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“I did that once,” he replied—coldly, I thought.
Mr Tilney evidently heard the warning as well, and gave it up with a sigh. He went into the church to see what authority he could summon while Mr Darcy helped me out of the carriage. I looked up at him—while he looked at anything except me. He hardly appeared the eager groom.
“Is this difficult for you?” I asked. “Marrying again? You insist you do not wish to wait, but if this is some sort of debt to your honour, because you asked me on impulse and you are determined to follow through with it no matter what concerns have since occurred to you, I beg—”
“Foolish woman,” he interrupted, stopping further speech with a hard kiss that, I supposed, was his answer. It was only later that I wondered if the kiss was more defence than passion, designed to prevent me from further questioning.
If so, his technique was flawless.
* * *
Less than half an hour later, I was Mrs Darcy. Signing the register one last time with the name I had carried since birth, I was struck by a sudden pang. For a moment, my fingers froze, unable to form the necessary curves and strokes. It felt like the end of who I was, who I had always been.
No, I thought. I am adding to, not subtracting. I signed with a flourish, the largest signature on the page.
We accompanied Mr Tilney to arrange his return journey to Matlock Court. I heard my husband offer to rent a coach, but the affable Mr Tilney insisted that the post, leaving within the hour, would be quick and comfortable.
“You will write to us soon, and reassure your sister you are well?” he implored me. “She will be angry with me for not convincing you to delay this madness. Ah, well, I was a would-be groom once, and remember the impatience, even if she cannot.”
“My sister’s anger is very easily tolerated, since it never lasts beyond the posy you will bring her from her own garden,” I replied, grinning.
“I may have to raid the earl’s garden for this one,” he said, grinning back. He turned to Mr Darcy, holding out his hand. “I owe you much, my friend, but you have called in a great favour. You must bring your bride to Matlock, if you care for me at all,” he said, as Mr Darcy shook it. “After the babe arrives. In the summer.”
Mr Darcy made a noncommittal sound, and moved to withdraw his hand, but Mr Tilney gripped it more tightly. “Come summer,” he repeated, with more gravity than I had ever before heard from him.
Mr Darcy nodded curtly. The men separated.
I hugged my brother, treasuring the simplicity of his concern, his connexion to Jane, his offer of family. Like my sister, he was all that was good.
And then we entered our carriage and left him, standing alone in the street watching after us until he was only a tiny speck.
* * *
We had driven but a few hours when we stopped at the Green Dragon to change horses. Needless to say, we were not overwhelming each other with brilliant conversation. I was, to put it mildly, a bit nervous, frantically trying to dredge forth information I had heard over the years regarding the intimate details of wifehood. It was difficult to come up with much, because shortly after Jane’s marriage, I made a conscientious effort to not dwell upon love, lovers, or anything in between. There had been fancies, though, over the years, and longings and secret wishes. Perhaps the turmoil showed upon my face, because he took my hand—the first time he had touched me since our wedding.
“I am dashed sick of travelling,” he said. “I feel as though I am wearing more road dust than the road. I wish to stop here for the day. And night.”
I nodded, inhaling deeply, trying for a calm appearance.
“Would you prefer I take one room or two?” he asked, as if questioning how much sugar I preferred in my tea.
My face flamed. But I wanted…a connexion. A good memory.
“May I see where they will put us before I decide?”
He looked at me curiously and perhaps with a bit of wariness. “I abandoned the idea of a wedding breakfast easily enough,” I confided, “because I have never particularly dreamt of having one. It does not mean I have no preferences, and that I shall look to you to decide what they are. I realise you probably care little for romance. Nevertheless.” His brow furrowed, as if he might protest—but whether it was my independence or his lack of romantic intention, I could not tell, and hurried on.
“I have no mother to explain what will happen between us, but I have a husband who has, presumably, managed the business before. I want you to explain it to me, but not if the room is ugly, fusty, with noisy neighbours rattling the walls with their snores. I want you to be kind, and careful with me.”
I expelled this speech all in one breath, almost, and felt nearly dizzy at the end of saying it.
He stared at me—and my bright red cheeks—for what felt like a solid minute.
“I have stayed here before,” he said, his voice so low, it shivered up my spine. “The owners are fastidious, they know the Darcy name, and will give us the best of what accommodation is available. The walls are thick. I shall take one room, but if it is not to your liking, nothing will happen between us except sleep. I give you my word—I will always be careful with you. For as long as we both shall live.”
It was a promise made as solemnly as our wedding vows. He only mentioned care, not kindness. I tried not to think about what the difference might be.
