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Before, there was a cold, silvery silence woven into the walls of Pemberley. Fitzwilliam Darcy was accustomed to spending long hours pouring over estate documents with only the gentle tick tick tick of the clock in his study to keep him company. Long nights were spent listening to the crackle of the fire in the ornate fireplace or the thunk of his brandy snifter against the side table. Even his servants were carefully quiet. At times, Darcy wondered if everyone he knew was holding their breath, if there was some kind of secret need for utter silence that everyone knew of but him.
It hadn’t always been like that. There weren’t always veins of silvered soundlessness marbled throughout Darcy’s home. A long time ago, the warm sounds of life followed him down every hallway: the gentle padding of his mother’s footsteps through the orangery; the mischievous gossip underpinning the servants’ conversations; his father’s booming laughter. It all changed sometime after his parents died. Sometime after Darcy took the weight of his world on his shoulders, decades before he expected to.
Before, there was silence, interrupted only by Georgiana’s laughter, Georgiana’s chatter, Georgiana’s music. Eventually, thanks to Wickham, that faded away, too. Even when Darcy moved among the ton, among his friends, he might as well have had cotton stuffed in his ears. No matter how well intentioned his friend or how insidious the matchmaking mamas of London, all were muted. Hushed. For better or for worse.
But then, there was Elizabeth Bennet.
Her teasing. Her laughter. Her witty repartee. There were moments in which he could see through the cracks in the mask she wore, could see all the way down to the foundation of her, and it was pure, swirling, golden sound.
And after, there was noise.
For a long time, everything was too loud. The hysteric screeching of the Bennet matriarch, the muttered maliciousness of Miss Bingley, Charles’s friendly overtures. Even at a whisper, their words scraped against his ears. The clink of dishware turned to gunshots. The impact of his horse’s hooves against the dirt pathways of Meryton were small earthquakes.
It is quite painful, you see, to awaken after many years of sleep.
One day, Elizabeth Bennet had never been to Pemberley.
But the next, she was there, her footsteps echoing from the elaborately framed works of art in the gallery. The sound of her dress swirling around her ankles tumbled down the hallway. And even though it was only temporary, only pure accident that he and Elizabeth were both at Pemberley at the same time, the silence woven into the walls of Darcy’s home warmed, bubbled, turned molten gold. Georgiana’s laughter returned. The servants breathed easily, smiling and gossiping again. And Darcy knew he could never go back to silvered silence.
Months later, after the wedding, after Elizabeth moved across the country to join him in Derbyshire, Darcy heard humming in the hallway. It was nothing earth shattering, just a country tune on the lips of his housekeeper. Elizabeth was outside, taking one of her walks, but inside, there was singing.
Darcy placed his quill pen in its holder and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. He listened.
He smiled.