7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

E lizabeth woke early, her head throbbing with the dull ache that often followed a restless night. She had probably ground her teeth all night, and now her jaw was stiff and sore as a result. Sighing, she lay still for a moment, staring at the thin slice of morning light filtering through the curtains. The events of the previous day weighed heavily on her mind, and the reality of her new life began to settle more firmly in her chest.

There was no point in staying in bed. With reluctance, she rose and began to dress herself, her movements slow and methodical. The room was cold, and she shivered slightly as she fumbled with her stays. She was almost finished when a knock came on the door.

Elizabeth hesitated, her fingers stilling on the laces of her gown. Was this her husband, come to… she knew not what, but who else could it be? She squinted. "Come?"

The door creaked open, and a young maid entered, looking mildly surprised to see Elizabeth already up and dressed.

"Oh! Beg pardon, ma'am," the girl stammered, taking a step back. "I didn't realise—"

Elizabeth blinked in surprise. "It's quite all right," she said, pulling her gown more tightly around herself. "I did not expect anyone this early."

The maid dipped a quick curtsy and introduced herself. "I'm Susan, madam. I rode with you and Mr Darcy from London. I'm to be your lady's maid, that is... if you approve, Mrs Darcy."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Approve? Why on earth would I not approve?"

Susan fidgeted with the hem of her apron, her face flushing a little. "Mr Darcy... he was not sure what your preferences would be, so he secured the closest maid at hand before we left. But I'm not a proper lady's maid, you see. I don't have the training..." Her words trailed off nervously.

Elizabeth took a deep breath, not quite sure what to make of this new development. Of course . Mr Darcy, as ever, thinking of every detail, even in the midst of such... complicated circumstances. "I am sure I shall be quite pleased," she replied, trying to offer a reassuring smile. "Thank you, Susan. I only wonder that I did not know of you sooner."

"Oh. Yes, well, the master said I shouldn't trouble you, and yesterday the horses were changed so fast whenever we stopped… and last night, I meant to follow you up to your room, but the master was with you, so I thought it best if I did not… did I do wrong, ma'am? I should have come later, shouldn't I?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "Think nothing of it, Susan. I am pleased to know you now."

The maid brightened a little, though her nervousness didn't fully leave her. "I meant to help you dress this morning, ma'am, but I see I've come too late."

Elizabeth nodded, smoothing her skirts absentmindedly. "It is quite all right. I have managed."

Susan took a step toward the table near the fireplace. "Shall I have some breakfast sent up for you, madam?"

Elizabeth shook her head, glancing toward the table. "I expect there is still some bread and cheese left from last night. That will suffice." But as her eyes landed on the table, she paused, her brow furrowing. The bread was gone. And most of the cheese tray, as well.

Her eyes narrowed. Now, who had taken it? Did she possibly stuff herself on that whole loaf of bread and forget about it?

"Is something wrong, ma'am?" Susan asked, her voice hesitant as she followed Elizabeth's gaze.

Elizabeth snapped back to attention, quickly clearing her throat. "No, it is nothing," she said, though she was not at all convinced that was the case. She took a breath and forced herself to focus. "I am ready to depart. Do you know when the carriage will be prepared?"

Susan blinked in mild confusion. "I... I don't, ma'am. But I can certainly find out."

Elizabeth shook her head. "No, naturally, I will speak to Mr Darcy myself." She gave a quick, somewhat self-deprecating smile, realising how detached she must seem from her own journey.

Susan smiled. "If you have no further need of me, Mrs Darcy, I will see to the preparations."

"Very well," Elizabeth said as Susan curtsied and left the room.

When the door closed, Elizabeth's gaze returned to the table with its missing food, and she wandered over to inspect it more closely. Had someone entered the room last night? Her husband? He was supposed to be the only one on this floor. Surely, if he had come in, she would have woken… or he would have awakened her. The thought sent a strange, uneasy shiver down her spine. But then again, she had slept fitfully—perhaps she had been more deeply asleep than she realised.

