It was a wide, shallow stretch of water fed by the stream, ringed with reeds and willow trees. One warm afternoon Mr Darcy joined them there, carrying fishing rods and a small basket of bread for bait. He had changed into a plain coat and breeches, looking more the country gentleman than the master of Pemberley.
Anne was delighted. “Papa! Are we going to catch fish?”
“We are going to try,” he said, handing her a small rod. “Though I suspect the fish might have other plans.”
They settled on the grassy bank. Mr Darcy showed Anne how to bait her hook with endless patience. Elizabeth sat a little apart, watching them. The sun was warm on her shoulders, the air filled with the drone of bees and the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface.
Anne’s first cast landed in the reeds. Her second tangled in a willow branch. Her third nearly hooked Mr Darcy’s sleeve. Each failure was met with laughter rather than frustration.
“Papa, the fish are laughing at me.”
“Then we must outsmart them,” he replied, his voice warm with amusement. He adjusted her grip, his large hand covering her small one. “Steady now. Let the line drift.”
Elizabeth was smiling as she watched them. There was no stiffness here, no careful distance. Mr Darcy was unguarded with his daughter, more than ever. When Anne finally hooked a small perch and squealed with triumph, he laughed outright—a full, delighted sound that made Elizabeth’s chest tighten with tenderness.
He glanced up and caught her watching. Their eyes held for a while. The laughter faded, but he did not look away. Neither did she.
Later, as they packed up the rods, Anne ran ahead to show her catch to one of the gardeners. Mr Darcy fell into step beside Elizabeth.
He was silent for a few paces. Then, “Pemberley suits you.”
Elizabeth looked out over the parkland, the house visible in the distance like a benevolent guardian. “It is beautiful beyond anything I imagined.”
“It is better with you here.”
The words were simple, spoken without flourish, but they landed with weight. She did not answer. She simply walked beside him, the late afternoon sun warming them, the sound of Anne’s laughter drifting back to them on the breeze.
For the first time since arriving, Elizabeth allowed herself to feel the quiet rightness of being here, of walking beside him, of watching his daughter play in the light.
It terrified her how much she wanted it to last.
Another afternoon in early July brought the kind of sudden summer storm that Derbyshire was famous for.
Elizabeth and Anne had been in the rose garden, examining the blooms of the season. Anne was crouched beside a splendid pink rose, asking whether flowers dreamed when they closed at night. The sky darkened withoutwarning. The first fat drops of rain splattered onto the gravel path, then the heavens opened.
“Come, quickly!” Elizabeth caught Anne’s hand and they ran towards the house, but the rain was faster. Within moments they were drenched, Anne squealing with delight rather than distress, her small legs pumping as she tried to keep up.
A shout came from the terrace.
Mr Darcy was running to them, his coat-tails flapping. He reached them in seconds, his boots splashing through puddles already forming on the path.
Without hesitation he removed his coat and wrapped it around Anne, lifting her into his arms in one smooth motion. The child laughed, clinging to his neck as rain streamed down her face.
“Papa! We are having an adventure!”
“So we are,” he replied, voice warm despite the downpour. He glanced at Elizabeth, rain dripping from his hair, and extended his free arm. “Come.”
She took it without thinking. They ran the last stretch together, Mr Darcy shielding Anne with his body, Elizabeth half-laughing, half-gasping as cold water soaked through her dress and plastered her hair to her head.
They burst through the side door into the entrance hall, a wet, laughing tangle. Anne was still giggling in her father’s arms. Elizabeth pushed wet strands from her face, her breath coming fast, her dress clinging to her skin in a way that would have mortified her a year ago.
She looked up.
Mr Darcy was staring at her.
The laughter died on her lips.
His coat was discarded, forgotten on the floor where he had set Anne down. Rainwater ran from his hair down the strong column of his throat. His shirt clung to his chest and shoulders, translucent in places, revealing the lines of muscle beneath. But it was his face that held her.