9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

E lizabeth awoke to the quiet crackling of the fire, the room warm and bathed in the soft glow of morning light. Her gaze shifted to the bedside table, where a tray laden with offerings had already been laid out for her. Warm broth, tea with cream, ginger tea, milk, and even a glass of lemon water—enough to satisfy an entire household, it seemed. She sighed and shook her head, half-amused, half-exasperated by the unnecessary fuss.

"Do they think I am the Queen of England?" she murmured to herself, swinging her legs out of bed.

She reached for the dressing gown draped neatly at the foot of the bed and slipped it on, the soft fabric offering a small comfort against the chill of the morning air. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that, fuss or no fuss, she was, indeed, hungry. She sat down at the small table near the window and began to eat, her thoughts wandering to the excessive attention that had become a constant part of her new life at Pemberley.

Well, it was better than poor treatment, though she couldn't help but feel a touch of exasperation. Her protests to the servants—and to Mr Darcy himself—seemed to have gone entirely unheeded. A new day, but the same overabundance of care. The same hovering concern for her well-being, as if she were made of the finest porcelain, in danger of shattering at the slightest breeze.

After a while, the soft knock at her door announced Susan's entrance. The maid stepped inside, her expression calm but slightly uncertain, as if still unsure of her place in Mrs Darcy's service. "Good morning, Mrs Darcy," she said. "Would you like help getting back into bed? Or perhaps some more tea?"

Elizabeth sighed but smiled through it. "Susan, truly, I am quite well. I do not need to be confined to bed all day, nor do I require any more tea at the moment. I would, however, like to be dressed and perhaps have a tour of the house."

Susan blinked, a moment of hesitation passing over her face. "A tour, ma'am?"

"Yes, a tour," Elizabeth said firmly, but with a touch of humour to soften the demand. "Surely the mistress of the house ought to know her own home, ought she not?"

Susan looked doubtful but nodded. "Of course, Mrs Darcy. If that is what you wish."

The maid hurried to fetch Elizabeth's clothes, and Elizabeth patiently allowed her to assist in dressing, though her thoughts kept returning to how unnecessarily elaborate the morning routine had become. But when it came time for her hair, it quickly became clear that Susan was far from proficient. Her attempts to style Elizabeth's hair were clumsy at best, the pins slipping from her fingers or jabbing painfully into Elizabeth's scalp.

After the third—or was it the fourth?—time Susan's fingers fumbled with the plaits, Elizabeth sighed, her patience thinning. "Here, let me," she said, gently taking the hairbrush from Susan's hand.

The maid's face flushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I—I know I'm not a proper lady's maid. The master said—"

"Nonsense," Elizabeth interrupted with a smile, expertly pulling her hair back and twisting it into a simple, elegant knot at the nape of her neck. "You've been perfectly helpful. Besides, I'm no great connoisseur of fashionable styles myself. And given we are in mourning, there's little need for frills and fuss, don't you think?"

Susan's shoulders relaxed slightly, though the blush remained. "I'll try to improve, Mrs Darcy. I promise."

"You'll manage splendidly, Susan. There's no need for perfection. And look, let me show you a little trick with these pins. My hair is rather thick, so if you angle them just so..." Elizabeth demonstrated as she worked, guiding Susan through the motions. "There. It holds, see?"

Susan nodded, watching carefully. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Now," Elizabeth said with a bright smile, "I think I am quite ready for that tour."

Susan led Elizabeth down the winding halls of Pemberley, her footsteps almost inaudible on the thick carpets. As they approached Mrs Reynolds, who was directing a few maids in the main hall, the housekeeper turned to greet her new mistress, her brow slightly furrowed as if surprised to see Elizabeth up and about so early.

"Mrs Darcy," Mrs Reynolds said, her voice warm but cautious, "I trust you are feeling better today?"

Elizabeth offered her a small smile, trying to dispel any concern. "Yes, thank you, Mrs Reynolds. I was quite fatigued yesterday—overwhelmed, really. But I am well now and eager to familiarise myself with my new home. It is all a bit daunting, you see, and I should like to make it feel less... unfamiliar."

