidgeted briefly, glancing up at him and then away again, and he wondered if there was something she wanted to say. He waited patiently.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “Mr. Darcy,” she began, then corrected herself with a small smile, “Fitzwilliam. There is something I have wished to express to you these several days.”

Darcy felt a flutter of concern. “I hope nothing troubles you?”

“Not troubles, precisely.” Elizabeth looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the firelight. “I wished to say that I am sorry.”

Darcy frowned slightly, puzzled. “Sorry? Whatever for?”

“That you felt honour-bound to save me from Wickham,” she said quietly, “and then from the consequences of my own foolishness.”

The words hung in the air between them. Darcy felt as though the room had suddenly grown both very still and terribly loud, the crackling of the fire the only sound breaking the silence. He stared at Elizabeth, trying to comprehend fully what she was saying.

“Elizabeth,” he began, then found himself at a loss for words.

She continued before he could gather his thoughts.

“I know that you acted out of a sense of responsibility, particularly given your prior knowledge of Wickham’s character.

And then, when Lydia’s... actions... compounded the situation, you stepped forward to protect us all from scandal.

It was nobly done, but I cannot help but feel that your hand was forced. ”

Darcy felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. Was this truly how she perceived their marriage? As an obligation he had fulfilled out of duty rather than desire? The thought was so far from the truth that he could scarcely believe she harboured such doubts.

He observed her more carefully now. Her posture, usually so naturally confident, seemed diminished somehow.

Her eyes held a vulnerability he rarely saw in her, and her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, betrayed her anxiety.

This was not merely a passing concern, he realised, but something that troubled her deeply.

“You misunderstand entirely,” he said finally, his voice low and controlled despite the turmoil of his emotions.

He moved from the fireplace to sit beside her on the sofa, close but not touching.

“If you believe that I married you from a sense of obligation or pity, then I have failed to make my feelings clear.”

There was uncertainty in her expression. “But surely, given the circumstances...”

“The circumstances,” Darcy interrupted gently, “merely accelerated my plans to resume my courtship of you. They changed the timing, not the outcome I desired.”

A flicker of something like hope crossed her features, but the doubt remained. “You are kind to say so.”

“I am not being kind,” Darcy insisted, allowing a rare intensity into his voice. “I am being truthful.”

The sound of light footsteps in the corridor signalled the approach of Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley. Darcy found himself frustrated by the interruption, yet perhaps a moment to collect his thoughts would be beneficial. This conversation required more than the few minutes remaining before dinner.

Elizabeth straightened her posture and composed her expression, the vulnerable moment hidden away as she prepared to greet the others. Darcy marvelled at her resilience, even as he resolved to address her misconception thoroughly once they had privacy again.

Georgiana entered, her youthful face brightening upon seeing them. “Brother, Elizabeth, I do apologise if we have kept you waiting.”

“Not at all,” Elizabeth replied warmly. “We were merely enjoying the sunset. It is a lovely evening, is it not?”

Mrs. Annesley followed Georgiana into the room, offering polite greetings.

Darcy responded automatically, his mind still preoccupied with Elizabeth’s confession.

As the small party prepared to move to the dining room, he offered Elizabeth his arm.

She took it with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

“We shall continue our conversation later,” he murmured, just loudly enough for her to hear. The slight pressure of her fingers on his arm was her only acknowledgement, but it was enough to reassure him that she was willing to hear what he had to say.

As they proceeded to dinner, Darcy found himself planning his words carefully.

He would need to make her understand that far from being trapped into marriage, he considered himself the most fortunate of men to have secured her hand, regardless of the circumstances that had brought them to the altar.

Throughout the meal, Darcy found his attention divided between the necessary civilities of hosting and the private concerns raised by Elizabeth’s confession in the parlour.

More than once, he caught her glancing at him with a question in her eyes, quickly masked whenever she noticed his observation.

When at last they retired to the drawing room for the evening, and Georgiana had excused herself to play the pianoforte with Mrs. Annesley for her audience, Darcy found himself alone with his wife for the first time since their interrupted conversation.

Elizabeth sat near the window, a book open but clearly unread in her lap.

The gentle patter of rain against the glass provided a soothing counterpoint to the tension Darcy felt within himself.

He crossed to where she sat, deliberating for a moment before taking the chair opposite rather than beside her.

This conversation required that he see her face clearly.

“I believe we were interrupted earlier,” he began, keeping his voice measured and calm despite the importance of what he wished to convey. “You had expressed certain... misapprehensions about the nature of our marriage that I feel must be addressed.”

Elizabeth closed her book, setting it aside with a sigh though Darcy suspected she had not read a word. “I did not mean to seem ungrateful,” she said. “Your actions were beyond generous.”

“No,” Darcy said firmly, leaning forward slightly. “That is precisely the misunderstanding I wish to correct. There was nothing generous in my actions, Elizabeth. I was entirely selfish.”

A small furrow appeared between her brows. “Selfish? I hardly think rescuing Lydia from the disastrous consequences of her own folly and offering me the protection of your name could be considered selfish.”

“It was selfish because it secured what I wanted most in the world,” Darcy replied, his voice low and intense.

“You must understand, Elizabeth. I fully intended to make you my wife long before Wickham made a menace of himself, and even your rejection of me did not change my intentions, though I tried to pretend they did at the time.”

Elizabeth’s lips parted slightly in surprise, and Darcy pressed on, suddenly desperate to make her understand.

“Your words, harsh though they were, forced me to examine myself and my behaviour in a way nothing else could have done. I began the process of addressing the faults you so rightly identified.” He paused, gathering his thoughts.

“I planned to seek you out again after sufficient time had passed, to demonstrate through actions rather than words that I had taken your criticisms to heart.”