18. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

T he soft clinking of silverware on china echoed faintly through the cavernous dining room, filling the space where conversation ought to have thrived. Darcy sat at one end of the long, gleaming table, his gaze wandering over the ornate wallpaper, the heavy curtains—anything but the figure seated opposite him. Elizabeth, at the other end, sipped her soup—her posture as impeccable as ever, but her face almost devoid of expression. The footman stood by, watching over the formalities, though his presence only deepened the feeling of awkwardness that clung to the air between them.

Darcy cleared his throat softly, his eyes flickering to Elizabeth, who remained focused on her meal. "The weather today was... agreeable," he ventured, though even he heard how strained it sounded.

"Indeed," Elizabeth replied with a small nod. "Clear skies, though a bit colder than expected for this time of year. The colonel should experience an uneventful journey."

"Quite so." He glanced down at his plate, cutting into his food more forcefully than intended. Silence fell again, more oppressive than the last. Darcy stole a glance in Elizabeth's direction, hoping for some sign, some expression that might help him understand her better. But her face, though serene, gave nothing away. She was a puzzle he could not quite solve, and the distance between them—both physical and otherwise—felt insurmountable.

Darcy cleared his throat again, this time more purposefully, and cast about for another subject. "The cook has outdone herself with the pheasant," he remarked, though the compliment felt hollow even to his own ears.

Elizabeth paused, setting her fork down with deliberate care. "Yes," she agreed, though her tone was just as neutral. "The seasoning is... complex."

He nodded, unsure of how to prolong the conversation. His eyes darted across the expanse of the table, the polished silverware gleaming in the candlelight. The formality of it all only served to make the space between them more daunting.

"I trust your new gowns have all arrived?"

"Yes, thank you," Elizabeth replied, her eyes meeting his briefly before she returned her focus to her plate. "Susan is attempting to hem one that arrived too long, but I fear she is so nervous sewing the satin that she is like to puncture herself."

He stiffened slightly, guilt tugging at him for not having procured a proper maid for her. "Mrs Reynolds is... efficient," he said, searching for the right words. "I shall ask her if she can refer someone more capable to assist you."

Elizabeth gave him a polite smile. "I am in jest, sir. I think Susan has managed well enough so far, and I rather like her."

Another stretch of silence followed, punctuated only by the faint clink of cutlery. Darcy felt as though the sheer size of their unspoken words was crowding the room, and he struggled to break through it.

There was… something else that had entered his mind this afternoon. A duty… if one wished to call it that. One that, with Richard out of his house, he might turn his mind to a little more decisively. But matters between them had not yet warmed sufficiently for that , and he had no idea how to stoke the embers of an unkindled fire.

"You seemed to enjoy walking by the lake this afternoon," he offered, feeling slightly foolish the moment the words left his mouth.

Elizabeth's lips quirked slightly, as if amused by his attempt. "Yes," she said, setting her spoon down with a small sigh. "It offers a sense of calm, I suppose."

His gaze flickered over her, lingering on the softness of her features, the ease with which she spoke of something so simple. For the first time all evening, there seemed to be a flicker of connection between them. But it vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving Darcy floundering once more.

They continued in this manner—brief exchanges that never quite took root, leaving both of them glancing uncomfortably at each other between phrases. Finally, Elizabeth looked up, catching him watching her. She folded her hands in her lap, raising an eyebrow.

"Mr Darcy, perhaps you can solve a mystery for me?"

His brow furrowed. "What mystery is that, Mrs Darcy?"

Elizabeth reached for her wine glass and tilted her head before drinking of it. "I cannot, for the life of me, recall what colour your eyes are. As you are seated so far away, I find myself at a distinct disadvantage. Perhaps I ought to acquire a pair of spectacles, like some poor, feeble old man, so I will not have to rely on my rather poorly-informed memory."

Darcy's lips twitched despite himself. She had caught him off guard, and for the first time all evening, he felt the coolness of the distance between them lessen just a little. "You are welcome to come closer and discover for yourself."

Her smile widened, and without hesitation, Elizabeth rose from her chair. Darcy, feeling something stir in him, jerked to his feet as well, his movements so hasty that he knocked his knee on the underside of the table. But he would not let such a thing hinder him now. He gestured to the footman, who had stepped forward to assist the mistress, but Darcy reached her first. "I shall manage."

