P&P The Untold Stories: Mr and Mrs Darcy at Home at Pemberley

…enjoying their peace and quiet while they can…

December 2, 1812

“Are you still asleep?”

The caressing tones reached her in the delectable slumber, the low rumble of his voice making her turn with something very much like a purr, and Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered open to see her husband’s beloved face just above her own. Warm lips brushed hers, then began to trace a deliciously tingling line along her neck, making her positively breathless – and wandered back up again at a slow, exquisite pace.

“I thought you would like to know,” he whispered between soft, tantalising kisses, “that my man has brought chocolate… and warm rolls… and jam…”

(Image: Congerdesign from Pixabay)

Indeed. There was a lovely scent of freshly baked bread, she could detect it now, vying with his exquisite scent for her attention, but predictably Elizabeth chose the delectation of the latter and nestled against him, arms emerging from the cosy warmth beneath the counterpane to encircle his neck.

“Hmm… chocolate in bed, still? I thought it an extravagance of short duration,” she whispered back.

Darcy propped himself up on one elbow, his hand lingeringly caressing her cheek.

“You did?” he asked in earnest. “You do not mind, though – do you?”

“Mind? Heavens, no. I merely thought there would be greater claims on your time than spoiling your wife,” she laughed, and Darcy ran his fingers through her hair before leaning towards her for another kiss.

“Nothing takes precedence over spoiling my wife,” he smiled, then added softly, “Elizabeth, I have dreamt for too long to be allowed to do just this, care for you, be with you, aye, spoil you, if you will, to allow anything to take precedence over you. There are other claims, of course, we both know it. But you are my first concern, my joy and my purpose, and everything I do these days is with you in mind. I hope you know that.”

“I know, my love,” she whispered back, close to tears, utterly overcome by the open declaration of such depth of feeling from a man of habitually few words.

She reached to hold him, her heart overflowing, and pressed her lips to his brow. His arms tightened around her for a moment, then Darcy sat up.

“So, what shall it be? A tray in bed, or would you be more comfortable at the table?”

The small table and the two chairs placed in the window alcove were new additions to the bedchamber, and made for a delightfully cosy arrangement, beyond which a wide prospect opened, rendered rather less than delightful by the driving rain that left rivulets along the glass panes. On a dry day, it should be as breathtaking as the view from the other bedchamber, Elizabeth thought, then her eyes returned to the light repast and, suddenly hungry, she pushed the bedcovers aside.

“The table, I think,” she opted, and Darcy stood.

“‘Tis not warm enough yet, the fire has just been lit. Here. Would this do?”

He lifted his own robe from the long seat at the foot of the bed and held it out for her, so that she could slip it over her nightdress and Elizabeth did so, childishly delighting in the novel intimacy of wearing it, of wearing something of his. She rubbed her cheek against the smooth fabric, inhaling the delectable scent of Fitzwilliam and sandalwood that permeated the garment and walked into his embrace as he finished tying the sash.

“We shall never sit down for chocolate at this rate,” she laughed and, briefly pressing her lips against his chest, where the folds of his nightshirt came apart, she finally brought herself to go and do just that, then poured for both – a minor intimacy compared to all the others they had shared, but exquisite nevertheless.

“It seems our proposed outing will have to wait,” Elizabeth observed after a while with a tilt of her head towards the rain-spattered windows. “Perhaps I should be glad of the chance to attend to my long-neglected correspondence, but the allure of the library will be hard to resist.”

“We might as well enjoy our peace and quiet while we can. It will not be long until my aunt descends upon us.” He grimaced. “I must say, I am relieved that Mr and Mrs Gardiner will be with us at the time of this hurdle, for they are bound to raise your spirits and provide every support, but it still is a crying shame that their visit should be ruined. They deserve better.”

“Oh, they will take it in good cheer – and so shall I, I promise. In truth, of us all, ‘tis for you that Lady Catherine’s visit stands to be the severest trial, and for that I am sorry. But it must be done. Not for her ladyship’s sake, not as such, but for Anne and Georgiana and the rest of your family. Nursing a grievance would distress everyone in the long run.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” Darcy smiled, reaching for her hand. “No other woman would have shown such saintly patience.”

Elizabeth chuckled softly.

“I would not call it that. Let us just say that I have had a great deal of practice. Before long, Mamma will visit us as well, and I do not doubt that she will mortify us both with her effusions—”

“But without malice,” Darcy intervened. “Which cannot be said of Lady Catherine.”

“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth conceded. “But it will serve us well to remember that none of us can choose our relations,” she added with a fleeting wince at the recollection of all the trouble and mortification he had endured for her sake – not at her mother’s hands, but Lydia’s, and her scoundrel of a husband.

Yet she would not allude to Wickham, not here, in the happy sanctuary of their bedchamber. Instead, she worked to put a touch of mischief in her tone and manner as she resumed:

“When her ladyship took me to task for swaying you with my arts and allurements, I’d wager she did not envisage that my unholy powers of persuasion would ever be employed for her own benefit. So, when she comes to visit and tries our patience with her remarks, as she is bound to, let us privately cheer ourselves by imagining what she might say and do, should she come by that particular grain of knowledge.”

Despite himself, Darcy chortled and darted his eyes heavenward.

“That you should still make sport!”

“As Papa delights in saying, for what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn. To this, I would only add, thank goodness that Lady Catherine is not our neighbour. So let us take a cheerful view of things and give thanks for each one of the miles that separate Rosings from Pemberley.”

With that, she left her seat and came to nestle into his arms, hers tightly wrapped around him.

She pressed her lips against his and tangled her hands into his hair, breathless with happiness and with his kisses. And rain steadily fell in long, grey spears, shrouding Pemberley in dreary folds, but in the master’s chambers there was warmth, and bright, exhilarating light.

Lyme Park on a rainy day (Photo: J Starnes)

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