The Mistress of Pemberley
Chapter Three
As Elizabeth adjusted to her new life at Pemberley, it was understandable that she did not at first notice a subtle shift in the way her husband treated her. If he had behaved thus during their courtship, Elizabeth would not have found this new behaviour at all strange; but Darcy had been very different before.
One bright autumn afternoon a few weeks after they had reached an understanding, they chanced to be alone in the breakfast room at Longbourn, Bingley having spirited Jane away to walk in the shrubbery, Mr. Bennet having retreated to his library, and Mrs. Bennet being indisposed with her nerves. Elizabeth had said something bright and witty that pleased Darcy, and before she knew what was happening, he took her into his arms and kissed her.
The world spun on, heedless of lovers, but for Elizabeth time stood still. She had no apprehension that Darcy would importune her beyond what was proper for a betrothed couple, and she relaxed into his embrace, enjoying the new sensations raised by his caress.
He released her after a long moment, and there was that in his eyes that could not but move her--affection, tenderness. Elizabeth found herself unable to speak, or to take her eyes from his.
The skin creased around his eyes, and she realized that he was smiling. He trailed his thumb along her jawline and murmured, "Elizabeth Bennet, speechless. I thought I'd not live to see this day."
She was able to recover herself then, and even laugh about it; Kitty had come in just afterwards, closely followed by Jane and Bingley, and none of them seemed to notice that Elizabeth was quieter than usual, except Darcy himself, whose eyes rested upon her from time to time with some amusement and a new knowledge of her that gave her a secret thrill.
They spent nearly every day together until the wedding, and there were other such stolen moments. Elizabeth could hardly consider such moments illicit; indeed, she suspected that her mother often left the engaged couples alone very much on purpose, and she could hardly imagine her father stirring himself to protest when his daughters would be married and off his hands in a few weeks.
But the master of Pemberley had a dignity to maintain that an ardent young lover did not. No more were the assignations, the secret meetings in hallways, the furtive grasp of the waist, the stolen kiss; such behaviour was reserved strictly for the Darcy ancestral bedchamber. She had nothing to complain of or wonder about there; her husband demonstrated his affection so thoroughly in both word and deed that she was sometimes put to the blush to recall it in daylight hours. Nonetheless, Elizabeth could still regret the sweet intimacies of courtship, and even long for their return.
One morning, Elizabeth was practicing on the pianoforte when Georgiana came into the drawing room. Elizabeth smiled at her and asked, "Will you turn for me?" Georgiana took a seat next to Elizabeth on the bench, following the music and turning the page when required.
When the piece was finished, Elizabeth smiled ruefully and said, “You could have played that much better than I."
"Oh, no; it is a new piece for you, and you played it charmingly. You should play it tonight; I think my brother would like for you to play more often."
"I think he would much rather listen to you play." Elizabeth began to play another piece, one she had by heart that required little of her attention. "Will you tell me about your brother? What was he like when he was younger?"
"He was different before my father died; he was more lighthearted. He joked and laughed more." She sat silently for a moment with her hands folded in her lap. "He has a great responsibility now; the estate, and all those attached to it, and…me." She turned over some sheets of music that lay on top of the pianoforte. "I know I am a nuisance to him."
"Oh, Georgiana, my dear, you are not a nuisance; and your brother loves you very much."
The next day, Georgiana came into Elizabeth's dressing room carrying a slim volume. "You should read this," she said earnestly. "It might help you to better understand Fitzwilliam."
The book was in French, which Elizabeth did not know well; it was a translation from the writings of a Greek philosopher named Epictetus. The book was not very long, but it took Elizabeth a few hours--and a few consultations of her French grammar--to work it out. When she had, she almost regretted the effort expended upon it. She had heard of this Stoic school of philosophy before, but had not understood what it meant; not really. To not mourn a dropped, shattered jug was understandable, and certainly Darcy would not waste his time with such, but to not mourn the death of a wife, or a child? Could Darcy be capable of such cold-heartedness? For cold-heartedness it was. No, Elizabeth could not believe it of her husband. Who better than she to know of his kindness and generosity, not only to herself, but to her family and all those under his protection? Even Wickham--after that which Wickham had done, Darcy had found it within himself to give Wickham to means to support a wife, because it had been important to Elizabeth. Could this man be so unfeeling as those described by the philosopher? Holding nothing and no person sufficiently precious to mourn their loss? Elizabeth could not believe this of a man who regarded his home with such pride, and her with such affection.
Then why did Georgiana give me the book? her traitorous mind persisted. She must have had a reason. Was Georgiana perhaps trying to give her a message? A warning? Even Elizabeth's own arguments worked against her. Darcy's generosity could be the actions of one for whom wealth meant little--to someone who considered money nothing more than a way to make life more comfortable, the loss of some of it to one such as Wickham would mean little; to one for whom the loss of a wife or child was to be quietly endured and soon forgotten, incidental expressions of affection would be meaningless.
No! She would not believe such things of her dear Darcy, or allow a silly book to dictate her happiness. Elizabeth tucked the book beneath a pile on her dressing table, out of sight, and congratulated herself on her conjugal faith and loyalty. The seed of disquiet already planted in her mind put forth a tentative sprout, but Elizabeth resolutely ignored it. Her guests would arrive soon, and she had little thought to spare for anything else.
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