Darcy and Elizabeth: Their Wedding Night, Their Private Haven

For my  After the Wedding post, I thought I’d choose Darcy and Elizabeth’s wedding night from The Journey Home to Pemberley. If you haven’t read the book yet, you might be surprised to find that, in this scenario, they marry at Pemberley (because that’s where their sweet reunion was: at Pemberley, in Mr Darcy’s private book-room, fondly mentioned by several readers along with Chapter 16 😊).

Their other significant meeting was in the Lake District, in a small, remote and weather-beaten country inn, so a deeply romantic husband who happens to be head-over-heels in love has very good reason to choose that little inn as the secret destination for their honeymoon. But this is the early 1800s, and getting from Derbyshire to the Lake District takes a fair old while when you’re travelling in a coach-and-four.

So what other private haven might Mr Darcy have in mind for his beloved bride and himself, on their long-awaited wedding night?

THE JOURNEY HOME TO PEMBERLEY

The story in a nutshell:

EXCERPT FROM THE WEDDING NIGHT CHAPTER:

(Copyright © 2019 by Joana Starnes)

The rhythmic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the quiet rattle of the harnesses rang like cheerful music – a fitting accompaniment to Elizabeth’s exuberant anticipation as the light carriage bore them away from Pemberley, ensconced in each other’s arms. She had no notion as to where they were headed on this, their first journey as husband and wife, and she could not care less.

Nor could she regret not spending their wedding night at Pemberley. Beginning as they meant to continue seemed a beautiful way to start their married life. Yet, however heart-warming it might have been to begin their life together in the very place that would shelter all their future joys, spending their honeymoon with a houseful of relations held no appeal at all.

True enough, the guest-chambers had been assigned with careful discernment, and layer upon layer of privacy had been established over many generations between the master’s apartments and the rest of the house. But that particular advantage was insufficient at a time when they were supremely disinclined to act the part of gracious and attentive hosts; when they had no interest whatsoever in convivial breakfasts and dinners, nor any wish to meet with conscious looks and smiles when they rejoined the others.

So, much as they treasured their relations and friends, this was the time to leave them behind to make merry at the wedding breakfast and then remain at Pemberley for as long as it pleased them. The honeymoon would begin elsewhere. As she nestled closer to her husband, Elizabeth could only hope they were not going far.

* * * *

They had been travelling for less than half an hour when the carriage left the road to Lambton to turn into a narrow track, so overgrown with ryegrass and clover that, clearly, it was used but seldom.

“Where are we going?” Elizabeth could not help asking, only to receive a smiling, “Bear with me.”

She returned his smile and did not press him, his secretive manner nothing if not endearing. Instead, she chose to amuse herself with making her own deductions. Namely, that their destination must be close by. This was not the sort of road that would stretch over any great distance. Nor was it a well-beaten track, so they were not headed towards a coaching inn.

At every bend in the road she expected the journey’s end to be revealed. Yet her curiosity was further piqued at every turn, for the road meandered on, and each bend was soon followed by another, then another.

“You must be thinking I am sporting with your patience,” Darcy murmured into the ringlets at her temple and she chuckled softly in response.

“Perhaps. But then, ‘tis but four hours gone since I vowed to follow you anywhere without question.”

“Unquestioning obedience, is it to be? How utterly tedious,” he teased, and this time Elizabeth laughed in earnest.

“Oh, fear not, I fully intend to break the tedium with frequent bouts of wilfulness and mulish obstinacy.”

“Thank goodness,” he replied with a light peck on her lips. “I shall hold you to it.”

Elizabeth did not have the time to either think of a suitable retort or seek the sweet gratification of a longer, proper kiss. Suddenly, the prospect opened fully into astounding views over the surrounding hills. Far to her right, beyond the valley, a keen eye could just about distinguish the roofs of Pemberley among the trees, yet it was the graceful structure ahead that captured her attention. Just like the lodge at the gate, it had the air of a Greek temple. But it was larger, finely proportioned and beautifully adorned with intricate stonework above the doors and windows, while cherubs and slender muses in veils and flowing robes were carved in bas-relief across the pediment.

The carriage turned around in a wide circle, then drew up at the entrance. The coachman leapt from his seat and, clearly acting on previous instructions, hastened to remove a small trunk and a covered wicker basket from the back of the vehicle, then carried them within, while Darcy leisurely left the conveyance and handed his bride down.

The coachman returned shortly and bowed to his master.

“Would that be everything, sir?”

“Yes. I thank you.”

“Then I shall return at the appointed time.”

Darcy nodded, then spoke again on an impulse, as the man clambered back onto his seat, “In fact, no. Make it four hours later.”

“Very well, sir,” the coachman impassively replied. Then, with a deferential “Ma’am,” towards Elizabeth, he gathered the reins and flicked the greys into brisk motion. In a matter of moments, the equipage vanished around the first bend in the road.