With a steady hand, Darcy lifted her plate and wine glass from their places and carried them to the chair beside his own. He set them down with care, then pulled out the chair for her, his hand lingering briefly on the backrest as she sat.

As she sat beside him, she leaned forward as if scrutinising him closely. "Ah," she said with mock seriousness, "I quite had it in my head that your eyes were blue, but I see now they are, in fact, brown. So dark a brown they are nearly purple. How silly of me to forget."

A small, genuine smile tugged at Darcy's mouth as he shook his head. "It was Harry who had blue eyes."

Elizabeth's expression softened slightly, and she tilted her head, correcting him gently. "No. His eyes were green. Shafts of blue, you are correct, but shot through with golden spikes, which, I fancy, he must have inherited from your mother, if that portrait of her in the drawing room is a good likeness."

Darcy paused, thinning his lips as he glanced downward, a momentary shadow crossing his face. "Yes," he murmured, "you are right. They were green—just like hers."

Darcy watched her as they resumed their meal, the silence between them after their brief exchange about Harry's eyes both comforting and unsettling. She was too sharp an observer to have "forgot" his eye colour, but it was a cleverer ruse than anything he had come up with.

Elizabeth had opened the door to something—a kind of levity, a natural ease in their conversation, and yet, he found himself unable to step fully through it. He glanced at her, seated beside him now, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her wine glass, as if waiting for him to say something more.

But what? His tongue was as good as stuck to the roof of his mouth. Richard's words from the previous day echoed somewhere in the back of his thoughts, a lingering reminder that he had duties, responsibilities to fulfil in this marriage beyond mere civility. He needed an heir—Pemberley needed an heir, and she was the woman to whom he had given his name. The very idea of it, of Elizabeth as the mother of his children, sent an unfamiliar warmth crawling through his veins. He could still scarcely separate her in his mind from Harry, and yet, at some point, he would have to make her his own.

How could he voice such thoughts? He was unsure whether he could even begin that conversation without tripping over himself.

"Mrs Darcy," he began haltingly, "I thought perhaps tomorrow, we might attend religious services at the village church."

She turned her head slightly, her expression neutral, though a flicker of interest crossed her face. "Yes," she said, nodding. "I had wondered when that might come to pass. It has been some time since my arrival."

He nodded, grateful that she had not resisted the idea. The truth was, they could not continue hiding away forever, as if the walls of Pemberley would shield them indefinitely from the world's gaze. It was time they presented themselves as the master and mistress of the estate, mourning period or not. He cleared his throat again. "It will be good, I think... for the household, and the neighbourhood, to see us... together."

Elizabeth gave a small smile, pausing as she lifted her fork to her lips. "Indeed," she said lightly, "I suppose it is time for me to be paraded out like a new portrait in the gallery." Her tone was teasing, but there was a deeper understanding there, too. Surely, she knew as well as he did what would be expected of them as the new Mr and Mrs Darcy.

Darcy managed a faint smile, but his heart pounded harder in his chest. This was all more difficult than he had anticipated. Did other arranged marriages stutter and falter so in early days? Egad, no wonder so many men took mistresses. Not that he would ever… it was not the way his father had carried on, and he meant to do no differently. But there was probably some simplicity in the transactional nature of…

Egad, but his wife was beautiful. That expression in her eyes—eyes so rich and glorious that no painter could ever set them down properly. And it was silly, but he never could keep his gaze off the brown silk of her hair when it pulled loose from its pins, as it was trying to do now. Like the rest of her, it was almost feral, and… well, it made his upper lip sweat and his toes ache, and everything in between… warm. His eyes followed the curve of her wrist as she ate and fell naturally to the curve of her décolletage and the soft curve of her body beneath.

Could he ask her? His hand shook on the spoon.

He could almost hear his father's voice in his head. "It is not for the husband to ask as if begging favours not owed. A wife has a duty to fulfil. Her husband must not treat her unkindly, but there is little room for sentiment in the matter."

Darcy's stomach churned, and suddenly, the syllabub turned bitter in his mouth. Hang it all, it was more… complicated than that! Even if Elizabeth had never been… that … with Harry, there were too many feelings, too much unknown between them for him to… No, he could not form such expectations—at least not here, in the dining room, with the footman watching. But he would have to at some point, and the sooner, the better.