Still, the thought of Mr Darcy entering her room, so silently, so discreetly, unsettled her in ways she could not fully explain. What had he been doing in here? And why had he left without a word? Without… anything but a loaf of bread?

D arcy stood beside the carriage, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the inn. It had been... ungallant, he supposed, not to wait for his wife upstairs to escort her down, but he could not face her in the close intimacy of her room. He would rather not think too much on that particular arrangement, anyway. It was better, cleaner, to meet her here—on neutral ground—before they departed.

He pulled out his pocket watch, glancing at the time, and turned to his coachman. "Are we ready to depart?"

"Aye, sir," the coachman replied, giving a quick nod as he tightened the straps on the horses. "All's prepared."

Darcy nodded, satisfied, though he still felt a twinge of anxiety as he glanced back at the inn. Where was Elizabeth? He was told she was dressed ages ago. Susan, Elizabeth's maid, had already climbed into the second carriage, and after a brief hesitation, he strode over to her.

"Susan," he said, his tone brisk but not unkind. "Where is Mrs Darcy? Is she not ready to depart?"

The maid's eyes widened, and she fidgeted nervously. "She... she is, sir. She was down early. Said she wished for a moment to herself." She pointed beyond him, behind the carriages.

Darcy narrowed his eyes, looking in the direction Susan pointed. A small stand of aspen trees stood beside the inn, casting long shadows over the grass. There, on a rock overlooking a stream, sat Elizabeth. Her back was to him, her figure poised and still, though there was something almost dreamlike in the tilt of her head, as if her thoughts had taken her far away from reality.

Her shoulders were straight, her back composed, but her fingers fidgeted in her lap, and as Darcy drew closer, he realised she was humming softly to herself. She had not heard him approach.

"Good morning, Mrs Darcy," he said, his voice cutting through the stillness.

Elizabeth jumped, her hum dying on her lips as she turned sharply to face him. "Mr Darcy," she breathed, recovering quickly. "I did not hear you."

"I apologise for startling you." He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what else to say. "Are you well?"

She stood, brushing her hands lightly over her skirts before meeting his gaze. "Yes, quite well. And yourself?" There was a slight tilt to her head as she asked the question, her tone polite but with an edge of curiosity.

Darcy blinked. He had not expected her to ask after him. It was only common courtesy, of course, but there seemed to be something beneath her words today that unsettled him—something he did not care to examine too closely. He nodded, a little too jerkily. "I am well enough."

Elizabeth regarded him for a moment longer, then thinned her lips into what could pass for a smile. The gesture was stiff, but it softened something in him. He found himself extending his hand toward her, an offer he had not entirely intended. "May I escort you to the carriage?"

Her brow arched in a peculiar, playful way that was entirely unbefitting a woman supposedly in mourning for her lost love. Despite himself, Darcy felt a flicker of warmth in his chest. He had seen that look before, fleeting as it was, and there was something about it—something in the spark of her eyes—that stirred something almost... fond.

Foolish , he told himself. Very foolish .

Still, he clasped her hand as she accepted his offer, and they walked toward the carriage together in silence. The air between them was thick, full of unspoken thoughts and words neither seemed ready to utter. When they reached the door, Darcy helped her inside, his hand firm around hers, but his touch remained distant, careful not to linger. She settled herself onto the seat first, smoothing her skirts, and he followed, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the low frame.

As soon as he sat down, the narrow confines of the carriage seemed terrifyingly stifling. It had not seemed so… so close yesterday, but today, he felt as if they must be trading breaths in the small space. Though he tried to position himself as far from her as possible, their knees brushed almost immediately. Darcy froze for a moment, feeling the warmth of her leg against his, and before he could think, he jerked his knee away, straightening his posture awkwardly.

"I—my apologies," he muttered, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks as his body stiffened in embarrassment. He had not been this unsteady, this unsettled, in years.

Elizabeth's gaze flicked up to meet his. "No need," she said quietly, her voice controlled, though the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "It is rather... cramped."

Cramped. Yes , Darcy thought, desperately grasping for that simple explanation as he nodded. "Quite."

