Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

" T here now, ain't it a sight?"

Indeed, it is , Elizabeth silently agreed, her mouth gaping open in wonder. Their driver, loaned to them by the proprietors of the Blue Lady for the purposes of their tour, had parked their open carriage at the perfect spot for viewing the great house of Pemberley. They were settled on the rise of a hill whereupon they could peer down into the slight valley below and observe the magnificent sandstone edifice, which glowed with ethereal warmth in the summer sunlight.

Pemberley was the most magnificent dwelling Elizabeth had ever seen. It was a large, handsome house—a proper reflection of its owner, she realised with a faint flutter of her pulse—standing well on rising ground and backed by a ridge of high woody hills. In front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance as was currently the fashion. Leaning forwards, she could discern a grove of willow trees swaying in the wind along one end of the bank, adding a whimsical charm to the scene. How lovely it would be to take a stroll under the shade of those delicate branches! She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.

"Is it not beautiful, Lizzy?"

Her aunt's dreamy sigh drew Elizabeth's ear but not her eyes; she could not tear her gaze from the splendour that was Pemberley. "It is magical."

"To be mistress of Pemberley would really be something."

Although this was said in an offhand manner, it struck Elizabeth with some force. She had been offered that very position back in April yet had disdained it for want of a proper understanding of the man who had extended it. Not that she regretted refusing Mr Darcy's proposal—no, indeed, for she contended still that they were incompatible—but she dearly wished she had not so unfairly lambasted the poor man over her own ill-formed opinions. If she had any regrets, they were related to inflicting her foolish prejudices upon someone who had deserved better.

All of a sudden, the midday light dimmed, and Pemberley was cast into shadow, dulling the soft glow that had emanated from it earlier. The wind whipped up, sending the willows into a frenzy and ripples streaking across the lake. It now appeared a more sinister place, and Elizabeth withdrew deeper into the squabs.

"Is it meant to rain today?" she heard her uncle query.

"No, but I expect we'll get some soon enough if the old farmers are to be believed. They're calling for a terrible storm any day now." So saying, the coachman whistled to his team, and they began their descent towards the manor.

As Darcy trotted down the main street of Lambton, nodding here and there to acknowledge the greetings of the townspeople, he wished desperately for a breeze to cool his face. He felt hot and dusty from a long day of travel, and he wanted nothing more than to arrive at Pemberley and take shelter within its shade.

Of course, even Pemberley would only provide him so much sanctuary. He was a few hours, a day at most, ahead of his party, after which he would be required to share his home with others. He had journeyed to London for the particular purpose of collecting his sister and friends for a house party—one arranged at yuletide and now regretted—yet he was weary of their company before even reaching their destination. Georgiana was more than welcome, Pemberley being her home as well as his, and Bingley was always a considerate guest, but his sisters…

It would not do to think about Miss Bingley, for his temper was already short. Days spent in her cloying presence and nights haunted by anguished recollections had wrought their mischief, leaving him without his usual sangfroid. Riding ahead was meant to preserve them all from Darcy's ill humour with the lady; if he had to endure her fawning pretensions any longer, or tolerate her unwanted appropriation of his arm one more time, he would likely say something unfortunate. To think, he had once considered Miss Bingley's company unobjectionable—even occasionally enjoyable!—to the point of allowing her to befriend his sister and visit his homes. His slight partiality, such as it was, had waned to nothing since meeting a more worthy woman—one whose absence plagued him with regrets—last autumn. Now, all he wished for was distance.

And so, when Darcy had awoken early that morning, miserable and twisted up in his sweaty sheets on the heels of a horrid dream, he had determined it was better for everyone if he absented himself from their travelling party. He had left behind a note for Bingley with some excuse about preparing the house for guests, another one for Georgiana with an apology and a promise not to question any headaches she might experience over the next fortnight whilst the Bingleys were in residence, and hired a horse to take him the rest of the way to Pemberley alone.

Darcy passed the Blue Lady, the local inn, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Just beyond this bustling establishment was the edge of town and the beginning of his own property. I am home! The house itself would not be visible for a couple of miles yet, but he felt a rush of comfort wash over him the moment he crossed onto his ancestral lands. This sense of belonging, of this being his place in the world, was almost mystical; it was as if Pemberley itself knew its master had arrived and embraced him with open arms.

This sense of peace persisted until Darcy reached the rise that would give him his first glimpse of the manor. He pulled his horse to a halt and perched there in the saddle to take in the familiar aspect of the building that had sheltered generations of his ancestors, nestled comfortably within the land that surrounded it. The warm sandstone walls were softly glowing under the afternoon sunlight, and the lake glistened like a faceted jewel before it. The gardens had erupted with colour since he had seen them last—the plants growing free and almost wild in their beds. The whole blended all but seamlessly into the woods that backed the house. Pemberley truly appeared as if it had magically sprung from the earth along with the flora and fauna of the world around it.

Glad as he was to be home—and he assuredly was—Darcy could not deny the pang of regret he felt upon beholding Pemberley again. Elizabeth would have loved it here. Only four months ago, he had greatly anticipated returning to his beloved estate with her as his new bride, but instead he had found himself retreating there to lick his wounds. He had ruined his chances with her due to his—how had she put it?—arrogant disdain for the feelings of others. He wished he could refute her accusations, but they had proved painfully correct. Looking back upon his own actions, he had not treated her, or those she held dear, with proper respect. He had not given much thought to whether she liked him or not, merely taken for granted that she would accept his overtures. With the social disparity between them, how could she do otherwise? Elizabeth, however, was not the sort of lady whose affection could be bought; no, it must be earned, and he had fallen far short of the mark. She was right to refuse me.

His father would have been utterly ashamed of how Darcy had acted. Although not without his share of pride, the late George Darcy had treated those around him, regardless of their social rank, with consideration. His long-standing friendship with his steward, Mr John Wickham, was a prime example of this liberality. Even if the younger Wickham's character had suffered from the largess, Darcy had fond memories of the elder as an upright, friendly man, who had been deserving of George Darcy's regard. He too often forgot the estimable father when the crimes of the degenerate son were before him. Despite this example, he had still failed to behave in a manner befitting a gentleman when it counted most. His father had taught him good principles, yet Darcy had followed them in pride and conceit.

Darcy shook his head sharply to dispel the crushing sense of melancholy that attempted to smother him. If he were to honour Elizabeth's candour and attend to her corrections, he could not allow his prior missteps to overcome him. Certainly, the guilt and disappointment were natural, but they were hardly productive. If he wished to become a true gentleman like his father, the sort who merited the love of a woman of Miss Elizabeth Bennet's calibre, then he would need to push self-castigation aside and focus on rectifying the faults in his character.

Nickering to his horse, Darcy resumed his journey to the manor. A breeze kicked up and blew at his back as if encouraging him forwards.