Page 15 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy

Elizabeth

19th July 1812

A fortnight had come and gone when Elizabeth found herself preparing for her first Sunday service as Mrs Darcy. They had skipped the Sunday the week of their arrival, too busy and hectic had everything been, but there was no putting it off now.

As she dressed, her sisters’ voices drifted from the adjoining rooms, chattering about Pemberley, Georgiana, and the prospects of visiting Lambton. Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm, though her own mood was more pensive.

When she descended the sweeping staircase, Mr Darcy was already waiting near the front entrance. Clad in a finely tailored coat, he appeared as calm and composed as ever, but Elizabeth thought she detected a trace of apprehension in his eyes as he stepped forward to greet her.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice warm but formal. “I trust you are ready?”

Elizabeth nodded. “My sisters will be down shortly.”

“And you?” Mr Darcy asked, his tone softening. “Are you comfortable with this?”

Elizabeth met his gaze, startled by the genuine concern in it. “I will manage,” she said simply.

Soon, Mary and Kitty joined them, and the party made their way to the waiting carriage. Georgiana sat with Mary and Kitty, keeping their spirits high with her cheerful conversation. Elizabeth, seated opposite Mr Darcy, remained quiet for most of the ride, her thoughts tugged in multiple directions.

When they arrived at the small church in the neighbouring village of Kympton, Elizabeth could not help but think back to Mr Wickham’s words. He was to have the position of vicar, the living that went along with it, and a permanent position.

Yet, Mr Darcy had taken it from him. Or so he had said. But was that correct? Had he spoken truthfully? Or was it all lies? He’d spoken quite ill of Miss Darcy and she was as effusive and kind as Mr Bingley.

She pushed these thoughts aside now for she knew she had to play a role this day. That of Mrs Fitzwilliam Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley.

***

As they entered into the small, unassuming church, the congregation turned to greet them. The vicar, a kind-faced man in his middle years, welcomed Mr Darcy and Elizabeth with great warmth, offering effusive congratulations on their recent marriage.

Throughout the service, Elizabeth was acutely aware of Mr Darcy beside her. Though they maintained a courteous distance, his every movement—the way he turned a page of the hymnal or bowed his head in prayer—felt significant.

Afterwards, as they strolled back to the carriage, Mr Darcy spoke quietly to her. “You handled that very well. I know such formalities are hardly of comfort at present.”

She tilted her head, catching the earnestness in his tone. “It is not the formalities that trouble me, Mr Darcy, but the pretence of it all.”

Mr Darcy paused, allowing their steps to fall slightly behind the others. “I have no desire for you to feel trapped,” he said after a moment. “You must know that. If, after time, you find this arrangement to be untenable, I will honour our agreement.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. His solemn words unsettled her, not because they surprised her, but because they reminded her of how deliberately he had crafted this path—one in which she retained some semblance of agency.

“I do know that,” she said quietly, averting her eyes. “Thank you.”

Their return to Pemberley was a more subdued affair. The journey passed quickly, punctuated by Kitty and Georgiana’s chatter and Mary’s occasional interjections. Once inside, Mr Darcy excused himself to his study, and Elizabeth found herself at a loss for what to do. After wandering the house for a while, passing by more maids and footmen than she ever thought a person could need, she made her way into the gardens.

The air, fresh and warm, helped her chase away some of her troubling thoughts. Perhaps this was just what she needed, a little air, a little freedom, a little time alone.