He shifted again, trying to give her more space, but the carriage offered none. Their knees collided once more, and this time, he noticed her fingers tighten just slightly in her lap, though she made no further comment. Instead, she glanced at him from beneath her lashes, her expression unreadable, but he could feel her watching him.

"Please, be comfortable," she said after a long moment, her tone not entirely unkind. "I am not made of glass."

Darcy blinked, caught off guard by her directness. Her words should have put him at ease, but instead, they stirred something else entirely. There was a confidence in her manner, a quiet but undeniable strength that reminded him of... Harry . He swallowed hard and nodded, though he still hesitated before allowing himself to settle back into the seat.

"Very well," he said, his voice a little too formal. "Thank you, Mrs Darcy."

Her brow arched again at the formality, and a ghost of a smile passed across her lips before she turned her gaze back to the window, leaving Darcy sitting there, his heart pounding far too fast for such a simple exchange.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The carriage lurched into motion, the horses' hooves ringing against the cobblestones. Darcy glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Elizabeth was watching him—staring, really—with a gaze so intent it made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. There was something impertinent in the way she looked at him, as though her eyes were full of unasked questions, probing deeper than he wanted them to.

His eyes fell on the bag of books he kept in the carriage, and an idea came to him—an impulse, really, but it felt like the right one. Without thinking too much on it, Darcy reached for the bag, pulling out one of the volumes. There, that would keep his mind occupied! He drew it out, but paused.

And instead of opening it for himself, he held it out toward her.

Elizabeth blinked in surprise, her eyes widening slightly as she looked at the book in his hand. After a moment, she took it from him, a small smile curling at the corners of her mouth. A real smile, not the stiff, forced one she had shown him before.

The sight of it did something to him, something he could not explain. He swallowed and quickly tugged out another book, opening it as if it were the most pressing matter in the world.

It was easier than trying to understand what she was thinking.

As the carriage continued its journey, Darcy found his gaze wandering to her occasionally, though he quickly returned to his reading each time. He did not want to admit it, even to himself, but the questions in her eyes—questions he could not answer—were beginning to unsettle him.

He could still feel the warmth of her knee against his.

F or four days, Elizabeth had ridden in silence, watching the countryside roll by as they journeyed toward her new home—toward Pemberley. In the beginning, she had been stiff with uncertainty, her body still and her mind preoccupied with the strange new existence she found herself in. But, little by little, she had grown somewhat more comfortable.

Her husband had been nothing if not polite. He did not speak often, and when he did, it was usually brief—a question about her comfort or the arrangements for their next stop. Yet, she had begun to notice a certain... attentiveness in his behaviour. After the first day, when she had mentioned being chilled, the next morning found the carriage equipped with extra bricks to keep her warm. And then there was his constant, quiet attention to her meals—ensuring that she ate, even though he never seemed to partake with much enthusiasm himself.

Odd . Very odd indeed. He had not touched her, had barely spoken to her, yet he took care of her as if she were a fragile object in his charge. It left her feeling uneasy, as though there were invisible boundaries drawn between them that neither dared cross.

He was kind, and in some ways, even considerate. Yet there was a distance between them that she could not penetrate, an icy reserve in his manner that left her wondering. Did he truly dislike her? Or was this how all gentlemen behaved when thrust into an arrangement such as theirs?

She glanced across the carriage now, her eyes falling on the book in his hands. He had been reading for much of the journey, a quiet and focused figure in the opposite seat. From time to time, she would catch him frowning slightly at the page, his brow furrowing in concentration, and she had found herself longing to ask him about it. Not that she dared.

But she recognised the title— The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon. Papa had that same book. She had read it once, not long ago, though she imagined that most men of his standing would think it beyond a woman's comprehension. Still, she wondered what he thought of it. Did he agree with Gibbon's assessments? What opinions might he hold on the fall of civilisations? Elizabeth longed for an intellectual conversation, even if it were with a man as guarded as Darcy, but she had said nothing. He gave no indication that he wished to discuss anything at all with her.

