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Chapter Four

Elizabeth stood at the window of her bedchamber, watching as darkness settled over Pemberley’s grounds.

The evening was clear, with stars beginning to appear in the deep blue sky, much like the night she had lain awake in the Hunsford parsonage after furiously refusing Darcy’s first proposal.

How different her circumstances now, and yet there remained a curious similarity: she was still alone, still thinking of Darcy, though now he was her husband in name, if not yet in the fullest sense.

The evening had been exhausting, filled with new faces, unfamiliar routines, and the weight of responsibility settling upon her shoulders.

Yet despite her fatigue, Elizabeth knew sleep would prove elusive.

The bed behind her, grand and imposing with its carved posts and rich hangings, seemed to emphasise her solitude rather than invite repose.

Her thoughts drifted to their wedding journey, the strange week of travel that had brought them from Hertfordshire to Derbyshire.

Darcy had been the perfect gentleman throughout, solicitous of her comfort, attentive to her needs, and unfailingly kind.

However, he had also been unexpectedly distant.

Not cold, never that, but maintaining a careful space between them, as though invisible boundaries had been drawn that he would not cross.

And so until they left Lydia in Leicester, Elizabeth had shared a room with her youngest sister, while Darcy slept separately.

It had been a practical arrangement, but Elizabeth could not help wondering if there were other reasons for Darcy’s suggestion, especially as Darcy continued to insist on separate rooms for them once they had left Lydia and continued on to Pemberley.

Now, as she moved away from the window and sat on the edge of the massive bed, Elizabeth found herself torn between gratitude for his consideration and a nagging uncertainty about his motivations.

Was it truly just a matter of waiting for the right time and place?

Or did Darcy perhaps have reservations about their marriage that he had not voiced?

Sharing a room with Lydia had been an exercise in patience. Her sister, though sobered by her experiences, remained at heart the same Lydia: talkative, prone to giggling, and utterly incapable of keeping her thoughts to herself.

“Lord, Lizzy, your Mr. Darcy is so very proper,” Lydia had whispered on their first night, after Elizabeth had explained the sleeping arrangements. “I should have thought he would be quite desperate to have you to himself, especially considering the way he looks at you!”

“Mr. Darcy is a gentleman,” Elizabeth had replied stiffly, “who considers my comfort and reputation above his own desires.” How awkward this conversation with her younger sister, her pregnant younger sister, who despite her unwed state had far more understanding of what would happen in the marriage bed than Elizabeth herself!

Lydia had just laughed, a sound that held less joy than it once had. “Well, I suppose that is what makes him different from... from some men.”

The unspoken name had hung between them: Wickham .

The man who had ruined Lydia, who would have abandoned her to disgrace without a second thought.

The contrast between the two men could not have been starker, and Elizabeth had felt a rush of gratitude toward her husband, even as she wondered at his restraint.

Each morning of their journey, Darcy had greeted her with warm civility, his eyes conveying a depth of feeling that his behaviour did not express.

Each night, he had bid her a proper good night, sometimes allowing his fingertips to linger against hers as he kissed her hand, sometimes brushing his lips against her cheek, but never crossing the invisible line he had drawn.

He confused her intensely. Elizabeth knew he desired her; she had seen it in his eyes many times since that fateful day at Hunsford, once she knew to look for it.

Had felt it in the tension that sometimes filled the air between them when they found themselves alone.

Yet he held back, and she could not help wondering why.

Was it possible that despite his love, he felt some hesitation about the connection he was making with her family?

The thought made her stomach clench painfully.

Darcy had assured her that he no longer cared about the differences in their situations, that he valued her above all considerations of wealth or status.

But old doubts died hard, and Elizabeth found herself wondering if, now that they were actually married, he was having second thoughts about allying himself so permanently with a family like hers.

Or perhaps he simply wanted their first time together to be perfect, untainted by the complexities of their situation, free from the hovering presence of Lydia and the whispered scandal they were trying so hard to prevent?

