3
Nine Days at Pemberley…
D arcy rubbed his forehead with his hand; he sat at the desk in his study staring at a stack of correspondence that he knew he should answer but would much rather avoid. Resting his head on the back of his tufted leather chair, he gazed at his beautiful park through the massive bay window that encompassed most of one south-facing wall. Somewhere, beyond the lake and the fountain and the formal gardens and the maze, was Elizabeth. She had been at Pemberley for nine wonderful days, reading his books and walking his grounds and becoming fast friends with his sister. They had become such good friends that they now referred to each other by their Christian names.
The weather out of doors was very fine. The sky was a rich, cerulean hue that reminded him of the bluebirds that nested in the meadows every summer. Large cumulous clouds cast shadows over the land as they passed overhead like ships on the sea.
Darcy glanced at his correspondence and sighed. He did not want to remain indoors; he wanted to seek Elizabeth out, wherever she was, and spend the afternoon with her. He wanted to hear her play Beethoven and watch her pick cornflowers and listen to her speak of everything under the sun.
Most of all, he wanted to know what she was thinking in her beautiful, impertinent mind.
Was she thinking of him?
There was nothing for it. He would not waste such a perfect day sitting inside wishing he was with Elizabeth and wasting precious time. His correspondence could wait.
Darcy quit the room, determined to seek her out and ask her to walk with him. The park, the ornamental garden, the meadow…Where they walked did not signify so long as she was amenable to spending time with him. She had yet to see the woods; Darcy had been surprised to hear it. Knowing how fond she was of walking the wooded paths of Hertfordshire, he had expected her to leap at the chance to explore Pemberley’s.
She had not, and Darcy could not help but wonder why.
An hour later—after wandering aimlessly through the first floor of the house and narrowly avoiding Miss Bingley and the Hursts, inspecting the gardens, and walking the paved path that led to the woods—an under gardener directed him to the orchard.
That was where he found her—among long rows of cherry trees and apple trees and peach trees, sitting on a tartan rug spread upon the grass. Elizabeth was in the centre of it and his sister was beside her, a crayon in her hand and a smile on her face as Elizabeth tilted her face to the sky. Their bonnets were discarded upon the ground and their spencers as well, and what looked to be a letter. It was a lovely scene of domesticity—the kind of domesticity Darcy desperately hoped was within his grasp.
A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees, and Elizabeth shut her eyes.
She was beautiful.
She was guileless.
She was intelligent—far too intelligent not to know that he loved her.
Though he was reluctant to intrude upon their time together, he was not so reluctant that he was willing to forfeit such an opportunity to be a part of it. “I am very glad to see you have not been set upon by gypsies,” he said, stepping forward until he stood before them. “Pemberley’s woods are full of them.”
Georgiana exchanged an amused look with Elizabeth.
“Gypsies,” proclaimed Elizabeth, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand as she looked up at him from her comfortable seat on the ground. “I was under the impression there were tigers in your woods, Mr Darcy. I confess it is a relief to hear that I may only be set upon and not eaten.”
Darcy grinned. “I would not discount being eaten so readily, Miss Bennet. There are badgers, as well.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I shall keep that in mind, sir.”
Darcy offered her a belated bow. “Forgive me for intruding,” he said as he returned her smile.
She shook her head. “You are hardly an intruder, Mr Darcy. This is, after all, your orchard.”
Georgiana examined her crayons. “Do you intend to join us, Brother?”
“Only if you and Miss Bennet will consent to have me.”
“What do you think, Lizzy?” Georgiana asked. “Perhaps we ought to turn him away…”
A familiar, teasing smile appeared on Elizabeth’s lips. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. In the sunlight her eyes looked lighter, with tiny flecks of green and amber towards the centre. “I think we ought to take pity on him. Your poor brother has likely spent his entire morning answering letters of business and meeting with his steward. It must have been very tiresome.”
“Very,” said Darcy drily. He indicated the tartan rug with his hand. “May I?”
Elizabeth inclined her head, but her smile remained. “You may.”
He took a seat beside her, as close as he dared, and nearly sat upon the discarded letter. He picked it up and saw Elizabeth’s name written across the front in a neat, elegant hand. Beneath her name, the direction read: Pemberley, Bakewell, Derbyshire. Darcy ignored the little thrill he felt upon seeing it. “I believe this is yours,” he said, handing it to her.
“Oh! Yes, it is a letter I received just this morning from Jane.”
“I hope your sister is enjoying her visit to Kent. Did she happen to mention where your family is staying?”
Elizabeth glanced at Georgiana, who was presently absorbed in creating a masterpiece with her crayons. “They are near Margate. Jane says it is lovely and my mother is delighted with the town. My young cousins have gone sea bathing every day. I am happy to report that everyone is well pleased except for my youngest sisters, who were disappointed to find they were not, as they expected, going to Brighton.”
“I can well imagine,” Darcy remarked. “And your father? Was he able to join them?”
“He was. He has.” She shook her head with a self-effacing smile. “Forgive me. I am so used to him being always at Longbourn. That he has developed a sudden interest in undertaking such a journey with my mother and sisters is owing to you, sir. Had you not written to him, I am convinced my father would have stayed at home and allowed Lydia to go to Brighton with her friends. Mrs Forster, who is barely three years older, would have made a poor chaperon. I shudder to think of the outcome of such an arrangement. I am more grateful to you than I can say.”
Darcy bowed his head, profoundly uncomfortable with her gratitude. He had done what was right to be done. “You need say nothing, Miss Bennet. I should have spoken to your father long ago, when Mr…when I was first in Hertfordshire. I did not.”
“It does not matter,” she said softly, almost tenderly. “All is well.”
Their eyes met, and the corners of Darcy’s mouth lifted infinitesimally.
Yes, he thought. Perhaps it will be.