Mrs Reynolds studied Elizabeth for a moment, perhaps assessing whether her newfound energy was truly genuine. Then, with a nod of approval, she relented. "Of course, ma'am. It would be my pleasure to show you Pemberley."

They began with the mistress's morning room. It was a bright, cheerful space with tall windows that overlooked the gardens, the autumn sun spilling over the deep greens and golds of the estate. The walls were covered in delicate floral wallpaper, and a dainty writing desk sat by one of the windows, facing out to the rolling hills. A soft chaise lounge, upholstered in pale blue, rested beneath a large portrait of Lady Anne Darcy, her serene expression watching over the room. So, that was where Harry had got his smile.

"This is where you may take breakfast or spend your mornings, Mrs Darcy," Mrs Reynolds explained. "It was the former Mrs Darcy's favourite room, especially in spring when the gardens are in bloom."

Elizabeth nodded, her fingers lightly trailing over the back of the chaise. It was a beautiful space, but still, she felt like an intruder. "It is lovely," she said quietly, her gaze drifting to the portrait. "Perhaps, in time, I shall come to love it as she did."

Mrs Reynolds smiled politely and led her through the main rooms of the house. They passed through the formal dining room, with its long mahogany table that gleamed beneath the light of the crystal chandelier. The chairs, upholstered in rich velvet, were arranged with meticulous precision, and Elizabeth imagined grand dinners hosted here, the table filled with guests she had yet to meet.

Next, they entered the portrait gallery, where the likenesses of Darcys long past stared down from their ornate frames. Elizabeth glanced up at each one as they passed—some stern, some thoughtful, all proud. She lingered briefly before the portrait of Darcy's father, a man whose presence still seemed to fill Pemberley, even in death. His eyes were strikingly like his eldest son's—intense, watchful. She moved on quickly.

The arboretum was next, its glass walls a marvel of light and greenery. Even now, as the season began to turn, the plants inside thrived, their deep greens contrasting with the golden hues of the trees beyond the glass. A faint scent of herbs and jasmine filled the air, and Elizabeth could imagine escaping here during the colder months when the estate would be covered in snow.

"Mr Darcy takes particular pride in the arboretum," Mrs Reynolds said. "He tends to visit it often, especially when he requires solitude."

Elizabeth nodded. The space indeed felt like an escape, a small refuge in the vastness of Pemberley. She filed that detail away, supposing it might become a place she sought out herself.

They passed through several more "public" rooms, each grander than the last. The drawing room, with its polished floors and fine furnishings, caught Elizabeth's attention when her eyes landed on the grand piano in the corner. She moved toward it, her steps slowing as she recalled a conversation with Harry. He had described this very room to her once, his voice filled with fondness. Their father had bought the piano for their mother, not long before her death, he had said. It was meant to bring her some happiness in her final days, but she scarcely lived long enough to play it.

Elizabeth's fingers drifted absently over the keys, barely grazing them as she hummed a familiar tune, the one she and Jane used to play together. She smiled faintly at the memory, though it quickly turned bittersweet. She missed Jane more than she could express—her confidante, her sister. The distance between them felt like another chasm to cross.

"Would there be pen and paper somewhere I could use to write a letter to my family?" she asked Mrs Reynolds, her voice soft as she stepped away from the piano.

"Of course, ma'am," the housekeeper replied, gesturing to a writing desk neatly tucked into the corner of the room. "There is paper and ink here, as well as in the library and the morning room. If you prefer, we can arrange for a desk in your chambers, should you wish for more privacy."

"The library?" Elizabeth perked up, interest flickering in her eyes. "I have not yet seen it."

"It's not far, Mrs Darcy. Would you like to visit it now?"

"Yes, please," Elizabeth replied, eager to escape the quiet melancholy the drawing room had stirred in her.

