And now, on their third morning at Pemberley, he found himself still in bed long after sunrise—a rarity in his life. He prided himself on being an early riser, on meeting the day and its many obligations with, if not cheerfulness, then at least a resoluteness he found lacking in so many of his peers. Yet with Elizabeth’s body curled against his, he could not for the life of him think why he had once placed such importance on rising early.
Still, he was not one to laze about. Even with, or perhaps especially because of, Elizabeth’s nearness, he could not return to his slumber. For a full minute, he managed to do nothing except watch her sleep. Then he could not resist; he ran his fingers along the length of her neck and jaw, marveling that she was well and truly here, his wife in his bed.
It was a selfish act, for he knew that she would wake with his touch. And she did, eyes blinking open, lips turning upward, hand reaching out to find his.
“Good morning,” he said to her as she scooted closer to him.
“Hmm,” was her reply, eyes fluttering closed. Then suddenly, she shot up, looked about, and sighed. “We missed it again!”
He laughed. “Yes, we are an hour too late to watch the sunrise over the garden. But you do realize, Elizabeth, that is is cold enough to freeze the pond solid? I think we are better off, warm in our bed.”
“What you mean,” she said, grabbing his hand as it inched down her shoulder to her breast, “is that you would rather seduce me than watch a sunrise.”
“Indeed I would,” he replied, urging her back against the pillows with his free arm and then, when she tried to swat at him, straddling her. “Surely Shakespeare wrote a sonnet about that? ‘But soft! What light compares to my dear love!’ Or something along those lines.”
He leaned down to kiss her, but she put her hand over his lips. “More likely ‘My mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun!’ Does Shakespeare not complain about his wife’s breath? You will find no sweet perfume here this morning, I promise you that!”
He kissed her hand and then, when she raised it to grasp his shoulder, her lips. “Most definitely better than a sunrise.”
They spoke no more of Shakespeare, sunrises, or anything else for quite some time. Eventually, though, they could no longer avoid the day—nor did they want to. Darcy, after months away from his home, was looking forward to visiting the tenants, particularly because he knew Elizabeth wished to meet the people who made their living by farming the lands of Pemberley. He was, as might be expected, proud of the care he took to make sure his tenants had what they needed to work hard and prosper, even in an age when farming was no longer bringing in the same income that landowners had once come to expect.
“Do you suppose,” Elizabeth asked, as they made their way to the stables, “that there will come a day when factories outnumber farms? I have read of such suppositions, but my father thinks—that is, my father thought this to be fantasy, for we must be able to feed ourselves.”
Darcy said nothing regarding her slip; the fact that her eyes did not well up with tears when she remembered her father’s death was hopeful. Still, he did raise an eyebrow at her choice of topic, though really, he ought not to have been surprised. A few weeks of marriage had taught him that Elizabeth liked to discuss ideas most young ladies would have found—or at least claimed to have found—dull.
“What do you think?” he asked her as she looked up at him, awaiting his response.
She smiled. “You do that often, you know—turn my question back at me.”
“Well, you spoke of others’ suppositions; you must have an opinion of your own.”
“An uninformed one, but yes, I suppose I do. As we improve our agricultural methods, it seems we have a greater capacity than ever to grow food without so many people doing it. I have seen several young farmers in Hertfordshire give up the trade because they could find more profitable work in London.”
“Yes, there have been fewer young men here in Derbyshire who choose to remain. Though I try to keep the rents reasonable, there is less profit to be made after all is said and done.”
Elizabeth looked up at him, frowning. “Do you worry for the health of Pemberley?”
“Every day,” he admitted. They stopped outside the stable, and he looked about at the farmland and forests that stretched to the horizon. “To lose any part of this would be like Adam and Eve losing Eden.”
“I cannot imagine you standing by to let that happen.”
