“Would you like to sort through the post, my love? Then I can begin on the notes left for me by my steward. Or do you need to meet with Mrs. Reynolds?” Darcy asked his wife.
“Mrs. Reynolds asked me to delay our meeting until this afternoon. I have several hours that I can dedicate solely to you, Fitzwilliam, and I would be delighted to sort through the post. Do you think we are still receiving congratulatory notes? We met with a few of your friends while in town, but our interactions were limited,” Elizabeth teased.
“I am sure there are many who think they need to write to tell me what they think about my sudden marriage. My former solicitor had much to say on the matter; the man is far more of a gossip than I ever realised. I have never been the object of a scandal before, so he had never had cause. Of course, he was more upset that I would not tell him the name of the solicitor to whom I was taking my business,” Darcy replied.
“Men are far worse gossips than women,” Elizabeth observed, shaking her head when she saw the incredulous look on her husband’s face. “Admit it, you heard far more gossip at White’s than you did in your aunt’s drawing room. I can only imagine the discussion in the dining room after the ladies leave the room following a meal.”
For a moment, Darcy said nothing, but then, recalling some of those conversations, he realised he could say little to discredit her words. Of course, he would not want his wife to hear the stories shared by men over drinks and cigars after most meals hosted in theton, and he blushed furiously at the remembrance.
Elizabeth tilted her head as she watched her husband. “Whatever can I have said to make you flush so, Fitzwilliam? I do not believe I have ever seen your cheeks turn so pink.”
“It is nothing, dearest,” he replied stiffly. “I will admit that there are many men who are at least as inveterate gossips as some of the worst in society. However, I realise the types of stories men share when alone are not ones I would want my wife ever to hear.”
Elizabeth arched her brow. “Now I am intrigued. You cannot stop there. What manner of things do men discuss in private that you cannot tell your wife?”
“Men are not always gentlemanly when alone. I have heard things I would not dare speak of in mixed company since I can barely speak of them at all. Suffice it to say that men have few qualms speaking of ladies’, er women’s… attributes, or in speaking of their affairs and other things best left behind closed doors. I never contributed to these conversations, nor did I want to, and did my best to avoid the worst offenders,” Darcy said, the tips of ears still pink as he thought of delicate ways to phrasematters. “You asked me about my habits not long after we wed, and I told you then I would never pursue another.”
He sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair distractedly. “I was not an innocent when we wed, but close to it. With George Wickham as my companion, I wanted to act in as different a manner than him as I could, and my father spoke to me about all the potential ills of such things. He took me to a respectable establishment shortly after I reached my majority for… an introduction of sorts, and then discouraged me from ever doing so again. I waited for you, my dear, and I think we are better for it.”
“I thank you, my love, for that reassurance,” Elizabeth said, her voice soft with contentment. “I have found our marriage bed to be quite delightful, and it warms my heart to know it is the same for you.” She leant in to kiss him, her lips lingering against his in a sweet embrace.
When she finally pulled away, she drew in a breath, gathering herself before straightening with a playful glint in her eye. “Now, sir, enough of this gossiping. I have letters to open, and you have other matters to attend to. Let us get to work,” she added, her tone suddenly more businesslike, though her smile betrayed the teasing undercurrent to her words.
Darcy chuckled, clearly enjoying the playful shift in her demeanour. “As you wish, my dear,” he said, his voice still thick with affection. “But I must confess, I am not sure how I will focus on anything else when you are so near.”
“It is a lesson in patience, is it not?” she teased, before turning to the desk and the stacks of letters on it. She slowly began to make her way through the pile, scanning them each briefly before separating them into new piles.
Upon opening one towards the bottom of the stack, she let out a surprised gasp.
“What is it, Elizabeth?” Darcy asked, concern evident in his voice.
“I… I am uncertain who the letter is from, but it says that your Aunt Catherine has died. They wrote to you, for the only coherent words they could get from her were Darcy and Pemberley,” Elizabeth said.
Darcy took the letter from her fingers, his brow furrowing as he scanned its contents. After a brief pause, he shook his head in disbelief and read it again, more carefully this time. "It seems she somehow managed to escape the gaol in Gravesend. She attempted to commandeer a carriage to travel to Rosings, for she no longer had the one she had been using. The coachman, believing she was in league with highwaymen attempting to rob him, shot and killed her. At first, no one believed she was who she had claimed, but the magistrate who had arrested her came to investigate and confirmed her identity. I am unsure how ‘Darcy’ and ‘Pemberley’ became involved, but they sent notices to both Rosings and Pemberley, just to be certain."
He paused, clearly unsettled by the details. “It is an unfortunate end to an already tragic story. What my aunt has done over the years has harmed a great many people. I cannot feel sorrow for her death, but I do pity Anne for having such a mother.”
Elizabeth rose and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I am astonished to learn of her end. It is hard to understand how someone could become so bitter and unkind. Anne and I talked about her mother a few times, and Anne always wished she had been different. She thought Lady Catherine might have grown embittered because her life had not turned out as she wished—especially after Sir Lewis died. Perhaps she tried to compensate by manipulating everyone around her to fulfil her desires. She sought the wrong things and was never truly happy because of it.”
“She attempted to harm you and Georgiana. Anne also suffered because of her mother’s ambition and pride. I cannot mourn her loss,” Darcy stated.
Elizabeth’s gaze softened as she pulled back to look up at him. “You do not have to, my love,” she murmured, her voice gentle. “We are far from Rosings now, and any family member who truly understands what she did cannot expect you to grieve her deeply. Besides, mourning for an aunt requires only a month, and we will be at Pemberley for that entire time. We will not be in town attending balls and dinners. I am certain we will find contentment here, with just us and Georgiana for company. Jane will join us next month, and we will be happy together.” She reached up, brushing her hand tenderly along his face.
Darcy tightened his hold on his wife, drawing her close as he sought comfort in her embrace. Despite the bitterness of the memories Lady Catherine left behind—her interference, her attempt to separate him from Elizabeth, and even her threat against his sister—Darcy wished he could find it in his heart to forgive her, knowing that he could not hold on to such bitterness of spirit.
Not all his memories of her were so dark. As a child, he had thought of her as a favourite, a woman with strength and intelligence. But her entire demeanour had shifted after her husband’s death, and no one in the family seemed to understand the reason.
He briefly considered writing to his uncle to ask what had changed her so deeply, but nearly as quickly as the thought occurred, he dismissed it, resolving instead to ask Fitzwilliam when next they spoke. For now, however, he wanted only to lose himself in Elizabeth’s warmth. Gently, he pulled back, meeting her eyes, allowing himself to be completely absorbed by the love he saw in her expression.
Elizabeth held his gaze, her eyes filled with understanding and love, her hand still resting softly against his cheek. “You are not alone in this, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, tracing her thumb along his cheekbone. “Whatever you feel—anger, sadness, even forgiveness—I am here, by your side. We have already faced much in the short period of time since we wed, and it surely has made us stronger.”
He leant into her touch, drawing strength from the depth of her love and unwavering support. “Elizabeth,” he murmured, “I never imagined anyone could offer me the kind of peace that you do. You have given me more than I ever hoped to find.”
She smiled, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. “I am glad to be that for you. You have been my anchor, my strength, from the moment I realised I loved you. Even when we were apart, I thought of you. You have protected me, cherished me… now, all I wish is to do the same for you.”
Unable to resist, Darcy lifted her hand from his face and pressed a kiss to her palm. He held her hand over his heart, letting the steady beat speak for the words he struggled to express. “I do not deserve you,” he said, his voice low, thick with emotion. “But I shall spend every day trying to prove worthy of the gift you have given me.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