“They will be surprised to see the carriage returning so soon,” Elizabeth casually observed. “My sisters imagined we would travel much further afield.”

“And so we shall. He is not going back, but stopping at… the nearest inn.” Which could only mean the one in Lambton, Elizabeth assumed. He did not mention it by name, and she was glad of it. Instead, he said, “We could have pushed forth into the Dark Peak, but I thought this would be preferable to some nondescript hostelry. I hope it is… convenient?”

She cast him a bright smile.

“Convenient? I call it perfect. What is this charming place?”

“It was a banqueting pavilion in my great-grandfather’s time, when one’s guests had to go a long way over the grounds for their dessert course. Then it served as a hunting lodge for a while.”

“And now?”

Darcy made no answer. But the warm look in his eyes was enough to tell her that it could easily become whatever they wished it to be. And that tonight it would be their private haven.

Her smile widened as she raised a hand and urged, “Shh, listen.”

He did as bid, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he patently endeavoured to pick out whatever sound that had captured her attention, and his mien grew puzzled. There was nothing to be heard but birdsong and the whistling of the wind in the long grass and the young leaves.

“What is it? I cannot hear anything,” Darcy owned at last in a quiet whisper, and she chuckled mildly as her raised hand came to stroke his face.

“Precisely. There is nothing but perfect silence.”

The perfect silence that came with complete and enduring privacy. It was the first time in an age that they were utterly and blissfully alone. And would remain so for as long as they chose. No demands on their time, nor the slightest risk of interruptions. No more stolen kisses, tantalising as they might have been.

The kiss was very different now. It was delightfully unrushed. Darcy took his time in exploring the contours of her lips before claiming them fully, yet still in soft and unhurried exploration. Then he drew back to smilingly observe, “Ah, yes. I thought you might appreciate the perfect silence of this place.”

“The ancient woodland seemed to be rooted in a sea of purple.” (Photo: J Starnes)

“No less than its location. The prospects are astounding. And I never thought there would still be bluebells so late in the month.”

Yet there were. The woods behind the pavilion were carpeted with them. There scarcely were any hints of green beneath the trees. The ancient woodland seemed to be rooted in a sea of purple.

“They always last longer at this end of the estate,” Darcy told her, then considerately asked, “Would you like to go for a walk?”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“No,” she said simply.

She had not the slightest wish to go for a walk. The bluebells could wait – whereas she would not. She wanted – needed – to be with him. To be his in every sense of the word.

Darcy’s eyes warmed with infinite tenderness as he interlaced his fingers with hers and raised their joined hands to press his lips to the back of her wrist.

“Very well,” he said softly, and they walked up the short flight of steps together, hand in hand.

Her chest swelled with thrilled anticipation when he closed the large doors and bolted them against the world. It was no less thrilling to find herself so wholly free of any trace of nervousness. She had expected some degree of it – had expected consciousness and mild unease. Yet there was no trace of them either. And nothing marred the sense that everything was just as it ought to be – and that she was precisely where she belonged.

Elizabeth looked around in interest as Darcy walked from one tall window to another, opening the shutters to let the afternoon sunlight stream in. The room was comfortably and tastefully appointed: a handsome table, chairs, a sideboard, a pair of lacquer cabinets, a cosy sofa set before the old-fashioned fireplace.

“This is very pleasantly furnished,” she observed, and Darcy cast her a warm smile.

“I am glad you like it. It looked rather different earlier in the week.”

“Oh?”

“It was empty and in need of refurbishment. It had been lying unused for a long time.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“This is the work of mere days?”

“There are a fair number of skilled craftsmen nearby, thank goodness, and many willing hands as well.” Darcy’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he gave a self-deprecating little shrug as he continued, “And thank goodness for the employment, I might add. It kept me out of mischief for a while.”

While they were waiting for the special licence, that is, with their patience stretched beyond endurance. So, this was what had taken him from the great house for hours on end. She glanced once more around her, as if seeing the enchanting place with fresh eyes. A love-nest, lovingly readied. The corners of her lips curled into a rapturous smile. He had made an excellent use of his time.

Elizabeth removed her wrap and, when she dropped it on the back of a chair, the small trunk brought in by the coachman caught her eye. She crouched down to open it and found that it contained a change of apparel. A primrose-coloured dress of hers lay at the top, and alongside it she espied a neatly folded shirt of his. The sharp surge of delight startled her, and she released a breathless chuckle as she lowered the lid until the catch engaged with a muted click. She really was becoming too foolish for words if she was so elated by something so simple – seeing their garments packed into the same trunk.