What would Pemberley be like? she wondered instead, her thoughts drifting. She was the mistress of an estate she had never seen, married to a man who had spoken perhaps four dozen words to her in total. It was an odd reality to reconcile. What would his household be like? How many servants would she oversee? Would they all regard her with suspicion or contempt, knowing too much of her sudden entrance into their world?

And she... she must surely be a disgrace to all of it. She had imagined many things when contemplating her future, but never this—a marriage of necessity, bound to a man who seemed to tolerate her at best, and to whom she was a burden at worst.

Her eyes returned to his book, still tempted to say something, to offer a comment about Gibbon's work. Perhaps she could ask what he thought of the empire's inevitable fall, or mention that she had read the same text. But as she opened her mouth, her courage faltered. What if he dismissed her thoughts? What if he did not wish to share any of his opinions with her?

Before she could decide, she noticed a subtle shift in Darcy's posture. He straightened slightly in his seat, closing the book and tucking it away in the leather bag beside him. His gaze turned toward the window, and a change came over him, as though some invisible signal had alerted him to their surroundings.

Elizabeth blinked and followed his gaze, realising what had caught his attention. They must be close now.

She turned her head toward the window as well, her heart beginning to race just a little. In a matter of moments, she would see Pemberley for the first time. Her new home. Her new life.

What kind of mistress would she be? What kind of wife?

Her hands fidgeted in her lap, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she gathered her courage. This was it—her new role, her new duties. Whether she liked it or not, her future was now inexorably tied to Fitzwilliam Darcy and Pemberley.

T he carriage rumbled to a halt at last, and Darcy felt the tension in his body tighten further as he glanced at Elizabeth. She, too, was looking out of the window, her eyes widening slightly as the imposing structure of Pemberley came into view. Her lips pressed together, and Darcy could not help but wonder what she was thinking. The estate was massive, sprawling out in front of them in all its grandeur. It was home to him, but to her... she must feel as though she had stepped into another world entirely. And he had to confess, after four days of marriage, he still… had no idea what her home had been like.

Darcy stepped out of the carriage, his face impassive as he scanned the front of Pemberley. Everything was prepared for their arrival, as he had instructed. The staff, dressed in mourning black, stood in a neat row at the entrance, waiting to greet their new mistress. But despite the orderliness of the scene, Darcy's stomach twisted with discomfort.

He was used to the servants knowing his business. It was the way of things, and it had never bothered him before. But now—now it was different. He could feel their eyes on him, their curiosity thinly veiled behind the professionalism they wore like armour. They were too intelligent not to have noticed the absurdity of his sudden marriage. It had been only days since Harry's death, and here he was, returning with a bride. A bride who would be brought to childbed in rather short order.

No, they were not stupid. They must have guessed some scandal lay behind it all, and the idea of it made Darcy's face burn.

Elizabeth stepped down from the carriage, and Darcy offered his arm. She hesitated, her eyes flickering toward the waiting staff. She must have sensed their scrutiny as well. But then, to his surprise, she squared her shoulders and took his arm. Her grip was steady, her chin lifted just slightly as they walked together toward the house.

At the top of the stairs, Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, stepped forward, her face solemn but respectful. Darcy's eyes swept over the black mourning band on her sleeve, and the lump in his throat closed up.

"Welcome to Pemberley, Mrs Darcy," Mrs Reynolds said, her voice steady, though there was a trace of something else beneath the formality. Curiosity, perhaps. Maybe even pity.

Elizabeth inclined her head. "Thank you, Mrs Reynolds. It is an honour to meet you."

Darcy watched the exchange closely. How would his new bride manage the introductions? Elizabeth had never met the housekeeper, knew nothing of Pemberley or the people who had served his family for years. She must feel completely out of her depth. But despite that, she was calm, composed—more composed than he had expected. Thank Heaven for small mercies. If he had to be bound to a stranger, at least she had some concept of decorum.

"I hope you find everything to your liking, ma'am," Mrs Reynolds continued, her gaze flickering briefly to Darcy before returning to Elizabeth. "If there is anything you require, please do not hesitate to ask."

Elizabeth smiled, a tight but genuine gesture. "Thank you, Mrs Reynolds. I am certain all will be well."

