10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Pemberley, Derbyshire Tuesday, September 23

M y dearest Jane,

I hardly know where to begin, but I suppose it is best to start with the facts before I wander into more pleasant fictions. You will be relieved to hear that I have arrived at Pemberley without any great disasters—though I fear you will laugh when I tell you that I am being treated as though I am made of the most delicate porcelain. Truly, you would think I had never walked in my life, given how eager everyone is to fetch and carry for me! I am half-expecting a footman to stand beside me while I breathe, in case I should take too deep a sigh.

Still, I must confess that Pemberley is every bit as grand as I had imagined, perhaps even more so. The house sits like a crown upon the landscape, with rolling hills, forests, and a lake that gleams in the distance. The library, where I now sit, is so vast that I believe it could house all the books in Hertfordshire and still have space left for a dance. And yet, for all its beauty, I confess the silence of the place weighs on me, though you know how I dislike admitting such things.

But now to the more serious matter. You have likely guessed by now that I am struggling to reconcile myself to Harry's death. I have tried, dearest Jane, to keep my spirits high, but the truth of it is this: I miss him. I miss the life we might have had together, the ease of his company, the sense that, with him, I might have found a kind of happiness I scarcely dared to imagine. But now, well... now that future is gone. I am a different Mrs Darcy now, and the name fits about as comfortably as a borrowed pair of gloves.

I do not mean to alarm you, Jane. Please, do not let my words trouble you overmuch. I am well, I assure you. The servants—there are more than I could ever hope to remember—are all fussing over me, making sure I have tea with milk, tea without milk, tea with mint, and tea with some lemon in case I should feel a faint need for refreshment. I have not gone without a meal, a warm fire, or a comforting word since I arrived. If anything, I am rather overwhelmed by their kindness.

As for Mr Darcy... well, he is exactly as you might expect. He is every inch the reserved, proper gentleman Harry described, with just as many thoughts locked behind that stoic brow of his as he has books in his library. He is polite and considerate, yet it feels as though there is always some great distance between us, as though he cannot quite bring himself to look at me too long. I believe he is grieving, too, though you know men show such things differently. He is not unkind—far from it—but he is not... Harry. I suppose that is the real difficulty.

Pemberley itself is beautiful beyond words, as I said, but it feels strange to be mistress of so fine a house when I still feel like nothing more than Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. Can you picture me here, Jane? Strolling these halls as though I belonged to them? No, I cannot either.

But do not worry about me. I have taken up residence in the library for now—imagine, me with so many books!—and I promise to write often. If nothing else, I shall have no shortage of time to write you very lengthy letters. Please, give my love to dear Mama and Papa and tell them that, despite everything, I am well enough and that I have found a quiet comfort here, in my own way.

Yours ever, Elizabeth

E lizabeth sat back in the chair, staring at the words she had written, the pen hovering just above the paper. She had done what she always did, hadn't she? Made light of the things that twisted her heart, put a mask of good cheer over the cracks in her composure. The truth was far more complicated, more tangled in grief and confusion than she would ever admit to her family.

She let out a quiet sigh and glanced up at the rows of bookshelves towering over her. It was impossible to escape the grandeur of Pemberley, no matter how many jokes she tried to make about the endless tea or the over-attentive servants. The house seemed to breathe with its own ancient weight, and she—Elizabeth Bennet of modest means and spirited nature—felt out of place in its shadow.

Setting the pen down, she folded the letter and sealed it, her fingers moving absently. At least writing to Jane had provided some solace, even if she had glossed over the more painful truths. If she focused hard enough, she could almost convince herself all would be well. After all, she was Mrs Darcy now, and that title should mean something. Shouldn't it?

Her thoughts drifted again to Harry—his laughing eyes, the warmth of his voice, the way he had promised her a future that was now lost forever. And now, here she was, bound to a man who barely looked at her, a man who grieved as she did, but in a way she could not touch.

Elizabeth stood, the letter in hand, and moved toward the window. The view outside was beautiful, indeed, but it felt distant, almost like a painting that she couldn't quite step into. She pressed the letter to her chest, the only comfort she had at that moment being the knowledge that her family, at least, was far from this strange new world she found herself in. They were safe. Her sisters might now marry. Her marriage had ensured that hope, at least.

T he room seemed to freeze. Richard's mouth opened, but for a few moments, no words came. He stared at Darcy, stunned. "You... married her?" His voice was almost a whisper, as if he couldn't quite believe it. " You? "

Darcy nodded, his expression grim. "Yes. I've married her."

Richard leaned back in his chair, his eyes widening as the enormity of the revelation settled over him. He ran a hand through his hair again, his usual composure faltering in the face of such unexpected news. "But why? For the sake of propriety? Surely... there were other ways to manage this. You didn't have to..." His words trailed off as his gaze sharpened, understanding dawning in his features. "You think... you think she's carrying Harry's child, don't you?"

Darcy's jaw clenched. He turned away, pacing the room again, his hands flexing into fists as he struggled with his thoughts. "I don't think," he began, his voice low, "I know."