She rose to her feet and sought a more sensible occupation: she moved the wicker basket away from the edge of the old oak table and pondered on whether she should lay out the contents. She lifted the white cloth that covered it, and on superficial inspection found bread, wine, cheese, cold meats and fruit. Other delicacies might have been lying underneath, but Elizabeth was not overly inclined to investigate further. Even had she been, a moment later she would have lost all interest anyway, for she felt his arms encircle her waist and his breath warmed her scalp as he whispered into her hair, still covered by Mrs Gardiner’s veil, “We can have a picnic if you are hungry.”

“After that copious wedding breakfast?” she giggled. “No, I am not hungry. Not at all. You?”

“Ravenous,” Darcy rasped, nudging the veil and some tumbling locks out of the way to drop light kisses along the side of her neck.

“Ah. In that case…” she impishly replied and, as though she had not grasped that he had spoken of a very different sort of hunger, she plucked a couple of plump grapes from the ripe bunch at the top of the basket, then turned her head and reached over her shoulder to pop them into his mouth.

He laughed, yet was fortunately able to swallow them without choking, before returning to attend to the sensitive skin of her neck.

“Thank you. Most thoughtful,” he teasingly whispered as his lips lingered over tingling skin in a tantalising caress. “Not quite my meaning, though.”

‘I know,’ she might have whispered back. But by then he had found her earlobe and lightly grazed it with his teeth, and her every capacity for coherent speech was lost in a flood of sensations that coursed through her like lightning and ended in a shiver.

“Let me start the fire,” he said, and Elizabeth was still too dazed to tell if he had truly misapprehended the cause of her shiver or was mischievously returning measure for measure and simply feigned obtuseness, as she had.

Before the matter could be clarified to her satisfaction, he released her with a vexingly quick peck on her cheek and made his way across the room. Yet Elizabeth ceased repining when she was treated to the rather pleasing sight of him casually divesting himself of his coat and dropping it on the arm of the sofa before he went to crouch by the fireplace.

The pyramid of logs already built there must have been arranged with the greatest skill atop plenty of kindling and tinder. Either that, or he was excessively good at starting fires. This one seemed to need but a taper and some adroit use of the bellows. In short order, it was burning brightly, casting a glow over his face.

As she kept watching him from the corner of the sofa, where she had curled up with her feet under her to luxuriate in the sheer joy of observing him at work, Elizabeth languorously pondered on standing up and joining him. But when he set the bellows aside and his gaze drifted towards her, she just stretched out her hand and simply whispered, “Come.”

Bridal Dress and Veil, 1813 (Source: Europeana.eu)

She brought her feet back to the floor, not troubling herself with finding her discarded slippers, and shuffled sideways, but she caught the veil under her elbow and flinched, not so much at the sharp tug on the strands of hair onto which it was so firmly fixed, but at the thought that she might have damaged her dear aunt’s treasured memento.

“Oh, dear. I hope I have not torn it,” she said, and her hands came up to contend with the host of hairpins that secured it in place. Not an easy task when she could not see what she was doing. If their perfect love-nest lacked anything, it was a mirror, Elizabeth thought and raised her eyes to Darcy’s with a sheepish little grin. “I fear I shall need your help. I do not seem to be making much headway with this.”

Without a word, he sat beside her and diligently set to work, seeking and removing each hairpin in turn. She endeavoured to assist him for a while, but her hands were searching blindly and seemed to only get in the way, so she brought them down and soon decided she could employ herself far more effectively with unfastening the knot of his cravat, then the small and fiddly buttons she discovered underneath, and then the substantially more compliant buttons of his waistcoat.

A couple of long kisses came to distract her for a while from the self-appointed tasks, but then Darcy returned to seeking hairpins until the veil was freed at last.

He caught it as it fell and draped it over the back of the sofa, but he was not quite finished. His fingertips returned to pluck the flowers from her hair, then remove other hairpins and undo Jane’s and Mrs Gardiner’s handiwork.

Elizabeth turned her head the other way to aid him in his undertaking and closed her eyes, relishing the feel of his caressing fingers slowly unravelling the intricate pattern. The thin plaits were dextrously unplaited one by one, with light motions that were both soothing and electrifying – a strange and heady mix of sensations. Yet there was nothing soothing about the thrills that rushed through her when his fingertips brushed over her nape and slid searchingly upwards to seek the hairpins that secured her chignon.

And then he had a change of heart, and the search for hairpins was abandoned. He trailed his fingertips down the back of her neck, then along the edge of her shoulder blade all the way to the low neckline, and his lips followed suit, leisurely feathering kisses.

Each touch of his lips sparked a fresh thrill, and each thrill rippled all over her skin in nothing short of tantalising torment, until Elizabeth could bear it no longer and turned around to claim his lips with hers.

He must have been rather more successful in unpinning her chignon than she had imagined. Her hair uncoiled itself of its own accord and cascaded down her shoulders, only to fan out into a soft canopy around her face and Darcy’s when he leaned back against the armrest and she followed, draping herself over him, unwilling to tear her lips from his.