“No. I take precautions, invest in other industries, in shipping, in trade, to help ensure that we can continue to care for this land when it cannot pay for itself.” He looked down at her. “This is a more serious conversation than I expected to have on the way to the stables.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Yes, I must admit to an ulterior motive: I hate riding horses, so I thought to distract myself.”
He laughed. “Why did you not tell me that you do not like to ride? I could order the carriage.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I do not think you would like riding about the estate in a carriage.”
“You are right; I would prefer a horse. But it does not stand to follow that my preferences must outweigh yours.”
“We are at your home now,” she replied, going into the stables. “Perhaps I will like riding better here than at Longbourn. Your horses may be nicer,” she added, smiling before turning to say good morning to the groom who had come out to greet them.
He wished they were still alone, and not only because he enjoyed spending time with her. Several times since their arrival, she had spoken in such a way—as if she were a visitor, rather than the mistress of Pemberley. He had said nothing to her of it yet, hoping with the first and second instances that these were mere slips of the tongue.
Yet as he watched her thank Frank, the groom who helped her mount her horse, he knew he would have to speak to her sooner or later. Though Darcy was of course glad to have married a woman so full of kindness, she gave her thanks to all the servants—no matter their station—so often and with such spirit as to remind them all that she was an outsider.
When Frank turned to help him, Darcy gave a curt nod before urging his horse out into the meadow beyond the stables. Glancing back at Elizabeth, he could not help but laugh: she had not been speaking with false modesty when claiming to be a poor horsewoman. Clutching at the reins, she sat sidesaddle in such a way that she seemed always on the verge of sliding off the horse.
“I will call for the carriage,” he said, when she managed to bring her horse next to his.
“No!” She lifted her chin. “I will improve as we go along, I promise.”
He hid his smile, nodded, and spent the next several hours tugging at his horse’s reins to keep him from breaking into his usual mad dash across the meadows and hills of Pemberley’s grounds. Still, he could not complain. Elizabeth, even on a horse, was lovely to him, and just as witty as ever, for she poked fun at herself as well as she laughed at others. And though she may have been too grateful with the servants, she had such a natural and easy way with the tenants that he found himself enjoying the visits more than he ever had before.
“I did not improve, did I?” she asked when they arrived back at the stables a few hours later.
“No,” he admitted, laughing. “But you did not fall off, and that is something.”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed, taking Frank’s hand as she dismounted. She gave the groom a brilliant smile. “I think you knew, Frank, that I was a poor horsewoman, and chose the most docile creature to aid me.”
The groom, a grizzled man of fifty, flushed like a boy. “Not at all, Ma’am.”
“Well, thank you nonetheless,” she said, giving her chestnut mare a hesitant pat on the nose. “Though whether Milly here, poor thing, will thank you, I cannot say.”
Darcy frowned at this exchange, but to his surprise, Frank—a man who had never in Darcy’s presence so much as smiled—laughed heartily. “I’ll give her an extra treat to thank her, Ma’am.”
“Please d
o! And tell her that next time I will heed Mr. Darcy’s advice and call a carriage.”
“Oh, do not be afraid for Milly, Mrs. Darcy,” said Frank. “She’ll get used to you, as I’m sure we all will, with time.” He flushed an even brighter shade of red, glanced at Darcy, and then added, “Beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am.”
“Whatever for?” She smiled. “You and Milly have both been so very accommodating today. Thank you again!”
Frank nodded curtly and turned away to lead the horses back into their stalls.
Darcy and Elizabeth were silent as they walked back to the house. Just as they passed the garden, he took a deep breath. “Elizabeth…”
“Yes, yes, I was too familiar with Frank,” she cut in.
He said nothing.
“At home—” she began.
“You are at home, Elizabeth.”
She stopped walking and frowned. “Yes, I am, and if I am truly to be at home, I should behave as I wish. So perhaps I should not apologize at all!”
He felt his jaw tighten. “I did not ask you to apologize.”
“No, of course not, but you have disapproved—this I can tell—of my conversations with the servants.”