Richard let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He seemed to be searching for something to say, but no words came immediately. Finally, after a long silence, he asked, "And does she know? Does she know what you suspect? Has she told you…" Richard coughed, gesturing vaguely with his hand.

Darcy stopped pacing, his back still turned to his cousin. His voice was strained when he answered. "She is not stupid, Richard. Of course, she knows. We married in haste because of the scandal. Perhaps we have not discussed anything in explicit detail because there are some things I do not wish to speak of or hear about. The honourable thing has been done. That is enough."

Richard sat up straighter, his tone hardening. "Darcy, you can't just marry a woman under those circumstances without knowing specifics. Were there any others for her? Are you sure Harry was the man? And how far along—"

"I will speak to her on the matter," Darcy cut in sharply, spinning to face Richard again. "But what would it accomplish now, in the middle of this? What would it change? I did what I had to do—what Harry would have done if he'd lived." His voice softened at the end, his resolve crumbling slightly under the weight of everything unsaid. "I had to protect her. And him."

Richard was silent for a moment, his sharp gaze watching Darcy closely, measuring his words. Finally, he let out a slow breath, the tension easing just a little. "And you think this is what Harry would have wanted? For you to marry her?"

Darcy's mouth tightened. He didn't have an answer to that. It was the one question that had plagued him since the day of the wedding. What would Harry have wanted? What would he have done? He had no way of knowing for certain. All he knew was that he had to do something, had to preserve his brother's honour, even if it meant sacrificing his own.

"I don't know what Harry would have wanted," Darcy admitted, his voice rough. "He named her—said what he meant to do, but I've no idea what… Either way, it is done now."

Richard ran a hand over his face, visibly exhausted by the revelation. "Good Lord, Darcy." He leaned back in the chair again, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for an escape from the enormity of the situation. "You said the family does not know?"

Darcy shook his head. "Not yet."

"And Lady Catherine?" Richard asked, his voice heavy with irony. "I'm sure she'll be overjoyed to hear you've married without consulting her."

Darcy gave a wry smile, though it held little humour. "She'll find out soon enough." He paused, his expression hardening. "But it does not matter. This is my decision. No one else's."

Richard sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. "So, what now? What do you intend to do?"

Darcy's gaze drifted to the window, the distant hills of Pemberley just visible through the glass. He was not sure what the future held, what lay ahead for him and Elizabeth, but there was no turning back now. He had made his choice.

"She is my wife," he said quietly. "I will see to her... and to Harry's child. We will make the best of it."

Richard shook his head, though the edge of his earlier frustration had softened. "I hope you're right, Darcy. I truly do."

E lizabeth felt as though the very walls of Pemberley were closing in on her. Every corner, every room, was carefully tended, polished to gleaming perfection, but for her, it only added to the suffocation. There was hardly a moment to herself, with servants at every turn anticipating her smallest needs—needs she hadn't even realised she had. The first time she had attempted to pick up a fire poker in her morning room, a maid had appeared as if summoned by magic, taking the poker from her hand with a swift, deferential bow. It left Elizabeth feeling like an ornament, something fragile and delicate, to be protected from every small exertion.

Her chest tightened again as she stood near the hearth. She needed air, space—something beyond the thick air of Pemberley's endless rooms. She stepped toward the bell-pull, and a few moments later, Susan appeared in the doorway.

"My pelisse, if you please," Elizabeth requested, keeping her voice calm, though her pulse was already quickening with the urge to escape. "I should like to go out walking."

Susan hesitated, her face colouring slightly. "I'm afraid, madam, your pelisse is still on the laundress's line. It... was soiled yesterday when you—"

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, suppressing the irritation that rose at the mention of her illness. She had not forgot, and she had no desire to be reminded of it. "Then fetch me something else," she said with a sigh.

The maid bobbed her head and rushed to the trunk where Elizabeth's things were hastily stored, emerging with a heavier cape than she would have chosen for the mild autumn air. Still, it was something, and Elizabeth was not inclined to quibble. She pulled the cape around her shoulders, fastening it with a sharp tug.

"Shall I fetch a parasol, ma'am?" Susan asked, her voice full of dutiful eagerness. "Perhaps a footman to show you about the grounds?"

Elizabeth turned to the girl, shaking her head. "No, thank you, Susan. I should like to walk alone." The words came out with a bit more edge than she intended, but she couldn't help it. She wanted— needed —to be left to her own devices for once.

Susan's eyes widened slightly, but she made no protest. Instead, she dipped another curtsy. "Very well, ma'am."

Elizabeth nodded, taking a breath as she stepped past her maid and out into the hall. The air in the corridor felt a touch cooler, cleaner, though not nearly enough to settle the unease simmering within her.

Once outside, she found herself on the lawn, circling the house in long, deliberate strides. She paused here and there, scanning the grounds, trying to decide where to go. Pemberley stretched out in every direction, offering more paths and gardens than she could possibly explore in one afternoon, but none of it felt... hers. Not yet.

