Mr Darcy leaned forward at the same moment to adjust the blanket.
Their hands met, his fingers brushing the back of hers where they rested on Anne’s shoulder. The contact was brief, accidental in origin, deliberate in duration. He did not pull away immediately, and neither did she. For three heartbeats their hands rested together, warm skin against warm skin, while Anne functioned as an unwitting chaperone.
Then he withdrew, slowly, his fingers trailing across hers in a touch so subtle it might have been imagined.
Elizabeth looked up.
His eyes were on her, dark and full of everything he had not said for three days.
She did not look away.
The carriage climbed steadily into Derbyshire. The landscape around them was greener, hillier, the fields giving way to stone walls and scattered woodland. Elizabeth had never been north of Hertfordshire in her life. Everything felt larger here, the sky wider, the air sharper. She kept her face to the window, absorbing each new vista as though committing it to memory.
Mr Darcy named things as they passed, his voice low and unhurried. “That is the Derwent. Chatsworth lies two valleys over. That ridge marks the southern edge of my land.”
Anne, however, had taken charge of the narration. She had been to Pemberley every summer of her life and spoke with the authority of a seasoned guide. “There is a pond with very fat fish. They come to the edge when you throw bread. The library has a ladder taller than the one at Darcy House. You must be careful on the top rung or Papa will worry. In the stable there are six horses, and all of them are called Muffin because when I was three, I named every horse Muffin and the grooms gave up arguing.”
Elizabeth laughed, the sound soft in the enclosed space. “I look forward to meeting all the Muffins.”
Anne nodded solemnly. “They are very distinguished.”
Mr Darcy watched them both, his expression quiet, almost fond. He said little, content to let his daughter hold court, but his eyes returned to Elizabeth constantly.
The carriage crested the last rise and Pemberley appeared.
Elizabeth had read about it. She had heard descriptions from Georgiana, from Mr Darcy himself in passing remarks. She had imagined it in the quiet hours as grand, imposing, perhaps a little draughty. The reality was unlike any image her mind had constructed.
It was not merely a house. It was a world.
The great stone façade rose from the valley floor with graceful authority, its windows reflecting the afternoon light like polished mirrors. Parkland rolled away on either side, ancient trees standing sentinel, the Derwent glinting in the distance. The proportions were perfect: neither ostentatious nor humble, but exactly, inevitably right. It looked as though it had grown from the land rather than been imposed upon it.
She did not describe it to herself. She simply looked.
Mr Darcy sat opposite her, watching her as she took it in. He was silent, and Elizabeth felt the weight of his gaze, unwavering and intent, as though he were waiting for her verdict on the place that defined him.
She turned her head and met his eyes, then she returned to the window and continued to look.
The carriage drew up at the broad stone steps. Wilkins, the butler, stood ready with a small line of staff. Elizabeth climbed down, Anne in her arms, Alice following close behind once the second carriage stopped. Mr Darcy descended last.
A woman in a dark, impeccably cut dress emerged from the great door at a measured pace. Grey hair neatly pinned, a chatelaine at her waist, her hands folded in front of her.
Mr Darcy stepped forward. “Miss Bennet, this is Mrs Reynolds, our housekeeper.”
Mrs Reynolds curtsied. She held the curtsy for the proper count, then rose and looked at Elizabeth directly. Her eyes lingered a fraction longer than strictly required.
“Miss Bennet. Welcome to Pemberley. We have heard a great deal about you.”
The line was perfectly polite. It was also loaded. Who was “we”? What had they heard? From whom? Elizabeth did not ask. She returned the courtesy with equal composure.
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds. I am very pleased to be here.”
Mrs Reynolds took Anne from her arms with genuine warmth. “Come along, my lamb. You must be tired after your journey.”
Anne went willingly, resting her head on the housekeeper’s side as she had done a hundred times before. Elizabeth followed them inside.
Pemberley’s entrance hall was not marble like Darcy House. It was panelled in oak so old it had darkened to near black, the grain deep and rich with age. Portraits rose on either side—generations of Darcys looking down with varying degrees of severity and amusement. The air smelled of cut flowers from the conservatory and beeswax polish. Sunlight fell through tall windows in broad, golden shafts.
Elizabeth took three steps into the hall and stopped, speechless.