His mind flitted between thoughts, between his desire to know more about her, his sense of duty, and the sudden awareness that perhaps... perhaps with enough wine, enough small talk… tonight might be the night he needed to confront the full reality of their marriage.

Elizabeth, still slowly picking away at the last of her dessert, glanced at him from the corner of her eye as if sensing his restlessness. She said nothing, but her presence alone seemed to stir something deeper in him. It would be… no punishment for him to…

Darcy gestured to the footman for a refill of his wine glass. Perhaps that would even out his nerves.

Elizabeth was watching him now—watching as he drained half the glass in one go and set it down with nerveless fingers. She gave him a strange look, then directed her attention back to her dessert.

"I suppose you must have had a letter from Mr Bingley recently?" she asked.

That brought some air back into his lungs. Yes, words. Plain, simple words. He could manage that. He cleared his throat. "I had another letter yesterday. He said he is preparing to move to the country."

Her brows arched as she sipped her wine. "I understand that as well. It seems that your friend has leased an estate barely three miles from Longbourn."

Longbourn…? oh! Yes. The estate in Hertfordshire where her family lived. He had been meaning to ask her about that. Three sisters? Four?

"I was not aware of such a happy coincidence," he replied in the evenest tone he could manage.

"You think it a coincidence, sir?" She smiled slightly. "Jane does not, though her modesty leads her to dissemble somewhat. I hope their reunion is somewhat happier than their parting was."

He swallowed and stared at his plate. "Indeed."

"Sir, if I may be so frank, you seem somewhat out of sorts this evening."

Darcy looked back up at her. "Do I?"

"I would assume the colonel's absence has something to do with your more sombre mood? Or is it some measure of dissatisfaction with the present company?"

He stiffened. "Not at all, I assure you. In fact, I was hoping to… to come to know you better, now that there are… fewer distractions. Er… what did you say all your sisters' names were?"

Elizabeth set down her spoon and turned to face him a little more. "Jane, you have already met. She is my elder sister. Then Mary is nineteen, Kitty is seventeen, and Lydia is fifteen." She leaned a little closer. "And I am no longer nineteen, but not yet one and twenty, in case you wished to know."

Darcy smiled. "Twenty-seven," he said, gesturing to himself.

She nodded. "A very sensible age. Why, I should think you would have outgrown every silly thing by that age. I wonder if I shall ever attain it, myself."

"There is a difference between sensible and glum," he said lowly. "And, for my part, what you term ‘silliness' might, in fact, be the perfect weapon against sorrow."

Elizabeth paused, studying him. For an instant, her face reflected something rather profound, but then she brushed it off and brightened her expression. "Yes, that it may. But you have not seen true silliness until you have met my younger sisters. Perhaps you will change your tune on that notion. I daresay it is to your good fortune that you never had to bear the rather constant embarrassment of what three younger sisters can wreak on a young lady's social endeavours."

He nodded, and his throat tightened slightly. "I had a sister once. She… and my mother… it was a difficult pregnancy from the start, and neither of them survived the birth."

Elizabeth straightened and pierced him with a more curious look. "I did not know that. I am sorry, sir. Your father must have taken it very hard."

"He did. Refused to even give the child a name for a proper burial, so Harry and I had to come up with something to tell the clergyman."

"And?"

Darcy lifted his shoulder. "Father's name was George, and Mother's name was Anne, so we called her Georgiana. A rather cumbersome name, but we were only eight and twelve at the time."

A pang of sympathy crossed Elizabeth's features. "It sounds as if you chose very well, indeed." She toyed with her spoon, turning it over uselessly in her fingers. "Are there… or were there… any other Darcys I should know about?"

He shook his head, and was proud of the even, controlled timbre of his voice as he said, "I am the last of the line."

Her eyes lifted to his, touching them for a moment, before she nodded faintly and resumed her dessert. The reddish tint to the edge of her ears—that could not be his imagination. She had understood more than simple words in his statement.

Yes, perhaps it was time to consider… more . His palms ached with nervous perspiration as the thought recurred to him. She was his wife, the one he had pledged himself to. It only made sense. And the pleasures of such a union would surely not be all physical. If he could forget, for a few moments, how she had come into his life, and put aside, at least for one evening, all memories of what he had lost when he gained her, perhaps that would be something of a beginning. Something to build on. Surely, he found her appealing to his mind as well as his senses.