The lawns, though perfectly manicured, were not what she needed. Elizabeth's eyes drifted past them, toward the wilder stretches of garden that lay further from the house. With sudden resolve, she made her way down a path that led into the gardens. The riot of end-of-season flowers and autumn foliage closed in around her, their vibrant colours almost too bold, too alive for her unsettled heart. She continued walking, her steps purposeful as the path wound through the gardens and out toward the lake in the distance.

The lake. She could see it glimmering faintly through the trees, its surface smooth and clear as glass, mirroring the changing sky above. A small breeze stirred the water, and Elizabeth paused at the edge, staring out at the reflection of the towering trees lining the shore.

Harry must have walked here, along this very path, stopping by this very lake. She could almost see him—his bright smile, his easy laughter. Perhaps he had brought Bingley here, or even some other friends from his regiment. She tried to picture Harry strolling these grounds, but the image faded almost as soon as it had come.

No, the one who most belonged here was not Harry. It was him.

Fitzwilliam Darcy. Her husband. The master of all this.

As much as she tried to push it away, his presence crept into her thoughts—his tall, silent form, his intense, unreadable eyes. She imagined him walking here, his long strides cutting through the serenity of the landscape. This place suited him, did it not? Its stateliness, its quiet grandeur.

Elizabeth felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air. She pulled the cape tighter around her shoulders and turned away from the water. She would keep walking. Perhaps if she kept moving, she might finally begin to feel as though she belonged here. Or, at the very least, she might find a way to make peace with the strange, unsettling new life.

" D arcy, I simply do not understand. You could have done this differently—you should have done this differently. You could have paid her off, settled the matter quietly, from a distance. You didn't have to—"

Darcy took a slow sip of his brandy, letting the warmth slide down his throat as he listened to his cousin's rant. It was nothing he had not already considered himself, and yet Richard's words stirred something raw in him. He could have paid a settlement, yes. He could have spared himself this marriage and moved on, free to wed some other woman of fortune and high standing. But none of that would have salvaged the one thing that mattered—Harry's honour.

His silence was a shield, one Richard couldn't easily penetrate. He kept his eyes on the fire, the amber light flickering over the rim of his glass, refusing to give Richard the satisfaction of an agreement, though, in the depths of his heart, Darcy knew his cousin was right. He could have done all those things, but none of them would have been enough.

Richard, impatient with Darcy's quietude, began to pace again, his boots tapping sharply against the floor as he circled the room. He stopped in front of Darcy, his eyes blazing with frustration. "It is not too late, you know."

Darcy looked up from his glass, a quizzical frown tugging at his brow. He scoffed lightly. "Not too late? And how, exactly, is it not too late?"

Richard shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing aside before meeting Darcy's gaze again, a faint discomfort in his eyes. "I know you too well, Darcy. You have not... fulfilled all the legal requirements, have you?"

Darcy's face went ashen, and his hand froze around the glass. The implication of Richard's words hung heavily in the air, and it took him a moment to find his voice. "You mean to say... the marriage...?" He set his brandy aside, his pulse quickening. "It is no one's business whether I have consummated my marriage or not. No one could challenge the legality of it. There were witnesses. The ceremony was done properly, as it should be."

Richard sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yes, I comprehend that. You know as well as I do that even if my father or Lady Catherine wished to contest it, they couldn't. But you could. If you avowed—"

Darcy cut him off, his tone sharp, defensive. "I gave my word, Richard. I will keep it."

Richard hissed in exasperation, pacing away toward the window, muttering under his breath. He stood for a moment with his back to Darcy, shaking his head as though trying to argue still. But then, suddenly, he froze. His gaze locked on something outside, and his posture stiffened.

Darcy, still standing beside the fire, noticed the way Richard had gone completely still. He frowned, setting down his glass and walking to stand beside his cousin. "What is it?"

Richard gestured wordlessly to the window.

Outside, in the soft autumn light, Elizabeth was walking toward the garden. She wore a billowing cape that fluttered around her as she moved, the heavy fabric catching the breeze. The cape—while practical in the cool air—did her figure no favours, and yet, something in the sight of her made Darcy's throat tighten. She looked small, dwarfed by the grandeur of the estate, her steps uncertain as she explored the grounds. There was an air of quiet resolve about her, though. As if she, too, was trying to find her place here, to claim some small piece of this vast, unfamiliar world.

Darcy forced himself to look away, clearing his throat. "I suppose she is... familiarising herself with Pemberley," he said, the words clipped and cold. "It is her home now, after all."

Richard glanced at Darcy with a bemused expression, but said nothing.

For a moment, the room was filled with an uncomfortable silence. Darcy swallowed hard, his eyes drifting back to the window despite himself. He couldn't deny the odd ache in his chest, the way his thoughts tangled when he saw her out there, walking the grounds he loved. But he forced it away, unwilling to linger on whatever that feeling was. This was duty. Nothing more.

Finally, he straightened his shoulders, breaking the silence. "You might as well meet Mrs Darcy now. Come. I will introduce you."

Without waiting for Richard's response, Darcy turned and strode toward the door, determined to maintain control of the situation, and perhaps even of his own unruly emotions.