They made their way down another hallway, passing by a closed door that Mrs Reynolds said led to Darcy's study. A footman stood outside, awaiting orders, and Elizabeth felt a strange pull as they passed. Mr Darcy must be inside, working diligently, no doubt. She walked on, but found herself glancing back occasionally, wondering what occupied him behind that door.

They entered the library, and Elizabeth stopped short, her breath catching at the sight of it. It was magnificent. The room was lined with tall shelves, all crammed with books of every kind. A grand, dark oak desk sat near the centre of the room, and a fire crackled warmly in the hearth. Large windows let in ample light, illuminating the richness of the leather-bound volumes and the warm, inviting atmosphere of the space.

"This is the library," Mrs Reynolds said softly, as if sensing that Elizabeth needed a moment to take it all in. "It was remodeled by the late Mr Darcy, and the master spends much of his time here when he is not attending to business matters."

Elizabeth nodded, her eyes scanning the titles on the shelves. There was something comforting about the room, something personal, even though she had never stepped foot in it before. Here, perhaps, she could find some solace. A private place, away from the eyes of the servants, and perhaps, even away from her husband. For now.

She ran her fingers over the spines of the books as she moved toward the desk. "I think," she said quietly, "I shall enjoy spending time here."

D arcy sat behind the large mahogany desk in his study, papers spread before him, the heavy scent of wax and ink thick in the air. The fire crackled quietly in the grate, doing little to chase away the sombre chill that had settled over the room. He had been at this for over an hour—attempting, and largely failing, to work through the business of his brother's affairs. Each document, each letter, seemed to sting him anew with Harry's absence, a constant reminder of the loss that had gutted him.

His focus strayed easily this morning, his thoughts wandering before he could make sense of the words in front of him. Every now and again, he would pick up a letter, glance at it, and then set it down again, none of which could hold his attention. His eyes moved to the clock on the mantel. Time slipped away, and he had accomplished next to nothing.

Then, a thought struck him—Elizabeth. He had not looked in on her since the previous evening, since that difficult exchange at her door. He had left her in the capable hands of the household, but still… it seemed his duty to inquire after her.

Rubbing his temple, Darcy leaned back in his chair and called for the footman standing by the door. "Go ask after Mrs Darcy," he instructed, his voice terse with exhaustion. "Find out how she is this morning."

The footman bowed and departed swiftly, leaving Darcy alone with his thoughts again. He stared at the papers on his desk, his mind wandering once more to Elizabeth. It was not… too intimate, his asking after her. Nothing that ought to make him uncomfortable. Surely, seeing to her welfare was one way of caring for Harry, of doing right by his memory.

Several minutes later, the footman returned. "Mrs Darcy is having her breakfast, sir."

Darcy nodded, satisfied in some measure. "Very good," he murmured, dismissing the servant with a slight wave of his hand. At least she was being looked after. It allowed him a small measure of peace, a fleeting sense that he was fulfilling his duty to Harry.

With that settled, he turned his attention back to the grim task before him, his eyes scanning the next set of letters. Some were dull matters—correspondence with Harry's superior officers, general documents of army life. A few were personal notes from comrades. And then, Darcy found it—a letter informing Harry of his promotion to Captain for meritorious service in battle.

A faint, almost involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Darcy's mouth. He could picture Harry receiving the letter with that irrepressible grin of his, the one that had always made him seem so much younger. His father would have been dismayed, no doubt. George Darcy had never wanted his youngest son leading battle charges, placing himself in danger, exposed to bullets and sabres. But Harry—brave, reckless Harry—had risen through the ranks with distinction.

He had been a hero. A flicker of pride mingled with the sorrow. No one could deny it. A hero of the nation. And yet, for all his valour and bravery, for all the battles fought and victories won, Harry had perished not on the battlefield, but here—at Pemberley. The place where he should have been safest. A horse slipping in the stable yard. A tragic, senseless end.

Darcy's fingers traced the edge of the paper, the memory of that day fresh and brutal. The irony of it twisted like a knife in his chest. An experienced cavalryman who had survived the horrors of war, only to be felled by a skittish horse on familiar ground!