“Not your conversations, no, but you do not need to thank them so regularly.”
“Why ever not? They are doing so much!”
“Elizabeth, it is their lot. Have you ever considered that so many expressions of thanks may, in fact, be off-putting? Frank was clearly uncomfortable just now.”
“Have you ever considered how it may, in fact, be unfair that their lots in life are so very different than ours?”
“Yes, and this is not the time to begin philosophical debate on the equality of man, Elizabeth. When we visit Matlock house in London—”
“Oh, goodness, London! Yes, in London I will be as prim and silent as you like.” She grabbed at her skirts and strode toward the house.
He let her go, releasing a long breath as she hurried away. An hour later, he still felt the heaviness of their disagreement; it seemed lodged in his chest, no matter how many times he sighed. He tried to focus on other matters—correspondence, the ledgers, newspapers—but eventually found himself pacing his study. With each round of the room, he stopped at the door, considering: did he go to her and apologize?
Truth be told, he could not understand exactly how he had erred. There was no escaping the fact that her behavior, though charming in so many ways, was not the behavior of a great lady. Of course, he had never wanted such a creature; he had cringed at the Caroline Bingleys of society, and the Anne de Bourghs had left him cold and depressed. With her wit, compassion, and courage, Elizabeth fit—in almost every way—his notion of an ideal woman.
Darcy sank into a chair, head in hands. Were they to remain at Pemberley, he would not care so much. Perhaps she did thank the servants more than he considered proper, and yet they—and he—would have gotten used to such eccentricities. It was of course London that weighed on him, and his blurting it out during their disagreement had surely distressed her, as well.
He stood, preparing to leave the study and find her, when there was a knock.
“Enter.”
The door opened to reveal Elizabeth holding a tray of tea things.
“Yes, I know,” as she swept into the room, the tray tottering in her arms. “This is not at all proper.”
Despite everything, he could not help but smile. He went to her, took the tray from her arms, and said, “I do not think tea could ever be improper.”
“A true English gentleman,” she replied as she cleared a spot for the tray on one of the tables. “I convinced Mrs. Reynolds to let me bring in the tray. She, too, thinks I am distressingly inappropriate.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Of course, she is too kind to say so.”
“Unlike a certain ungrateful husband,” he said, putting down the tray.
“No.” She hesitated, took one step toward him, and then, when he opened his arms, launched herself at him with a force that nearly toppled him backward.
He laughed, relief coursing through him as he pulled her even closer.
“I am sorry,” she murmured against his chest. “I behaved abominably this afternoon.”
“Not at all.” He led her to a chair and then, deciding he did not want part from her, sat down instead, pulling her to his lap.
“This is not a very good way to drink tea, Mr. Darcy.” She cocked her head and smiled at him. “I will spill it all over you.”
“I do not want to drink tea.”
She leaned forward, kissed him lightly, and then, before he could stop her, escaped his arms and went to the chair across from him.
“Well, I do,” she said, pouring two cups of it. “Besides, I will not allow our first disagreement to pass with so easy a resolution.”
“Our first disagreement? I think we have had several already.”
“Yes, but none have felt quite so…” She looked away, and then shook her head. “I am being irrational, I know.”
“No, in fact, you understand too well what I am asking of you. Forgive me, Elizabeth, for suggesting you ought to change.” He put down the tea cup she had given him and met her troubled gaze. “I would not want that.”
She sighed. “And yet, it must be. I am Elizabeth Bennet no longer; I am Elizabeth Darcy—a fact that brings me great joy, I should add! It only stands to reason that I must take on some new qualities and…and leave behind some old ones.”
“Elizabeth, I…”
“Those tea things represent my last display of impropriety,” she said in the arch tone he so loved. Then, biting her lip, she added, “I will do whatever I can to help you ensure Georgiana’s future here, Fitzwilliam. It is only…I do not want to lose myself.”