The way she moved and spoke—so breezy and confident. Honest and artless, even when she was in jest. There was nothing timid or coy about her. In that, she complemented him well. She could be warm when he was reticent, blunt when he had no patience for artifice, and apart from Richard… or Harry… she was the only person who spoke to him without flattery or deference.

They finished their dessert in near silence, Darcy's heart now hammering with a mounting urgency. He pushed his plate aside, glancing at Elizabeth as she sipped from her wine glass. Now or never.

"Would you allow me to escort you upstairs, Mrs Darcy?" His voice was steady, though inside, it felt like a thousand hornets were trying to break out of his skin.

Elizabeth blinked, setting her glass down as the colour rose in her cheeks. Oh, yes … she was not insensible to the turn of his thoughts. Darcy gulped as a shot of nervous pain speared his chest. He could do this, he could do this …

"Of course," she said, offering him a small smile as she stood from the table.

Darcy rose as well, his movements almost automatic as he stepped forward to offer his arm. She took it, and together, they made their way towards the staircase. His pulse quickened with every step, his mind racing ahead to what he might say when they reached her room.

Should he kiss her when he left her at her door? Say he would ask the pleasure of knocking in half an hour? Better yet, he could offer to assist her himself… Would that feel too abrupt, too presumptive?

But his thoughts veered dangerously close to other possibilities, and the more he considered it, the more his body seemed to stir with warmth, a yearning he could barely control. Yes, he would, by Heaven. If not now, then when?

But as they began to climb the stairs, Elizabeth's pace faltered, and she sucked in a sharp gasp.

Darcy immediately looked down, concern flooding his voice. "Are you well?"

Elizabeth's face was flushed, her hand pressed against her abdomen. She looked up at him, clearly embarrassed by something. "It is nothing," she said quickly, but the forced smile did not fool him.

"The pheasant?" he guessed. "Something in the seasoning? Or perhaps too much cheese?"

She shook her head, a bashful smile warming her features with a little more sincerity. "No, nothing like that."

Darcy frowned, his brows drawing together. "Are you sure?" he asked again, his worry deepening. "You are tense and beginning to double over. Are you in pain?"

Elizabeth sighed, biting her lip. "I... I believe I need my maid," she said haltingly.

"Your maid?" Darcy echoed, still confused. "Shall I fetch her?"

She hesitated, then, with a glance around, she motioned for him to lean closer. "Please, Mr Darcy, it is rather delicate... My, um, my... I find myself suddenly out of sorts, and... well, I do not wish to... move."

Darcy stared at her, utterly perplexed. "Out of sorts?" he repeated. What in the world was she—

Elizabeth sighed again, her face now fully flushed. "Mr Darcy, it is quite obvious you have not been a husband long," she said softly, almost wryly. "I mean my courses, sir. And I am rather unprepared… and wearing a new silk gown, and… well, I should very much like to return to my room."

His mind suddenly caught up with the situation, and Darcy's face heated in embarrassment. "Oh," he managed, feeling utterly out of his depth. "I... I see." He swallowed. "Is there anything I can... do?"

Elizabeth winced, her posture stiffening as her hand instinctively returned to her middle. "I think I must move gingerly, but I am not sure how I can—" she began, but Darcy was already moving.

Without waiting for more of an answer, he scooped her up into his arms, carefully cradling her as he moved toward her room. Elizabeth's body stiffened at first, but after a moment, she relaxed, though her cheeks still blazed with embarrassment.

"It is a gallant gesture, but it might not help," she murmured, but Darcy was already focused on the steps. Her proximity was both a comfort and a new kind of distraction. The firmness of her frame in his arms, the way her body fit so naturally against his—it stirred something in him, something primal and instinctual. But he forced those thoughts away, reminding himself that this was neither the time nor the place for such considerations.

Finally, he reached her room, where her maid immediately sprang up to help the mistress. Darcy gently set Elizabeth down at the door, ensuring she was steady on her feet before stepping back.

"Thank you," Elizabeth said, her voice soft, though her gaze avoided his.

Darcy nodded, and retreated swiftly to his own room. He had managed to dodge the inevitable tonight, but there was no denying it—his feelings were changing, and sooner or later, he would have to face them.