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While Darcy discussed the practical arrangements with Mrs. Wilkins, Elizabeth observed Lydia taking in her surroundings. Her sister seemed both relieved by the homely comfort of the place and intimidated by the finality it represented.

“Would you like to see your room?” Elizabeth asked gently.

Lydia nodded, and Mrs. Wilkins immediately led them upstairs to a pleasant chamber decorated in soft blues and creams. A small fire burned in the grate, and the bed was covered with a thick knitted blanket of evident age but excellent craftsmanship.

“My mother made that blanket,” Mrs. Wilkins said proudly. “I thought it might bring a touch of home, as you must miss your own mother.”

This simple kindness seemed to touch Lydia, who blinked rapidly. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “It’s a lovely room.”

“I’ll leave you to get acquainted with it,” Mrs. Wilkins said tactfully. “Come down when you’re ready, and we’ll have a bite of supper.”

When she had gone, Lydia sank onto the edge of the bed, looking suddenly very young and lost. “This is really happening,” she murmured. “I am to stay here, alone, as Mrs. Brown the widow.”

Elizabeth sat beside her, taking her hand. “Not alone. Mrs. Wilkins seems very kind, and we shall write regularly. It is only until after the child is born, Lydia.”

“And then what?” Lydia asked, her voice small. “What becomes of me then? Of us?”

“Then you will come to Pemberley,” Elizabeth reminded her. “As we agreed.”

Lydia nodded, absorbing this reassurance. “I shall try,” she said after a moment, “to be worthy of what you and Mr. Darcy have done for me. I know I have been foolish and... and worse.”

“You are my sister,” Elizabeth said simply. “That is all that matters.”

When they returned downstairs, they found that arrangements had been finalised for Lydia’s stay. She would be introduced to the local community as Mrs. Brown, recently widowed when her husband fell in battle.

“No one will question it,” Mrs. Wilkins assured them. “War widows are all too common these days, poor souls. And this town is large enough that newcomers aren’t subject to excessive scrutiny.”

As the time for departure approached, Elizabeth found herself reluctant to leave Lydia behind. Despite all the trouble her sister had caused, despite the near-ruination of her own happiness, Elizabeth could not help but feel protective of this new, vulnerable version of Lydia.

Their goodbye was brief but emotional. “Remember,” Elizabeth said, embracing her sister tightly, “this is not forever. It is merely a passage to a new beginning.”

Lydia clung to her for a moment. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.” Stepping back, she visibly composed herself.

Darcy approached, bowing formally to Lydia. “Mrs. Brown,” he said, deliberately using her new name, “you are in excellent hands with Mrs. Wilkins. Should you need anything at all, you have only to write to us at Pemberley.”

Lydia surprised them all by curtsying respectfully to him. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I... I understand what you have done for me, and I am grateful.”

Georgiana’s farewell was unexpectedly warm, a brief embrace and a whispered exchange that brought a ghost of a smile to Lydia’s face.

Then they were returning to the carriage, leaving Lydia standing in the doorway beside Mrs. Wilkins, a small figure framed by lamplight against the gathering darkness.

As the carriage pulled away, Elizabeth leaned out of the window for a final wave. The last glimpse she had of her sister was of Lydia raising her hand in farewell, then turning back toward the house that would be her home through the difficult months ahead.

Elizabeth settled back against the cushions, feeling the weight of emotion from the parting. Darcy’s hand found hers in the dimness of the carriage, his fingers warm and reassuring.

“She will be well cared for,” he promised quietly. “And in time, she will find her way forward.”

Elizabeth nodded, unable to speak for a moment. When she did, her voice was steady with newfound conviction. “Yes,” she agreed, “she will. And so shall we all.”

Fitzwilliam Darcy had never imagined that travelling in the company of his new wife would prove quite so exquisitely torturous.

The gentle sway of the carriage, the proximity of Elizabeth’s slender form beside him, and the weight of all that remained unspoken between them combined to create a particular breed of agony with which he was entirely unfamiliar.

He found himself studying the passing countryside with unusual intensity, as though the hedgerows and fields might somehow offer a solution to his predicament, or at the very least, distract him from the maddening awareness of Elizabeth’s every movement, every soft inhalation, every rustle of her travelling dress.

“We shall be at the White Hart shortly,” he said, breaking a silence that had stretched uncomfortably long, ever since they left Lydia. “The accommodations are quite comfortable there. I have sent word ahead to prepare for our arrival.”

