Abigail Reynolds - To Conquer Mr. Darcy

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Perhaps we could hope that they just never notice,” she suggested lightheartedly.

“I believe that it might strike them that something is amiss when I carry you off to my bedroom each night,” he said with a smile. Realizing that he had managed to bring the conversation back once more to exactly the point that he wished to avoid, he added, “I assume we should tell them in person?”

“I would think that best. Presumably we shall have to reach Longbourn no later than my aunt and uncle; we can certainly not leave them to explain why I have failed to return with them.”

He laughed. “That would indeed put them in an uncomfortable position. Well, then, I assume we should travel to Longbourn when they leave Pemberley. We will no doubt need to remain there until Bingley’s wedding—do you think that your parents would be offended if we stayed at Netherfield instead of Longbourn?”

“Well, if they are, the reduced stress for us will no doubt outweigh the offence! We can always present the argument that Netherfield has more space, especially as the wedding approaches.”

He wound his hand in her hair again. “I am sorry that this has made matters so much more complicated,” he said.

“You are worth it,” she said with an impish smile. “I believe you may have been right, sir, when you suggested that our ability to wait longer may have been overrated.”

“Mine certainly was,” he growled in her ear before nibbling on it. “My ability to wait until we reach Pemberley is coming into further question by the minute.”

She raised an eyebrow as she blushed. “I am not of the opinion that a carriage is a pleasant or safe place for such endeavors, sir.”

“While it is tempting to try to convince you otherwise, unfortunately I suspect that you are correct, madam,” he replied.

The wedding celebration that night was quite the opposite of the solemn, quiet ceremony of the morning, and it brought home to Elizabeth full force what it would mean to be the lady of the manor. It began at sundown with dancing by torchlight to the music of fiddle and flute, followed by food on a grand scale for all the tenants—Elizabeth was astonished to see what the Pemberley kitchens could produce on such short notice, and when she saw the gathered masses, she realized for the first time just how many lives depended upon her husband’s management. She and Darcy had shared a light dinner earlier, which was fortunate, since they were quite busy throughout the feasting, Darcy distributing gifts to the poor, and Elizabeth presenting small nosegays of flowers to the children, who bobbed shy curtseys and bows in acknowledgement. The house was completely decked with flowers—she wondered if she would find the gardens stripped bare the following morning—and filled to the brim with revelers.

She found herself feeling unaccountably shy when Darcy introduced her to the crowded masses, and blushed when they cheered her heartily, which only encouraged some of the lewd comments that flew back and forth among the tenants. Darcy had warned her of this aspect—“This is still the North, my love,” he had said—and she tried to keep her composure, but to the delight of the crowd, one or two of the comments clearly embarrassed her thoroughly, and they were all the more pleased to discover that the new Mistress of Pemberley had the capacity to laugh at herself when this occurred. Darcy, who was not such a tempting target for heckling, escaped more lightly, staying at Elizabeth’s side throughout.

After the formal festivities finally drew to a close, Elizabeth and Darcy retired to her room, where they stood at the window as a group of villagers sang ballads and made music below them. When they came to the chorus of one of the songs, Elizabeth felt Darcy’s eyes on her.

He murmured in her ear, “There are cakes and ale in the village, but I fear that they will not leave until they see me kiss you. May I?”

She looked up at him with an amused smile. “Well, if I must tolerate your attentions, Mr. Darcy, I suppose there is nothing to be done for it. I shall strive to bear it with equanimity.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, and he pulled her into his arms for a kiss perhaps slightly more thorough than the circumstances required. Her cheeks were scarlet as they called their thanks to the cheering singers.

“Now, my love,” he said as he drew her away from the window, “about this matter of tolerating my attentions…”

Elizabeth was feeling quite satisfied with married life the next morning, when, after having the pleasure of awakening slowly in her husband’s arms, she sat with him at breakfast, knowing that no one was expected beside the two of them, and that this could no longer be seen as improper. The warmth with which Darcy’s gaze rested on her brought a smile to her face, and she was not above seeking his hand under the table merely to celebrate the fact that she could do so.

After breakfast, they planned to part briefly as Mrs. Reynolds had offered to introduce the staff to Elizabeth and begin the first stages of her education in the workings of Pemberley, which Elizabeth hoped to embark upon before they took their necessary trip to Longbourn to acquaint her parents with the news of their marriage. They had hardly had a chance to start the discussion before Darcy reappeared with letters in hand. “Mrs. Darcy, I have just discovered that the post brought these letters while we were in Matlock; I believe they are from Longbourn, and I thought you might wish to attend to them immediately,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” responded Elizabeth eagerly. She took the letters, and, discovering they were both from Jane, asked Mrs. Reynolds to excuse her until later. With a smile for her husband, she settled herself in the parlor to read her letters. She had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Pemberley; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; now her sister was justified, as one of the letters was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

The one missent must be first attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded, as well as her sister’s raptures over her dearest Mr. Bingley; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:

Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham!—Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides!—But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves, though how you are to broach the matter to Mr. Darcy I can make no suggestion. My dear Bingley has been everything that is kind, and I am most thankful that he is here. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written.’

Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows—it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first:

By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Lieutenant Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no farther, for on entering that place they removed into a hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success; no such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them.