The formal use of her new name sent an unexpected flutter through her chest, though she could not determine whether it sprang from pleasure or apprehension. “It is magnificent beyondanything I had imagined,” she replied honestly. “Though I confess it makes me rather nervous about my ability to manage such an establishment.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, at her frank admission of uncertainty. “Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, has managed the domestic arrangements for many years. She will guide you in whatever way you require.”
The carriage drew to a halt before an imposing entrance where liveried servants had assembled to greet their arrival. Elizabeth’s stomach clenched with nervous energy as she contemplated the magnitude of the responsibility she had assumed. These people would look to her for guidance, would judge her worthiness to bear the Darcy name, would expect her to fill a role for which her modest upbringing had provided little preparation.
Mr Darcy descended first, then turned to assist her from the carriage with the same formal courtesy he might have shown any lady of his acquaintance. His touch was brief and impersonal, yet she noticed the warmth of his gloved hand through her own thin kidskin gloves.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced to the assembled staff, his authoritative tone carrying clearly across the courtyard, “I am pleased to present my wife, Mrs Darcy, and to welcome Master Ambrose home to Pemberley.”
A murmur of respectful acknowledgement rippled through the gathering as Elizabeth attempted to project confidence she did not feel. The sea of curious faces seemed to blur together—housemaids and footmen, gardeners and grooms, all united in their obvious speculation about the woman their master had so unexpectedly chosen to wed.
Just as her composure threatened to desert her entirely, Ambrose tugged insistently at her skirt, his small voice piping up with characteristic forthrightness. “Lizzie, may I show you my favourite hiding place in the library? There’s a chair behind the big globe where no one can find you when you want to read stories.”
The innocent request broke the formal tension like sunshine piercing storm clouds. Several of the servants smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm, while Elizabeth felt her own rigid posture relax at his unconscious reminder that she was not just acquiring a grand house and its responsibilities, but also gaining a place in this child’s affections.
“I should be delighted to see your secret reading spot,” she replied warmly, taking his offered hand. “Perhaps after we have properly settled in.”
The introductions that followed passed in a more comfortable blur. Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, proved to be a woman of middle years with intelligent eyes and a manner that suggested both competence and kindness. The butler, Morrison, maintained the dignified bearing appropriate to his position while managing to convey welcome without overstepping proper bounds.
When the formal presentations concluded, Mr Darcy offered Elizabeth his arm. “Perhaps you would care to see the principal rooms? I should like you to feel at home here as soon as possible.”
The tour that followed revealed chambers of such elegance and proportion that Elizabeth felt increasingly overwhelmed by their magnificence. Each room seemed grander than the last, decorated with an artistry that spoke of generations of refined taste and unlimited resources.
The morning room glowed with soft yellow silk and delicate Chippendale furniture, while the formal drawing room displayed portraits of Darcy ancestors whose aristocratic bearing seemed to judge her humble origins from their gilded frames.
The library alone contained more volumes than she had seen in her entire life—leather-bound treasures reaching from floor to ceiling, their spines bearing the names of authors both familiar and exotic. Elizabeth ran her fingers along the smooth wood of an antique writing desk, imagining the correspondence and literary endeavours that had taken place there.
“My father spent most of his time in here,” Mr Darcy revealed, his voice carrying a note of fondness she had rarely heard. “He always said a gentleman’s library revealed more about his character than his finest clothes or grandest entertainments.”
The music room proved equally impressive, boasting not only a pianoforte of such exquisite workmanship that her fingers itched to test its capabilities, but also a harp whose strings caught the afternoon light like spun gold.
“Georgiana practices here each morning,” he explained, noting Elizabeth’s admiration for the instruments. “Perhaps you might join her when she returns from London. She would benefit from a musical companion.”
Throughout their progress, he maintained a structured commentary on the history and purpose of each space, his obvious pride in his ancestral home softening his usually austere demeanour. He spoke of architectural features installed by his grandfather, of artistic treasures collected by various family members during their travels, of improvements he himself had undertaken to increase both beauty and comfort. His voice grewwarmer when describing renovations made with Ambrose’s needs in mind—a nursery converted to a proper boy’s bedroom, outdoor play areas designed for safety while maintaining elegance.
Elizabeth began to understand that Pemberley was not merely a house to him, but a living testament to his family’s legacy—one he was determined to preserve and enhance for future generations. The weight of becoming part of that legacy pressed upon her shoulders like an invisible mantle, both thrilling and terrifying in its implications. Yet beneath her awe lay the persistent fear that Wickham’s schemes might render all such considerations moot.
“These will be your apartments,” he said finally, opening the door to a suite of rooms that took Elizabeth’s breath away. Pale blue silk covered the walls, while cream-colored furniture and delicate watercolours created an atmosphere of refinement. French doors opened onto a private balcony overlooking the gardens, flooding the space with natural light.
“They are beautiful,” she said truthfully, although the luxury made her feel rather like an imposter.
“My mother decorated these rooms shortly before her death,” he said quietly. “I hope you will find them comfortable. My own chambers are in the adjoining wing, connected by this corridor should you have need of anything.”
The separation he described brought both relief and an unexpected pang of something that might have been disappointment. She had not expected romantic intimacy from their practical alliance, yet the sleeping arrangements only seemed to further emphasise the business-like nature of their arrangement.
“That seems very suitable,” she replied with matching formality. “I appreciate your consideration of my adjustment to our new circumstances.”
“Perhaps tomorrow morning you might join me for a walk through the gardens?” he suggested. “I should like us to become better acquainted, if such an arrangement would be agreeable to you.”
The invitation, phrased more like a diplomatic negotiation than a husband’s request, nonetheless carried an underlying note of interest that surprised her. “I should enjoy that very much.”
As evening approached, Mrs Reynolds appeared to assist Elizabeth in settling into her new quarters. The older woman’s practised efficiency was tempered by gentle conversation that gradually put Elizabeth at ease.
“The master has seemed much happier since Master Ambrose came to live here,” Mrs Reynolds confided as she directed the unpacking of Elizabeth’s modest wardrobe. “A house needs children’s laughter to truly come alive. And now, with a proper mistress to guide things, Pemberley will be a home again rather than merely a grand residence.”
“I hope I shall prove worthy of such expectations,” Elizabeth replied, touched by the woman’s evident loyalty to the family she served.
“Oh, you will, madam. I can see it in the way you treat the young master. Such attention is what this house has been missing these many years.”
