6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

D arcy stood at the front of the room, his eyes fixed on the doorway, waiting for the woman who was soon to become his wife. It had been four long, uncomfortable days since his last encounter with her, and now, as the ceremony approached, he wondered how this moment would play out. Would she falter? Would she face him with anger or resignation? Or would she crumble, overwhelmed by the prospect of a marriage neither of them wanted?

But when Elizabeth Bennet entered the room, he was struck by the way she held her head high, her shoulders squared with quiet dignity. She walked toward him with measured steps, and though her face was devoid of any smile, her gaze met his unflinchingly. That alone made an impression on him. She did not shrink from him, nor did she show any outward signs of fear or shame, as he might have expected from a woman in her position.

There was no warmth between them, but he could not judge her for that. He had no smile for her, either.

He bowed slightly as she came to stand beside him and offered her his hand, palm down. It was a formal gesture, one made more from duty than any sense of gallantry. She stiffened, he noticed, a slight flicker of hesitation crossing her face. Then, with a subtle arch of her brow, she placed her hand lightly on the back of his.

It was the briefest of touches, barely there, but it was enough. Together, they walked toward the clergyman. Darcy was aware of every movement, the swish of fabric, the soft tap of her shoes against the floor. As they approached the man who was to solemnise their union, his eyes caught on the gown she wore. It was too loose, the fabric bunching slightly at her waist and dragging a little on the floor.

So, she had already grown too much to wear clothing that fit her properly.

The sight of her in that ill-fitted gown only cemented in his mind the gravity of what he was doing, and why. He was marrying her for necessity, to preserve what honour could be salvaged. As they stood before the clergyman, his mind wandered for a moment, wondering just how far along she was. A month? Perhaps more? Harry had returned from the Continent in mid July, so it was long enough to be certain of some things. He supposed that time would reveal the answer soon enough. For now, this was simply another step in fulfilling his duty.

The clergyman began the ceremony, his voice low and solemn as he read the words of the marriage service. Darcy kept his gaze forward, trying not to let his attention drift toward the stony faces of her family, who watched the proceedings with expressions ranging from discomfort to sadness. But it was Elizabeth who drew his notice again, despite himself.

Her face was not cold like the others. It was alive with feeling, each emotion—grief, resignation, perhaps even anger—flitting across her features. She did not mask it, and it made her impossible to ignore. Darcy found himself watching her from the corner of his eye, fascinated by the way her expressions changed with each vow spoken. He had to force himself to look away, to remind himself that this was duty, nothing more. It was not the time to be captivated by the movements of a woman's face.

They repeated their vows, their voices steady and formal, though her words were coloured with something that his own were not—emotion. When it came time for the clergyman to bless their union, Darcy listened with both relief and dread. It was done. The union was legally sealed.

They turned together, the formality of the moment still hanging in the air between them. There was no kiss, no gesture of affection, not even a perfunctory brush on the cheek. That would have been far too intimate for the circumstances. Instead, Elizabeth faced her family, her expression unreadable once more.

Her aunt and sister approached her first, their embraces awkward and brief, the kind given when there is nothing left to say. Then Mr Gardiner came forward, offering his hand to Darcy with some hesitation. The handshake was quick; no words were exchanged, just a shared acknowledgement that this was the best solution they had.

Darcy's attention returned to Elizabeth, watching as she gathered the oversized skirt of her gown with practised grace. Her face was set, determined, but her eyes were shadowed with something he could not quite place. She looked at him, their gazes meeting briefly before she spoke.

"I will go upstairs to change for our travels."

Her voice was steady, though he detected a faint tremor beneath it. She turned without waiting for his response, walking toward the door with that same quiet dignity she had shown since the moment she entered the room.

Darcy watched her go. Mrs Darcy.

It was done.

I t had been only half an hour since the wedding ceremony, and now Elizabeth was already standing in the hall of her husband's townhouse. She had not been given a tour, nor offered much of an introduction to her new life. No, they had stopped only long enough for Mr Darcy to change out of his wedding attire and have another carriage brought round from the mews for the long journey to Pemberley.

