P&P The Untold Stories: Newlywed Darcys Arrive at Pemberley

A Long-Awaited Homecoming

23 November 1812

Elizabeth Darcy alighted from the carriage with a sense of wonder that even she could scarcely suppress. She tilted her head to survey the grand façade of Pemberley once more, now a place not merely of awe but of belonging. The late afternoon sun cast a golden light across the stone, highlighting the sturdy grace of its columns and the ivy that climbed the east wing as though it sought to embrace the house as its mistress surely would.

It was the same Pemberley she had seen those months ago—calm, stately, perfectly proportioned. Yet now, it was transformed by her own changed circumstances. Then, she had been a guest, uncertain of her welcome, her emotions tumultuous and her opinions on its owner unresolved. Now, she was its mistress, as certain of her husband’s affections as she was of her own.

Darcy was already at her side, his gloved hand extended in silent invitation. There was something in his expression—a kind of self-conscious pride tempered by hope—that made her smile. She placed her hand in his, leaning close as though confiding a secret.

“I believe I saw your footmen exchanging knowing looks, Mr. Darcy,” she murmured. “What scandalous conclusions might they be drawing about us?”

“Perhaps,” he replied with mock severity, “that their master is entirely undone by his wife. A scandalous truth, indeed.”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “Undone, sir? Already? And we have only just crossed the threshold of your domain. Shall I prepare myself to manage the estate single-handedly when you are reduced to a state of helpless adoration?”

Darcy’s lips twitched, but he schooled them into a semblance of gravity. “If my adoration were ever helpless, madam, it would be entirely your fault.”

“Then I accept the blame gladly,” she said, her laughter soft but radiant.

They entered the great hall, its marble floors gleaming and every polished surface reflecting their arrival. Elizabeth was struck anew by the grandeur of it, but her eye quickly sought and found what she had missed before—the traces of Darcy himself in every corner. It was there in the arrangement of the library shelves, the sparing use of ornamentation, the preference for order and symmetry. Pemberley, like its master, bore the marks of good taste and thoughtful restraint.

The household staff awaited them in orderly rows, and Elizabeth felt a momentary pang of nerves. She was no stranger to domestic life, but Pemberley was a kingdom compared to Longbourn. Yet, as she glanced at Darcy and saw his quiet confidence, she was reminded that she was not alone in this new role. She straightened her shoulders and stepped forward.

Mrs. Reynolds curtsied deeply. “Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.”

Elizabeth smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. I must thank you especially for keeping my husband in good order all these years.”

Darcy let out a low chuckle, though he covered it with a cough. “Mrs. Reynolds has done an admirable job of maintaining Pemberley, but I fear I am beyond her jurisdiction.”

“Indeed, sir,” Elizabeth teased, her voice carrying just enough for the staff to hear. “I am quickly learning that you require a firmer hand.”

Mrs. Reynolds’ lips quirked ever so slightly, but her reply was measured. “I believe Mrs. Darcy will find Pemberley a place of harmony, madam, as long as Mr. Darcy continues to look so well to its mistress.”

“Ah, Mrs. Reynolds,” Darcy interjected smoothly, though his ears had grown noticeably pink, “let us leave my faults for private discussion, shall we?”

Elizabeth, suppressing a smile, allowed herself to be led away toward the drawing-room. “A wise retreat,” she murmured. “I see now why you admire Mrs. Reynolds so; she manages even you with subtlety.”

“She has had years of practice,” he replied dryly. “I trust you will have no trouble catching up.”

As they reached the drawing-room, Elizabeth took in its proportions and furnishings with a new eye. The space was grand yet inviting, with windows that offered a stunning view of the gardens below. It was here she would preside as mistress, entertaining their friends, sharing private moments of joy and reflection with Darcy, and—perhaps one day—watching their children tumble through the grounds.

Darcy stepped closer, his hand brushing hers as though unconsciously drawn to the connection. “Does it suit you?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Elizabeth turned to him, her gaze soft but mischievous. “It suits me perfectly, though I reserve the right to rearrange the furniture.”

“Rearrange it to your heart’s content,” he replied, his tone earnest despite the humor in her eyes. “Only promise me that you will not rearrange me.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, as though considering. “That depends, Mr. Darcy. Are you not already a reformed character?”

“Entirely at your hands,” he said, his smile breaking free at last. “Though I hope you will find me much improved and in no need of further alterations.”

“Hmm,” she mused, stepping closer. “I suppose time will tell.”

As they stood there, the golden light of evening spilling across the room, Darcy reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “Time,” he said softly, “is a luxury I intend to spend wholly on you.”

Elizabeth’s laughter was light, yet her eyes shone with tears she made no effort to hide. “Then I am the wealthiest woman alive.”

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