Darcy's eyes lingered on her as she spoke, noting the faint tremor in her hands, the way her fingers fidgeted ever so slightly with the fabric of her gown. She was holding herself together, barely, but she was doing it. He could see it in the way she stood, poised but taut, as if she were fighting against her own nerves.

The other servants curtsied and bowed as they were introduced, their eyes averted but sharp. Darcy could almost hear the thoughts running through their minds. Why had the master married so suddenly? Why had he brought this woman to Pemberley when the house was still draped in mourning? His skin prickled with humiliation.

He had always been a private man, but for the first time, he felt exposed. Vulnerable. He could sense the whispers that would follow them into the halls of Pemberley, the quiet conversations held behind closed doors. He had always trusted his staff to remain discreet, but this... this was different. He could not escape the truth, and neither could they.

"Mrs Darcy," he said, his voice tight. "You must be fatigued. I can have a maid show you to your rooms."

Elizabeth nodded, though he could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the strain in the set of her shoulders. She looked as if she might collapse at any moment, and he doubted she had taken a full breath since they stepped out of the carriage. But as she followed the maid towards the stairs, her gaze was pulled toward the open doorway of the drawing room. Her eyes wandered, taking in the grand entrance hall as they passed, the soaring ceilings, and then she turned her head to the side, catching sight of the open door to the ballroom.

Her feet seemed to move of their own accord—still following the maid, to be sure, but her steps carried her nearer to the doorway as they passed. Darcy followed silently behind her, observing with growing curiosity. He gave a signal to the maid, asking her to wait on her mistress. After all, there was no harm in letting the new Mrs Darcy admire the house as she pleased.

She stepped towards the drawing room, her hand resting lightly on the doorframe, her eyes sweeping over the elegant furnishings, the delicate china, and the artwork that adorned the walls.

For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, her fingers brushing the wood of the door as she absorbed the space. Then, without a word, she moved on, her attention drawn next to the ballroom just beyond. Darcy kept pace with her, his gaze narrowing as he watched her. Her steps had slowed, and her posture had shifted slightly,

As they neared the ballroom, Darcy saw her body sway ever so slightly. Alarm shot through him. Her hand gripped the edge of the doorframe, and she paused, her face flushing scarlet. Darcy moved behind her, close enough to see the way her neck seemed to go limp. She paused, her hand gripping the edge of the doorway as she gazed into the ballroom, her expression distant.

"Mrs Darcy?" he asked, his voice sharper than intended.

She did not answer. And then he saw it—the moment her body gave way, her knees buckling, her face paling now as she swayed again, this time more violently.

Before anyone could react, Darcy was at her side. "Elizabeth!" The name left his lips before he had even registered the alarm surging through him. He caught her just as she began to fall, his arms going around her as she slumped against him.

"Mrs Darcy!" Mrs Reynolds hurried forward, her face lined with concern. "Fetch water, quickly!" she called to one of the maids, who dashed off at once.

The maids sprang into action, but Darcy could only focus on the woman in his arms, her body limp against him. For a brief, terrifying moment, he thought she had fainted entirely. What the devil had happened? He had not known she was unwell—how had he missed it? And what was he supposed to do now?

Before he could gather his thoughts, she stirred slightly, a soft, pained sound escaping her lips. Then she rolled in his arms and, to his horror, she was sick.

The maids gasped, but Darcy tightened his grip, holding her steady as she heaved again. His arms trembled, his mind blank with shock. He had no time to react, no time to process what was happening. All he could think to do was hold her, to keep her from collapsing completely.

Mrs Reynolds was already issuing orders, directing the maids with practised efficiency. "Help carry her upstairs, sir. Please, sir."

Darcy, still at a loss, nodded dumbly. He lifted Elizabeth into his arms, her body rather… firmer in his arms than he expected, and turned toward the stairs. The maids rushed ahead, but Darcy barely noticed them.

All he could focus on was the woman in his arms—and the sinking feeling that he had failed her… failed Harry… Heaven knew who else. Without knowing even how, or what he could have done differently, somehow he was sure of that—that he had failed in every possible way.