It was exhilarating to know that there was no reason why she should. Exhilarating and profoundly liberating. This was nothing like the feverish interludes when they had come together eager to make the most of the meagre span allowed, knowing all the while that it would be too short for their liking and would invariably end in self-denial and frustration.

Not anymore. There was no further need to struggle for restraint. Passion could build and spin out of control. They were not expected elsewhere. They would not be interrupted. They had all the time in the world.

Yet that certainty could not possibly serve to make Elizabeth subscribe to the old wisdom of festina lente. Her fingers impatiently curled into the folds of his shirt, tugging to free the garment from his waistband and slipping through the narrow gaps on either side to revel in the feel of bare skin beneath.

There was no chill in the air – quite the opposite. Blissful warmth seeped into every fibre of her being. So her fingertips were no cooler than the skin they greedily claimed. Yet he jumped at the touch as though they were ice-cold. His hand closed around her nape and he drew her even closer with a muted groan, bringing her lips to crush on his into an open-mouthed, fierce kiss that knew no limit of possession.

Insatiably inquisitive, Elizabeth spread out her fingers underneath his shirt and reached up – stroking, seeking, learning new textures and thrilling at the delectable sensation of taut muscles rippling under her fingertips. A discontented little growl rumbled at the back of her throat when the disobliging garment, tucked in all too well, refused to come loose and perversely hindered her in her explorations. Suddenly, the planes of his chest grew rock-hard under her palms when Darcy gripped the back of the sofa, braced himself and sat up, puzzling her with his intent. But not for long. His hands went to the fronts of his unbuttoned waistcoat and promptly clarified the matter. She was quick to lend assistance and eased it over his shoulders, then drew it down his arms and helped him free himself from the superfluous article of clothing.

The shirt had already been deemed equally superfluous, and Darcy reached back to grip the collar and forcefully tugged, so that the garment rode up his torso and long arms, baring him to her spellbound gaze.

He was… magnificent. Elizabeth had no other word for it. The pagan beauty of the male form took her breath away and put her in mind of Greek gods immortalised in finely carved statues.

Yet there was no cold, lifeless marble under her hands when they roamed over the exposed skin, but sculpted muscles flexing and stretching as he pulled his shirt over his head and carelessly tossed it aside, for it to land in a heap on the floor somewhere behind him.

Bare arms encircled her and, with a faint gasp, Elizabeth closed her eyes, her fingertips blindly tracing the contours of his shoulders and advancing down his back with light strokes, only to dig into his flesh when his searching lips slid down the column of her throat to trail a path of fire over her bosom. And molten fire pooled and swirled within, then rose into a forceful wave of pure longing that crested sharply and broke over her as his breath burned her skin through the barrier of lace, silk and thin muslin.

Her hands shot up to twist into his hair and she arched back, dizzy with the brazen wish that all the barriers were gone. She wanted – needed – his lips on her bare skin, and a soft sigh of satisfaction escaped her when he seemed to understand her yearning and one-handedly began to unfasten the silk-clad buttons of her gown.

The sigh ended in an inarticulate murmur of protest when that endeavour came to an abrupt end. His hands slipped away, one across her back, the other behind her knees, and he brought her to sit on his lap, then stood with ease, as though her languorous weight were a negligible burden.

Her limbs delectably fluid, Elizabeth twined her arms about his neck and briefly toyed with the notion that they could remain precisely where they were. Presumably there was a bedchamber on the floor above, and it must have been as lovingly readied as the rest of their private haven. But the blaze in the fireplace easily brought to mind their tempestuous encounter in his book-room, and the mental picture was wildly appealing.

Still, she did not suggest they resume their seat. Instead, she trailed her lips along his jaw line and lightly nipped his earlobe, only to wickedly delight in finding he was no more impervious to that sort of treatment than she. His hold tightened, and his lips claimed hers with fervid impatience as he carried her across the room towards the wooden staircase. Desire coiling almost unbearably within, she clung to him and kissed him back with matching fervour.

There would be no play of flames illuminating the bedchamber upstairs – but she already knew there would be fire.

And there was.

* * * * * * * *

Thanks for reading, and I hope you approved of Mr Darcy’s choice of romantic location.

If you’d like to read more about our favourite couple’s Journey Home to Pemberley and to each other, please follow the link to Amazon:

 

If you’d rather let Stevie Zimmerman’s exquisite voice guide you along the way, you can find the Audible version of The Journey Home to Pemberley on Audible, Amazon and iTunes, or please leave a comment for the chance to win an audiocode.

There are three codes up for grabs, and the full playlist of samples from my audiobooks, all of them beautifully produced by Stevie Zimmerman,  is listed here.  

The giveaway is international and the winners will be announced on 17 August 2020.

Best of luck and thanks for joining me today!