“That sounds most agreeable,” Elizabeth replied, finally turning towards him with a polite smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “I am sure we shall all be glad of proper beds after so many hours on the road.”

Darcy nodded, acutely aware of how her reference to “proper beds” had sent his thoughts careening in a direction most inappropriate for present company. He glanced at Georgiana, seated opposite them, who was observing their exchange with curious eyes.

“The White Hart has a most charming garden,” Georgiana offered, her soft voice seemingly amplified in the enclosed carriage. “Perhaps we might walk there in the morning before we depart, if there is time? I recall they have the most beautiful roses.”

“That would be lovely,” Elizabeth replied, her smile warming somewhat as she addressed Georgiana. “I should like to stretch my legs before another day of travel.”

Darcy watched this exchange with satisfaction mingled with envy.

His sister’s earnest desire to form a connection with Elizabeth was touching, and Elizabeth’s gentle encouragement of Georgiana’s shy overtures was precisely what he had hoped for.

Yet he could not help but wish that Elizabeth might address him with the same natural warmth.

The White Hart proved as welcoming as Darcy remembered, with its whitewashed walls and black-beamed frontage. The innkeeper greeted them with appropriate deference, bowing deeply upon recognising Darcy.

“Mr. Darcy, sir! We are honoured, indeed we are. I’ve prepared our finest chambers, just as your man requested.”

“Thank you,” Darcy replied, painfully aware of Elizabeth standing just behind him. “Mrs. Darcy and my sister will require refreshment after our journey. Perhaps tea might be arranged in the private parlour?”

The innkeeper’s eyes widened momentarily at the mention of “Mrs. Darcy,” before bowing again with increased enthusiasm. “Of course, sir. Congratulations on your marriage, if I may be so bold. The private parlour is prepared, and I shall have tea brought directly.”

As they followed a maidservant to the parlour, Darcy noticed the rigidity in Elizabeth’s posture, the stiff way she held herself as the innkeeper’s congratulations hung in the air between them.

His heart sank a little, recognising in her demeanour not the contented exhaustion of a traveller, but the carefully maintained composure of someone navigating unfamiliar and perhaps unwelcome terrain.

The private parlour was comfortably appointed, with a small fire already burning in the grate to ward off the autumn chill. Georgiana sank gratefully into a chair near the fire, while Elizabeth moved to the window, gazing out at the inn yard below with apparent interest.

“The tea should arrive shortly,” Darcy said, standing awkwardly in the centre of the room, uncertain whether to join his sister by the fire or his wife at the window. “I shall speak with the innkeeper about the rooms.”

Elizabeth turned from the window, her expression carefully neutral. “Thank you. I should appreciate a little time to freshen up before dinner, if that might be arranged.”

“Of course.”

Darcy retreated, relieved to have a practical task to occupy him.

In the corridor, he paused, gathering his thoughts.

The course of action was clear to him, though it cost him something to acknowledge it.

Elizabeth had married him under circumstances that left her little choice.

Her sister’s situation had been desperate, and Darcy’s intervention had come at the price of Elizabeth’s hand.

That she had agreed without visible reluctance was a testament to her strength of character and devotion to her family, not an indication of any particular affection for himself.

He approached the innkeeper, who was supervising the unloading of their trunks.

“I had requested three chambers,” Darcy said quietly, ensuring his voice would not carry. “One for my sister and her companion, one for Mrs. Darcy, and one for myself.”

The innkeeper’s brow furrowed momentarily in confusion before smoothing into professional deference. “I do beg your pardon, sir, I must have misunderstood your man. I had prepared our finest suite for yourself and the mistress, but I can certainly arrange another chamber for your good self.”

“That would be preferable,” Darcy replied, ignoring the curious look. “Mrs. Darcy has been unwell in recent days and requires undisturbed rest.” The lie came easily, a small sacrifice to preserve Elizabeth’s dignity and comfort.

“Very good, sir. I shall arrange it at once.”

When Darcy returned to the parlour, he found Elizabeth and Georgiana engaged in quiet conversation about the landscape they had passed through that day, while Mrs Annesley snoozed in an armchair. Elizabeth looked up as he entered, a question in her eyes.

“All is arranged,” he said, taking a seat at a discreet distance from the ladies. “We shall have dinner in an hour, if that suits?”