She had been introduced to the housekeeper, Mrs Hodges, who had greeted her with polite deference, offering whatever refreshment she might require. The housekeeper's eyes had been kind, though Elizabeth could not miss the black armband worn in quiet mourning. The sight of it stirred something in her chest—they were grieving for Harry, too.

But the reminder did little to soothe the knot of anxiety in her stomach. She had only just changed from her wedding gown into her travelling attire, and the thought of sitting down to eat or drink anything seemed impossible. "I require nothing, thank you. I am ready for our travels," Elizabeth said, her voice tight. She offered a sparse smile to Mrs Hodges, who looked at her with sympathy but said nothing more.

"Would you like to sit by the fire, ma'am? You may be comfortable here until Mr Darcy is ready. It will not be long."

Elizabeth hesitated but then nodded, allowing herself to be shown to a seat in the drawing room. The fire crackled softly in the grate, a quiet, warm sound that soothed her, though it did little to ease the scattered pounding of her pulse. Her gaze drifted around the room. A pianoforte sat in one corner, polished and elegant, its keys gleaming in the firelight. Who played that? Did Mr Darcy?

Harry used to. He said his mother had taught him, and she had seen him exhibit one evening at a party, with Mr Bingley laughing over his shoulder and turning the pages for him like he would for a lady. For a brief moment, she pictured Harry sitting there, in that drawing room with her, his fingers deftly moving over the keys as he played. He had been so skilled, better than she could ever hope to be. It seemed a lifetime ago now.

Her attention shifted to the few books placed neatly on a side table—decorous and untouched, from what she could tell. She wondered if her new husband had placed them there out of a fondness for reading or simply to give the room a more refined air. Did he even read at all? There were so many things she did not know about him. So many things she had never thought to ask when she had envisioned marrying his brother.

Well, she would have time to discover the answers. More time than she had ever bargained for.

The moments passed slowly, the quiet of the room oppressive as she waited. She stared into the fire, trying to calm the wild thoughts swirling in her mind. Only fifteen minutes later, her husband returned, dressed now in his travel attire. He greeted her with a brief nod, informing her that the carriages were ready. Without another word, they left the townhouse, their departure marked only by the faint sound of the door closing behind them.

Two carriages set off—one carrying them, and another behind with their trunks and two servants she had yet to meet. The cobblestones beneath the carriage wheels clattered rhythmically, the noise filling the silence between them. Elizabeth swallowed, her gaze fixed out the window, watching the dark streets of London slip by. It was easier to focus on that than to meet his steady gaze.

But she felt him looking at her, the weight of his attention almost searing her flesh, until finally, he broke the silence. "Are you well, Mrs Darcy?" His voice was measured, polite, as though they were merely strangers exchanging pleasantries.

Elizabeth nodded, not trusting herself to say much. "Yes," she answered softly, her hands twisting together in her lap. What else was there to say?

The silence returned, thick and heavy, as the carriage rolled over the uneven cobblestones. Elizabeth continued to stare out the window, watching the city fade into the distance, but her thoughts were far from the road. Her new husband said nothing more for several long moments, and she wondered if he had already given up on conversation. Perhaps that was for the best.

Then, without a word, he reached into a leather bag at his side and pulled out a book. He opened it with quiet deliberation and began to read, the rustle of the pages the only sound breaking the silence between them.

Elizabeth kept her eyes on the window, her heart sinking further. This was how it would be, then—duty, formality, and silence.

They did not speak again until the first change of horses.

T he carriage rocked gently as it pulled into the courtyard of the coaching inn, the sound of the horses' hooves dulled by the deep gravel beneath the wheels. Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, peering out the window, her gaze sweeping over the inn. It was a quaint, well-kept place, and as the carriage came to a halt, she noticed the staff bustling about in preparation for their arrival. Clearly, Mr Darcy had sent word ahead.

When the door swung open, and Darcy stepped out first, offering his hand to her, she hesitated only a moment before taking it. His grip was firm, but as detached as it had been all day. He gave no indication of emotion, no sign of any lingering warmth or even duty-bound affection. She allowed him to help her from the carriage, and together they approached the inn.

The innkeeper greeted them at once, bowing low before Darcy, his face bright with the kind of welcome reserved for a long-standing patron. Elizabeth stood silently, watching the man as he spoke to her new husband with the familiarity of one who knew him well. It struck her that Darcy's influence must extend far beyond his estate in Derbyshire, and though she had expected it, seeing it in practice unsettled her.