But even that, that preposterous twist of fate, did nothing to erase the brave man Harry was. The man Darcy admired like no other. How George Wickham must have festered over Harry's promotion! Wickham, who had been given the same Lieutenant's commission as Harry, only through their father's misguided generosity.

Their father once insisted that Harry take orders and enter the church. It had been destined for him, that living at Kympton. But Harry—always stubborn, always independent—had refused, choosing instead the more dangerous path. Wickham had been only too eager to step in, to claim the living for himself, and Darcy had fought him at every turn. Wickham had no business leading a flock! Entering a position of trust, where monies for the poor would pass through his hands, where innocent maidens might be tempted to confide in him?

And so, Darcy had fought—for months, arguing with his father over the notion of promising this living to Wickham, since Harry did not want it. Eventually, his father had been swayed, and Wickham, deprived of an easy life as a country parson, had joined Harry on the Continent instead. It was a bitter twist of fate. Darcy had thought it unwise at the time—those two, too close for his liking—but there had been no separating them.

At least Harry had risen above Wickham. He had proved himself, time and again, while Wickham had remained the same twisted, wretched man he had always been.

Darcy let out a long breath, carefully placing the letter back onto the desk. He had been staring at it for far too long. His eyes were blurring, his mind weary from the weight of it all. The morning had nearly slipped away, and he had made little progress.

A fleeting thought crossed his mind: Would Mrs Darcy be leaving her room today? He hoped, in some strange way, that she would remain upstairs. It would be easier if he saw as little of her as possible, at least for now. He could barely keep his thoughts straight, let alone navigate the complexity of their new life together.

His hand reached for another of Harry's documents when a knock came at the door. A footman entered, his posture rigid.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam has arrived, sir."

Darcy's hand stilled over the papers, his mouth setting into a grim line. He should have expected this—Richard would come, of course—but it still took him by surprise. He stood, jerking the front of his waistcoat into place. "Show him in."

As the footman departed, Darcy braced himself. At least it was Richard and not the earl or Lady Catherine. There were certain… conversations he had yet to explore with anyone, and he had not yet decided how to go about them. The door opened, and Colonel Fitzwilliam strode in, his sharp eyes already taking in the sight of his cousin behind the desk.

Darcy straightened, his emotions a carefully controlled mask as he faced his cousin. "Richard."

They had always shared a comfortable camaraderie, though their bond was often steadied by the presence of Harry, the younger brother who had tied them both together more closely than they were to each other. Now, with Harry gone, Darcy felt the strangeness of it—the gap that neither he nor Richard could fill alone.

Richard stood there, quiet for once, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Without a word, he crossed the room and embraced Darcy. It caught him off guard. He stiffened, unused to such an overt display of emotion. For a moment, he was unsure how to react, his hands hovering awkwardly before he finally returned the gesture with a hesitant pat on Richard's back.

They stepped back, Darcy clearing his throat, unsure of what to say. He moved toward the sideboard where the decanter of brandy waited, grateful for something to do with his hands. "A drink?" he offered, his voice steadier than he felt.

Richard heaved a sigh. "I'd say I need one, and it seems rather improper to refuse when you look so grim."

Darcy poured two glasses, handing one to his cousin before taking a deep drink from his own. The liquor burned on its way down, but he welcomed the sting, if only to focus on something other than the crushing sense of loss between them.

Richard watched him, his expression more serious now. He sipped his drink and set the glass down, his brow furrowing. "How did it happen, Darcy?"

Darcy sighed heavily and looked down. "It was the horses. Harry was riding one of my mares... a stallion spooked at some dogs, got loose in the stable yard and charged the mare. She reared, and Harry couldn't control her in time. He was thrown." Darcy swallowed, the words bitter on his tongue. "He hit his head. There was nothing anyone could do."

Silence settled over them as Richard processed the information. Darcy glanced at him briefly, unsure what to expect from his cousin.

