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You are not trespassing. You are welcome here.
“Miss Elizabeth? Are you quite well? You have gone pale,” Miss Darcy said, alarmed.
Elizabeth forced her lungs to function, pasting a smile on her face. “I am well, Miss Darcy. Just a little fatigue from the day’s excitements. The country air, you know.”
A knock on the doors interrupted them, saving Elizabeth from having to construct a more elaborate lie. A young maid entered, dropping a curtsy.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Darcy. The trunks have arrived from the inn at Lambton. Bates secured them all without incident. The master has requested I assist Miss Elizabeth in unpacking her gowns.”
“Thank you, Maggie.” Miss Darcy turned back to Elizabeth, her manner returning to that of the polite hostess. “I shall leave you to refresh yourself, Miss Elizabeth. Maggie will attend to your needs, and I will ask Mrs Reynolds to assign a girl to assist your aunt as well. We dine at six o’clock. If you require anything at all, you have only to ring.”
Elizabeth thanked her, waiting until the doors closed behind her before collapsing onto the edge of the bed. She pressed her palms over her burning cheeks, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was an enigma. The disdainful man who had insulted her at the Meryton assembly and separated Jane from Mr Bingley seemed to have been replaced by an attentive gentleman who treated her tradesman uncle with respect and offered her the grandest chamber in his home.
She rested for some time, and then allowed Maggie to assist her in changing out of her ruined, lemonade-splattered walking gown, selecting a simple but elegant evening dress of indigo silk. As the maid arranged her hair, Elizabeth stared into the mirror, her eyes wide and searching. She had spent the last two months reading his letter until the paper was worn thin, wrestling with the uncomfortable truths he had presented regarding Mr Wickham’s atrocious behaviour and his own meddling with Jane’s and Mr Bingley’s affairs.
But this man—the master of Pemberley—was someone new. Someone she was unprepared to face.
When the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour, Elizabeth descended the staircase. The house was bathed in the golden glow of early evening, the shadows lengthening across the marble floors. She followed the murmur of voices towards a parlour situated near the dining room.
She paused in the open doorway, an unladylike snort of laughter escaping her lips before she could suppress it.
Uncle Edward was situated in the centre of the room, strapped into the most bizarre contraption Elizabeth had ever beheld. It was a Bath chair truly ancient, constructed of carved oak and featuring oversized, iron-rimmed wheels that seemed as though they belonged on an engine of the Middle Ages. An elaborate system of leather straps secured his injured leg at an elevated angle.
Aunt Madeline sat nearby, holding a teacup, an amused smile on her lips.
Mr Darcy stood behind the chair, his hands resting on the pushing handles, serious and ridiculously handsome in his evening coat.
“I assure you, Mr Gardiner, it is structurally sound.” Mr Darcy patted the wooden frame with confidence. “It belonged to my grandfather. He used it for a full decade when the gout settled in his knees.”
“It feels as if I am being prepared for launch from a cannon, sir,” Uncle Edward remarked, shifting uncomfortably. “The straps are thorough.”
“A necessary precaution against inclines.” Mr Darcy did not crack a smile, though his eyes sparkled with hidden amusement. “I personally inspected the axles. I even had Fletcher sit in the chair while I pushed him down the length of the portrait gallery to test the steering mechanism.”
Elizabeth entered, unable to contain her mirth. “You subjected your valet to a high-speed tour of your ancestors, Mr Darcy?”
Mr Darcy turned, his eyes sweeping over her indigo gown before returning to her face with such intense admiration that Elizabeth’s cheeks reddened.
“I did, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice dropping. “Fletcher possesses a remarkable sense of balance, though he lacked a certain appreciation for the speed we achieved near the Holbein portraits. He requested I never ask him to participate in experimental conveyances again.”
Uncle Edward chuckled, patting the armrest. “Well, your valet survived, I suppose I shall survive as well. I am at your mercy, sir.”
“You are in excellent hands.” Mr Darcy manoeuvred the chair with surprising grace, turning it to the dining room doors. “Shall we proceed to dinner? The cook was unsettled by the accident and has attempted to make amends by preparing three courses of roasted meats.”
The dining room was elegant, the atmosphere a remarkable contrast to the tension Elizabeth had always experienced when dining at Netherfield Park or Rosings. There was no Caroline Bingley to offer sneering, backhanded compliments, and no Lady Catherine de Bourgh to dictate the topics of conversation and demand constant agreement.
There was only Aunt Madeline’s clever observations, Uncle Edward’s good humour, Miss Darcy’s shy smiles, and Mr Darcy.
He was a revelation. He directed the conversation gracefully, ensuring Miss Darcy was included, drawing Uncle Edward out on topics of trade and northern industry without a hint of condescension, and turning his full, undivided attention on Elizabeth whenever she spoke. He anticipated her needs before she could voice them, offering a silent nod to a footman whenever her glass required refilling.
Beneath the table, the situation was less refined.
Apollo and Diana had abandoned their master in favour of the guest. The two wolfhounds sat atop Uncle Edward’s uninjured foot, their tails thumping a hopeful beat on the floor.
“I believe they are expecting a reward for their villainy,” Uncle Edward noted, discreetly dropping a substantial piece of roasted pheasant into Apollo’s waiting jaws.
“You are encouraging terrible habits, Mr Gardiner,” Mr Darcy reprimanded mildly, though he made no move to summon a servant to remove the dogs. “They will demand a seat at the table by tomorrow evening.”
