Mr Bennet cast a glance about him. “Back to your business,” he said, and the servants scattered with gratifying speed.
He then turned to his wife and youngest daughter, Fitzwilliam following at a short distance.
“I shall not compel Colonel Fitzwilliam to marry a child who has already made one attempt to ruin herself,” he said in a low, even tone, “and has now very nearly succeeded in killing herself through sheer folly. No—if anything, you have confirmed my resolution. You will go to school, and you will remain there until you have learned some degree of sense. Indeed, I begin to think you may remain until you are safely past the age of marriage—or else be sent to a convent, where such schemes will be less easily attempted.”
Lydia’s outraged shrieks rang out at once, but Mr Bennet paid them no heed. Turning away, he walked back towards the house, pausing only to instruct Mrs Hill that Miss Lydia was to be confined to the nursery until Monday’s departure forStaffordshire.
As he went, Fitzwilliam heard him add, with quiet emphasis, that two additional footmen should be engaged for the journey—and, after the briefest pause, that a length of rope might be prudently included among the luggage.
Fitzwilliam glanced towards his cousin and her companions, who had borne witness to the entire scene with varying degrees of astonishment, and inclined his head slightly. “I trust,” he said dryly, “that this morning’s entertainment will not be expected to repeat itself upon our journey north.”
At this, he found himself very near to laughing again.
Only a few miles away,the Darcys were enjoying their solitude, blissfully unaware of the various dramas unfolding elsewhere. Not long after their carriage had set them down at their leased house, they had retired to their suite, with every intention of remaining there until circumstance obliged them to emerge.
The rooms they occupied were comfortably appointed, though by no means grand—something that might have struck Darcy more than it did his wife, for Elizabeth found herself perfectly content with all she saw. Indeed, she scarcely attended to the furnishings at all, her notice being otherwise engaged.
It felt as though they had withdrawn into a kind of retreat, created by the soft glow of candlelight, the steady warmth of the fire, and a quiet that seemed to wrap itself about the house, shutting out the world beyond its walls. Curtains remained drawn, more from inclination than necessity, and the hours passed with a swiftness that continually surprised her. Whether seated together upon the settee or lingering still longer where they had first retired, Elizabeth had little desire to be anywhere her husband was not.
“You do not tire of me?” she asked once, half in jest.
“No,” he returned, with a look that made her smile falter. “I only wonder how I endured so many years without you.”
She delighted in his undivided attention. There were moments when his tenderness made her blush, and others when his words—so earnest, so wholly hers—left her without any ready reply.
“You must not say such things,” she said once, turning her face away.
“I must, if they are true,” he answered quietly.
Still, the warmth of his regard, so steadily and openly expressed, banished every lingering doubt she had ever entertained. To be so loved—and to know it without reservation—was a happiness she had not before imagined, particularly in light of all that had passed between them before they met again at Pemberley less than a month earlier.
A stillness, unlike anything she had known at Longbourn, seemed to settle over the house, and Elizabeth soon became aware of how few servants there were, and how carefully they must have been chosen from Darcy House. Their discretion was evident in every quiet movement, and she quickly observed that it was only his valet who ever spoke directly to her or Fitzwilliam, and that but sparingly. Whether by a word exchanged in passing, or a note left in the dressing room, whatever was required was supplied without question, and with an efficiency that quietly astonished her.
It was not long before she understood that comfort here was maintained less by attendance than by restraint. Meals appeared at proper intervals; fires were kept in readiness without an order needing to be given. At times, she might almost have believed themselves alone in the house, were it not for the regular appearance of all that was required for their ease.
Elizabeth could not help but notice, too, the change in her husband in the days following the wedding. She had been accustomed to his reserve, and while it had lessened since their engagement, she saw now that it had not vanished. His manners had softened into something rather more open, though no less deliberate.
Fitzwilliam required little, asked for less, and yet seemed entirely content to devote himself to her comfort—an observation that afforded her no small degree of satisfaction. If she were not careful, she might soon grow accustomed to such attentions. Still, they were but newly married; differences must arise in time, and she hoped they would meet them with the same warmth that now defined their quieter hours.
She had not known, before, how much comfort might be found in so simple a thing as his hand seeking hers without thought, as it so often did—even in sleep. Each night, he seemed reluctant to be entirely parted from her; if he did not hold her close, his hand would find hers, or rest lightly upon her, as though even in sleep he would not willingly let her go.
“You cannot mean to hold me prisoner even now,” she said softly, without opening her eyes one morning when she felt his hand close around hers as she woke.
“If I do, it is only because I cannot be certain you will remain otherwise,” he returned, his voice husky with sleep. “For so long, you were only a dream; now that you are here, I find I must convince myself you are real.”
She smiled at that, turning slightly towards him. “You may find, sir, that I am less inclined to escape than you suppose.”
“Then I am the most fortunate of men,” he said, a smile touching his lips.
“You are,” she murmured, and, after a moment, added with quiet certainty, “as I am the most fortunate of ladies.”
She settled more closely against him, perfectly content to remain where she was—and to delay the day a little longer.
His arm tightened about her in response, as though the thought had never occurred to him to do otherwise.
Twenty-Six
Friday, 14 August 1812