After a moment, Richard let out a broken laugh. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "It's shocking. Stupid, even. That something so... simple could have killed him." His voice wavered at the end, but he quickly swallowed back the emotion, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

Darcy nodded, unable to trust his own voice. It was stupid, absurd in its simplicity—a fall, a horse, a stone on the ground. He sat across from Richard, the two of them sharing a silence that felt deeper than words, a commiseration that neither knew how to put into language. They sat like that for a time, the quiet only broken by the occasional clink of glass against wood as they set their drinks down.

Eventually, Richard sniffed, wiping a hand over his face, and turned to Darcy. "What about the arrangements?"

Darcy frowned, unsure what he meant. "The arrangements?"

"For Harry. I got an emergency leave to come help with... well, his affairs. I thought you might welcome the help in dealing with the army," Richard explained, his voice gentle but probing, as if waiting for Darcy to lean on him, to admit that the burden was too heavy to bear alone.

But Darcy shook his head and waved the offer aside. "It has already been dealt with. The army—everything has been managed."

Richard leaned back in his chair, swirling the brandy in his glass. "And the family... they'll have their thoughts. You know Lady Catherine always meant to have one of the Darcy brothers marry Anne. Your father warned her off of you, but Harry… well, he needed a wealthy bride, I suppose. Lady Catherine may now be looking to you for satisfaction. And my father's probably already considering the disposition of Harry's inheritance from your mother. He was supposed to—"

"Richard," Darcy interrupted, his voice strained.

Richard looked up, startled by the sudden gravity in Darcy's tone. Darcy's hand gripped the back of his chair as he stood, then he began pacing, his thoughts tangled. He tried to force the words out, but they lodged in his throat, thick and unwieldy. How could he explain this?

"There is... something else," Darcy managed, his voice rough. "Something they do not know yet."

Richard's expression sharpened, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Darcy with a growing concern. He raised the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip. "What is it?"

Darcy stopped pacing and stood before the fireplace, his back turned to his cousin. He stared into the flames, watching as the flickering light cast shadows over the room. "Harry left someone behind."

Richard's brow creased. "A woman?"

Darcy didn't answer immediately. He could hear Richard's mind turning, the assumptions forming in his cousin's voice as he continued, his tone becoming more incredulous. "Surely not... not some mistress, I hope. You don't mean there's a woman claiming that Harry left her with child, do you? And demanding a fortune from you, no doubt."

Darcy stiffened, his throat constricting as he tried to swallow down the ache that had been building for days. He couldn't speak, couldn't bring himself to confirm or deny Richard's words. Instead, he resumed his pacing, feeling the walls of the room closing in on him.

Richard sat up straighter in his chair, his glass still in hand. "It is something like that, isn't it?" he said, his voice dropping as though he dreaded the answer. "Darcy, for Heaven's sake, what have you done?"

Darcy stopped abruptly, turning to face his cousin. His voice came out hoarse, low. "She was no mistress, Richard. She's a gentleman's daughter."

The words hung in the air between them, laden with significance. Richard's face paled, his brow furrowing as the full weight of what Darcy was saying began to sink in. He set his glass down slowly, the movement deliberate as if he needed a moment to absorb the implications.

"Oh, good Lord," Richard muttered, running a hand down his face. "What is this, Darcy?"

Darcy's lips tightened. His chest felt heavy, his breath uneven as he struggled to continue. "Elizabeth Bennet. She is... was… Harry's intended."

Richard stared at him, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "Harry's intended?" he repeated slowly, as though he needed to hear the words again to make sense of them. His voice was low, measured, but Darcy could see the storm gathering behind his cousin's expression, the confusion, the anger, and perhaps even pity.

Darcy nodded once. "Yes. He had every intention of doing the honourable thing and marrying her, but... but he died before he could formalise the engagement. There was no time for settlements, no official announcement."

Richard exhaled sharply and looked away, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. "A gentleman's daughter..." He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "And you've been left to deal with this mess? Surely—surely that's all there is, Darcy? You're not suggesting..."

Darcy swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He looked down, unable to meet Richard's eyes for a moment, and forced himself to say the rest. "I married her."