“And I would never want to lose you.” He went to her chair and knelt beside it. “I love you, Elizabeth. You.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away. “I saw her portrait in the upstairs hallway, and I thought, she is so very lovely!”
“Yes,” he agreed, taking Elizabeth’s hands. “Georgiana will come back to Pemberley, and the two of you will be sisters, as you should be. All be well, I promise.”
“How?” She turned back to face him. “How are we ever to convince your uncle that I—a country miss with no understanding of London society—am fit to oversee Georgiana’s entrance into society?”
He stood and said, “I do have an idea on that account.”
“I am eager to hear it.”
Going to his desk, he riffled through a stack of correspondence until he found the letter he wanted. “This,” he said, handing it to her, “comes from a widow named Annesley. She knew my mother well, was part of her circle in fact, until she married a gentleman with an estate in Devonshire. He died recently and, due to some unfortunate planning on his part, left her with very little. She has asked if I knew of any households that might want a suitable companion for a young lady, just coming out.”
“Or perhaps for a wife who never had a governess.”
He turned away, already feeling as if this were not, in fact, as a good an idea as it had seemed a few minutes earlier. It was ridiculous of him to ask this of Elizabeth. She was a grown woman, intelligent and well-bred. What need had she for a companion?
“I think it a perfect idea,” Elizabeth said, coming to stand beside him. “She will help me learn the ways of refined society. When we go to London, I will dazzle your uncle and aunts.”
“You will dazzle them no matter what.”
“Oh, have already reached that point in our marriage when you feel you must flatter me so as to ensure peace in the household?” She smiled at him, then nodded at the tea things. “Drink tea, like a good English gentleman, while I go dress, like a good English lady, and we will meet at dinner, the perfect couple.”
As he watched her leave, he felt it again—that heaviness in his chest. No matter her smile or her eagerness to help him in his quest, he knew deep down that he was
asking her to give up some part of herself. He only hoped she would, at the core, always remain his Elizabeth.
Chapter Nineteen
He should have been relieved that their first London dinner party included only those he knew well, and if the party had been composed only of Charles and Jane Bingley, he might even have enjoyed himself. The newlyweds appeared so happy that it was impossible for those around them—even a man as stoic and occasionally cynical as himself—not to feel some pleasure in their presence. Besides, Charles Bingley had the gift of making him laugh, and Jane Bingley’s company brought Elizabeth such joy that Darcy, by extension, found himself glad to be in her company, as well.
Alas, even those in possession of such happy virtues as Charles and Jane Bingley must sometimes have defects, and as is often the case with nearly-perfect people, their defects came in the form of family. Given enough food and drink, Mr. Hurst rarely spoke and was therefore tolerable, but Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley tended to dominate any conversation that included them—and even, on occasion, those that did not.
Had he been either a truer friend or a crueler foe, Darcy might have told them that their prattle made them unpopular in the very circle of people they so desperately wished to join. Yet how were they to know their behavior was objectionable when they were only mimicking the actions of the very great ladies they wished to become themselves? He knew what they, as new money, could not understand: they would be forgiven their adoration of their own voices only after reaching the pinnacle, that mythical time and place in which they were content with their lots in life. In the meantime, they might have done better to smile and nod, or tsk, tsk with a sad shake of the head—whichever the conversation at hand called for.
In the Darcy dining room, they had no reason to act according to anyone’s standards except their own, for there was absolutely no one to impress. All the gentlemen were married, thereby robbing Caroline Bingley of an opportunity for coquettish conversation, and the other ladies were wives (and underserving ones at that, as far as Miss Bingley was concerned). Darcy guessed it was the evening’s unimpressive audience that had caused Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst to accept the invitation with alacrity—for whatever they said or did tonight would hardly count against them in their ceaseless climb, and would in fact provide them with a number of trivial details for mocking when they next called upon whomever they hoped to impress tomorrow.
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 29
