Page 86 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

Elizabeth laughed aloud. Darcy smiled, a deep, genuine expression of relief.

“Two daughters married,” Elizabeth mused. “My mother will be unbearable for a month.”

Inside the drawing room, Bingley and Jane were finally beginning the life they should have started seven months ago. It was late, but they were together.

Elizabeth leaned against Darcy's shoulder, and he pulled her close. The garden smelled of late roses and cut grass. Darcy's hand was warm in hers.

She was going to have to write to Georgiana.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Pemberley was larger than Elizabeth remembered. She had recalled it as vast, but in the intervening months, the estate seemed to have grown even more magnificent.

The carriage rolled through the park in the late afternoon. The August light turned the Derbyshire landscape into a vivid tapestry of green and gold. The ancient trees formed great arches over the winding drive. When the house finally appeared through the dappled shadows, it was a moment Elizabeth had anticipated since the island. But no amount of imagination could have adequately prepared her for the sheer scale of the stone, the water, and the glass.

First came the lake. She had admired it on her visit with the Gardiners, but seeing it now carried a different weight. This was the lake she was going to look upon every morning for the rest of her life—a truth she needed time to absorb.

Then came the house. The warm stone was perfectly symmetrical, its proportions grand but never ostentatious. It stood with the quiet confidence of an estate that had endured for centuries.

She was going to live here. She was going to walk through those doors as the mistress of Pemberley. The great staff would look to her for the endless decisions that made such a vast household function. The immense responsibility felt daunting, rivalled only by the terrifying burden of keeping Fitzwilliam alive through his fever on the island.

Darcy was watching her. She could feel his steady attention. His gaze held the quiet devotion that had begun in Hertfordshire, endured the island, and was now bringing them both home.

“Breathe, Elizabeth,” he murmured, taking her hand.

She offered a shaky smile. “I am trying. The lake is somewhat overwhelming.”

“It is only water and stone,” he promised softly. “It is your home now.”

The carriage stopped. Footmen immediately materialised to open the doors and lower the steps, their service perfectly seamless and silent.

She stepped down from the carriage. Her new London shoes landed softly on the immaculately raked golden gravel. She stood before Pemberley, finally arriving as its mistress.

Georgiana was waiting at the door. Elizabeth had spent hours preparing for this meeting, carefully composing her words. She had braced herself for shyness and anticipated the delicate difficulty of meeting a young woman whose beloved brother she had married in secrecy.

She had not prepared for Georgiana's actual expression. The young girl stood in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly, fighting a desperate battle for composure. Her face was so full of naked, hopeful anxiety that Elizabeth's prepared speech instantly evaporated.

“Georgiana,” she said, and held out her hands.

Georgiana hesitated, then took them. Her grip was tentative, the nervous gesture of a girl who had been rigidly trained to curtsey but longed to be embraced.

“I have so deeply wanted to meet you,” Elizabeth said warmly. “Fitzwilliam spoke of you constantly on the island. He told me how clever you are, how kind you are, and how you prefer reading in window seats with your shoes off.”

Georgiana's face softened. Her anxiety gave way to a startled, genuine warmth—the relief of a girl who realised she was not going to be strictly managed by a demanding new sister.

“He told you about my shoes?” Georgiana asked, a faint smile appearing.

“He told me everything,” Elizabeth promised gently. “Including the fact that you practise your curtsey when you are nervous. You may stop doing that immediately, Georgiana, for we are sisters now.”

Georgiana finally relaxed her rigid posture. She looked past Elizabeth to Darcy, who stood watching the two women he loved most in the world with quiet gratitude.

“Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana breathed. “You did not tell me she was so kind.”

“I told you she was extraordinary,” Darcy smiled warmly.

Elizabeth laughed, breaking the final barrier of formality between them. They stood together in the doorway, breathing the fresh Derbyshire air, smelling of grass and warm stone. It smelled like home.

Mrs Reynolds was waiting in the great entrance hall. When Elizabeth crossed the threshold as the mistress of Pemberley, the housekeeper's professional composure immediately gave way to an expression of unguarded satisfaction. She had waited sixteen years to welcome a new mistress.