But then something shifted. The innkeeper's eyes fell on the black armband Darcy wore, and in that instant, the man's demeanour changed. His welcome became even more deferential, his tone hushed with a respect that bordered on reverence. It was clear that the sight of the mourning band had altered everything for the man, but he did not dare ask who Mr Darcy mourned. It was as though the very presence of that black cloth forbade any inquiry.

Elizabeth followed silently as the innkeeper led them up a narrow staircase. When he opened the door to the upper floor, she discovered with some surprise that Mr Darcy had reserved the entire level for them. A small, well-appointed dining table stood in the main bedroom, already set with a meal for two. The maids lit the fires in the adjoining rooms, moving quickly, their heads bowed as they worked.

When the last of the servants had finished their tasks, Darcy turned toward the doorway, his hand raised in dismissal. "That will be all, thank you," he said curtly. The maids curtsied quickly and hurried from the room.

Elizabeth stood uncertainly by the table, watching the flames flicker in the hearth, her hands clasped before her. She felt... lost, in a way. Everything about the evening had been conducted with such cold precision. There had been no conversation, no acknowledgement of their circumstances beyond the necessities. Mr Darcy had spoken to her only in passing, his attention focused elsewhere, as if the very thought of addressing her directly required some great effort.

Or he felt soiled by the association.

As he turned to leave the room, presumably to take one of the other chambers for himself, Elizabeth was overcome by a sudden burst of frustration. She stepped after him, her voice catching before she called out, "Mr Darcy?"

He paused, half-turning toward her, his face unreadable.

She swallowed, her heart beating faster. "Are you... are you not going to join me? To eat, I mean."

For a brief moment, his expression froze, as if her question had caught him completely off guard. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, perhaps—but it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

"I am not hungry," he said, his voice stiff. "Please, enjoy it yourself." There was a finality to his tone, one that discouraged any further inquiry.

Elizabeth stood there, the silence between them growing heavy. "I see," she murmured after a moment, though in truth, she did not see. She could not understand him, could not begin to fathom what was going through his mind. He had arranged for these sumptuous accommodations, a lavish dinner suitable for a wedding night, and yet he had no intention of sharing even a loaf of bread with her?

With a nod that seemed more of a dismissal than anything else, Darcy turned and entered the other room, leaving her standing in the dim light of the hallway, staring after him in confusion.

Why? The question ate at her, and she could not shake the sinking feeling in her chest. Why would he reserve such extravagant accommodations if he had no intention of observing their wedding night? Was it not customary for a couple to share such a moment, to sit together, to acknowledge their new life as man and wife?

And as for the things that usually came after the meal… why, had he no interest in that , either? Not that she was personally eager to sample Fitzwilliam Darcy's conjugal talents, but….

Nothing?

Her mind tumbled like water over a rocky stream, trying to make sense of it, but no answer came. The only explanation that rose to the surface, bitter and undeniable, was that he must despise her. He could not even bear to eat with her, much less fulfil any other expectations of their marriage. Had she misunderstood everything about this arrangement?

Heart sinking, Elizabeth returned to the table, though the sight of the food now turned her stomach. She poked at the plate before her, but she had no appetite, no desire for the fine meal laid out so carefully. Her thoughts were too tangled, too weighed down by the events of the day.

What had she done?

D arcy lay in the darkness, his body restless and his mind a hopeless snarl of thoughts. The bed beneath him felt impossibly large, and no matter how many times he shifted, he could find no comfort. He was too hot and then too cold, sweat prickling at his skin one moment, then shivers creeping up his spine the next. His thoughts whirled in endless circles, never settling, never letting him rest.

And his stomach. His cursed stomach growled and twisted, reminding him that he had not eaten all day. He had been too knotted up with anxiety, with guilt, to even think about food. But now... now the hunger gnawed at him, a sharp, insistent pain that he could not ignore. He should have eaten something. Perhaps he should have joined her for the meal, but the idea of sitting across from Elizabeth, newly his wife, was unbearable.