Elizabeth rose and began to pace the room, her nightgown swishing softly around her ankles.

It was strange being Mrs. Darcy but not yet truly his wife.

She had a new name, a new home, new responsibilities, and yet there remained this fundamental threshold they had not crossed.

She was no longer Miss Elizabeth Bennet, but not fully Mrs. Darcy either.

Her mother, had she known of the arrangement, would have been beside herself.

Mrs. Bennet had whispered all manner of advice and warnings to Elizabeth in the days before the wedding, most of it making little sense and some of it causing Elizabeth to blush furiously.

The one consistent theme had been that Elizabeth must do her duty and secure her position by giving Darcy an heir as quickly as possible.

“Men can be fickle, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet had warned, “even the best of them. Nothing secures a marriage like a child. A son, if you possibly can, though thank the good Lord his estate is not entailed like your father’s!”

Elizabeth had dismissed her mother’s anxieties at the time, confident in Darcy’s love and her own understanding of his character.

Now, alone in her grand bedchamber at Pemberley, she found herself less certain.

Not of his love, which she did not doubt considering the trouble he had already put himself to for her sake, but of his reasons for this delay.

She climbed into the bed at last, the sheets cool and crisp against her skin.

Tomorrow, she would begin in earnest her duties as mistress of Pemberley.

Tomorrow, perhaps, she would find the courage to ask Darcy directly when he intended for them to truly begin their marriage, because it seemed that tonight was not that night.

Her new maid Sarah had prepared her for bed and departed more than an hour ago, leaving Elizabeth to wait, and wait, until finally she concluded that her husband was not coming.

Staring up at the canopy above her, Elizabeth tried to imagine what it would be like when that time finally came. Would she be nervous? Would he? Would the strangeness of this delayed consummation make things more awkward between them?

The room seemed too large, the bed too empty.

Elizabeth turned onto her side, curling herself into a small ball beneath the covers.

She was Mrs. Darcy now, mistress of all she surveyed, and yet in this most fundamental way, she remained as she had been: waiting, wondering, hoping for a future that seemed tantalizingly close but still just beyond her reach.

Darcy was not even present at breakfast the following morning when a silent footman led Elizabeth to the door of the breakfast-parlour, but at least she was not to eat in solitary splendour, for Georgiana was there and stood up to welcome her with a delighted smile.

“Good morning, sister!”

“Good morning, Georgiana.” Georgiana’s obvious joy made the panicked, nervous knot in Elizabeth’s stomach soften a little. “How lovely it is to see your smiling face in the morning.”

The footman held Elizabeth’s chair, and inquired in sombre tones what she would like for breakfast.

“The cook will make anything you require,” Georgiana said eagerly.

“I am partial to chocolate myself, and coddled eggs with toast, and mushrooms and bacon if I am particularly hungry. But you can have kippers, or kedgeree, or an omelette, and of course we have coffee and at least four kinds of tea…”

Elizabeth laughed, holding up a hand to halt Georgiana’s excited recital.

“Chocolate with coddled eggs and toast sounds delightful, I thank you.” She nodded to the footman, who departed to relay her order to the kitchens, though they were certainly not left alone as two of his fellows stood at stiff attention on either side of the fireplace.

Georgiana took no notice of the servants, chattering happily away, which was something of a relief to Elizabeth who found herself able to relax after a few moments. She inquired after Mrs. Annesley, wondering where Georgiana’s companion was this morning.

“She is not a morning person at all,” Georgiana confided with a little giggle. “I breakfast alone, unless Brother is at home, and have the mornings to myself for my music, and we conduct our lessons in the afternoon and evening.”

“She did seem quite exhausted by the journey,” Elizabeth observed, wondering why Mr. Darcy was not present at breakfast, but not quite feeling able to ask.

“Well… she is quite old,” Georgiana said. “Almost seventy.”

Elizabeth blinked at that, startled. She had thought Mrs. Annesley a good deal younger, and said so.