She would have assumed things , he thought bitterly, his fists clenching at the sheets. She would have expected him to act the part of the husband, to consummate this marriage. As if the consummation had not already happened! No, he had no intention of touching her, not now, perhaps not ever. If she delivered a son, that would be enough. Harry's child would be Darcy's heir, and that would be the end of it.

Or at least, it should be the end of it. But Darcy could not shake the nagging thoughts that lingered. Tomorrow, perhaps, he should ask her more details about her condition, about how far along she was...

No. No, that would be too much, too soon. He could not face that conversation yet. He knew enough. That would suffice for now. As soon as they reached Pemberley, he would summon a midwife, someone discreet. That would settle the matter.

He tossed and turned again, his mind racing in circles. It was impossible. He would never sleep, not like this. His stomach gave a loud growl, and he pressed a hand to his abdomen, feeling lightheaded from the lack of food. He considered going down to the innkeeper, asking for something to eat, but the thought of doing so was too humiliating. The innkeeper would know. Everyone would know. The grand meal Darcy had arranged for the wedding night, enough to feed six men, had been left untouched by the man who paid for it.

It would only prove what everyone would soon suspect: that Fitzwilliam Darcy's marriage was a sham.

No. He could not do that. But... there was food waiting in the next room, more than enough. And she was likely asleep by now. Perhaps if he were careful—quiet—he could slip into the room, take something from the table, and leave without disturbing her.

The thought seemed ridiculous, but his hunger felt as if it would swallow him whole, forcing his hand. Slowly, Darcy slid out of bed, the cold air hitting his skin as he pulled on his banyan. He moved silently down the hall, pausing outside her door. It might be locked. He would not be surprised if it were, but when he tested the latch, it gave way easily.

His hand stilled on the door handle as the implications of that hit him. She had left the door unlocked . Purposefully. In case her husband came to exert his marital rights in the night. Darcy's throat tightened, and he pushed the thought away before it could take root.

He opened the door carefully, slipping inside. The room was dark, lit only by a faint sliver of moonlight streaming in through the window. He strained his ears, listening for any sound. Her breathing was soft, steady—a deep rhythm that told him she was asleep.

Thank Heaven.

He eased toward the table, his footsteps as light as he could manage. The food was still there, untouched. Darcy's brow furrowed as he took in the sight of it. She had not eaten, either? That was not good. Not good for the child. His jaw set with concern. She could not neglect herself like this. Today could be excused—he understood the shock, the grief—but it could not continue.

He was just reaching for a loaf of bread when a sudden whimper broke the silence. Darcy froze, every muscle in his body tensing. He turned his head, his breath catching in his throat as he saw her shift beneath the blankets, the fabric rustling softly as she tossed.

For one terrifying moment, he thought she was going to wake and find him there, standing like a fool in the middle of the room. Or worse, that she would assume something... other than what he intended. He held his breath, waiting.

But after a few moments, she stilled again, her breathing evening out once more. Darcy exhaled, his heart still hammering in his chest. The room was quiet again, but his nerves were on edge, every sense heightened.

He should leave. He had what he came for—there was no reason to stay.

And yet...

In the faint moonlight, he could just make out the shape of her lying in the bed, her hair loose from its pins, scattered across the pillow like dark silk. Darcy could not help it. He crept closer, until he was standing over her bed, peering down at her.

Her features were soft, her expression calm—so different from the tense, hardened face he had grown accustomed to over the past days. In sleep, there was no trace of the turmoil, no sign of the pain or grief that usually marked her.

She was... Darcy gulped. She was beautiful .

The thought struck him like a blow, and he tried to shake it off. But as he stood there, looking down at her, something tugged at his core. He understood now… at least a little… what Harry had seen in her. Darcy had witnessed her intelligence, the way her eyes flashed when she spoke, the fire in her spirit. But there was something more to her, something deeper that he had not seen before.

Perhaps one day ... The thought slipped through his mind before he could stop it. Perhaps one day, he might see her like this again, in happier times. When she was not in shock or grief-stricken by the loss of his brother.

Without thinking, his hand twitched, as though to reach for one of the loose curls resting on her cheek. He could almost feel the softness of it beneath his fingers.

That was when he knew he had to leave. Now. Before he lost whatever self-control he had left.