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Chapter Text

Christmas drawing nigh, the mistresses of the great houses in Derbyshire were all engaged in the bustle of festive preparations, and Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy was no exception. It had been nearly a year since she had assumed the duties of mistress at Pemberley, and she now discharged them with a composure that drew universal admiration—indeed, she might now be accounted quite settled in her station. With the family bound for London directly after the holidays, however, she found herself obliged to oversee both the Christmas ball at the house and the wardrobes and engagements of the coming Season, leaving her scarce a moment's leisure. Fortunately, Georgiana's assistance lightened her load considerably.

Georgiana, who had been out in society these several months, was not so effervescent as Elizabeth, yet she displayed a growing steadiness of confidence that marked a world of difference from the timid girl she had once been. The two worked hand in glove, inseparable in their labours—now poring over interminable lists of guests, now murmuring together over the minutiae of holiday decorations.

This morning, as Mr. Darcy passed the small drawing-room, the servants were at their tasks, arranging holly and ivy with all due propriety. Coming to the door of the morning-room, he paused involuntarily. There stood Elizabeth upon a low ladder, her figure nimble as she adjusted the mistletoe bough above the lintel, her countenance absorbed in the endeavour. Mr. Darcy frowned slightly—his wife, the mistress of Pemberley, was capable enough, to be sure; but to mount a ladder herself was scarcely dignified, and bordered on the imprudent.

Yet he had ever indulged her harmless "impertinences"—that vital spirit, untrammelled by etiquette, which he cherished above all. Just as she had once, heedless of propriety, tramped three miles across the muddy fields from Longbourn to Netherfield after a rain. At this moment, Georgiana was handing up a length of crimson ribbon with the utmost care, the pair so intent upon their work—and so admirably in tune—that neither noticed him lingering at the threshold.

Mr. Darcy watched them in silence, a swell pride and affection rising in his breast for their mutual progress; yet there mingled with it a faint, inexplicable sense of estrangement, as if he were but a spectator to this scene of domestic harmony. In the end, he said nothing, but withdrew unobserved.

The Christmas season, though not so exhausting as the London whirl, brought with it a succession of smaller assemblies and afternoon teas as the holiday approached; and with Pemberley's grandeur and the Darcys' long-established renown, it naturally became the most sought-after venue for the Derbyshire gentry.

Elizabeth received the guests with her usual graceful ease, among them both the old-established landowners and those newly risen through trade and manufacturing. Mr. Darcy, who had ever considered such gatherings as a needless waste of time—and the more so now, with his recent engagements in London over the new mill—found it all particularly trying. Yet as a figure of consequence in the county, he was obliged to exert himself in maintaining decorum, circulating with his wife through these indispensable, if tedious, civilities.

By custom, the Darcys opened the ball with the first dance. When the music ceased, they parted to fulfil their duties as hosts. She moved among the company like a fish in water, her conversation lively and her manners unexceptionable; he preserved a restraint befitting the occasion, elegant yet unmistakably aloof. Had he still been a single man, he might have slipped away from the dancers or confined himself to acquaintances; but as master of the house, what had once been mere dislikes were now duties he could not shirk.

The ball's atmosphere still rendered Darcy ill at ease. Conversation with familiar neighbours, or with those enterprising newcomers of discernment and substance, he managed with composure; but when those neighbours with whom he had little acquaintance—yet who affected an air of elegance in approaching him—made their overtures, he was forced, as host, to smile through it. In such moments, his innate reserve and love of quiet were particularly tried.

In the intervals of talk, Darcy's eye roved over the assembly in search of Elizabeth. There she was, blooming with smiles—now darting witty remarks among the ladies, now directing the servants with serene efficiency in replenishing tea and cups—every motion effortless, with Georgiana trailing lightly in her wake, her own deportment shedding its former diffidence for a touch of poise.

In his heart, he quietly yearned for another dance with her—not merely for the pleasure of their accord in each other's arms, but to escape, however briefly, this ceaseless din. He made several attempts to draw near, only to be intercepted by eager guests demanding his notice, preventing his approach. From afar, he gazed at her, hoping she might spare a glance amid her occupations, that their eyes might meet. Alas, she remained encircled by a cluster of ladies, deep in animated discourse, quite oblivious to his earnest regard. He could but sustain his composure in polite exchanges with those around him, cherishing a hope that repeatedly went unfulfilled, unrewarded by even the slightest acknowledgment from her.

The ball did not break up until the small hours. Whether from the crush of guests, the excessive noise, or—most vexingly—Elizabeth's utter failure to perceive his repeated hints, Darcy retired in a state of inexplicable irritation. When his wife gently inquired if he ailed, he attributed it to a slight headache, and withdrew alone to his chamber, weary in body and mind.

With this unresolved vexation upon him, everything conspired to displease: he found fault with the arrangement of his pillows and the smoothness of his sheets, tossing and turning for some time before, he at last sank into an unwilling slumber.

Chapter Text

The next day, they at last found a moment's leisure in the tranquillity of the parlour. Georgiana was at her pianoforte lesson, and Darcy had supposed the room theirs alone—until a greyhound presented itself, couched upon the sofa. This docile creature was not only the faithful companion of his wife and sister in their outdoor frolics, but followed them through the house with the fidelity of an attendant; it had earned the favour of both ladies, its position at Pemberley quietly elevated. Brushed and perfumed to perfection, it now enjoyed the privilege of reclining upon the sofa at its ease.

Darcy had grown accustomed to these novel aspects of Pemberley, all owing to his indulgence in his wife's lively charms and his gratification at his sister's increasing openness.

At this moment, Elizabeth leant against an embroidered cushion, intent upon her needlework; the greyhound struck him as particularly obtrusive. It nestled against her skirts with the utmost affection, sprawled upon the sofa, eyes half-closed in complacent bliss. Darcy sat in the opposite armchair, a copy of The Times in hand, though his attention wandered little from the printed page, drifting repeatedly over the edge to alight upon her.

Warm sunlight streamed through the long windows, enveloping her and the hound in a scene of domestic serenity, like a tableau from some quiet family portrait. He was on the verge of speaking, lest he shatter this peace—or worse, render himself superfluous in the idyll; but when he observed her stretch out a hand with natural grace to stroke the greyhound's sleek head, and that "great beast" inch closer to her knee with leisurely contentment, a pang of inexplicable vexation stirred within him. At length, he could not forbear, and broke the silence.

"You have been much occupied of late..." he began, his tone unconsciously laced with a note of probing.

"Indeed I have!" Elizabeth replied, her needle unceasing. "The ball is over at last! Only today have I found time to return to this piece." She looked up with a slight smile, though her complexion lacked its customary brightness, a trace of weariness lurking in her eyes.

This subtle sign of fatigue caught his eye, stirring a wave of tenderness. He reflected suddenly that from the preparations for the ball, through the receptions of guests, to the aftermath, none had laboured more assiduously than she; his own earlier chagrins at being overlooked now seemed not only ridiculous, but unworthy.

"Look!" She at last set aside her work, turning the frame towards him with a beaming smile—there, in delicate stitches, a greyhound bounded across the canvas, so lifelike it might spring forth in the next instant, flanked by a few unfinished blossoms.

"It is Phoebe!" she declared with delight, her regard sparkling once more with that arch gleam he knew so well.

Regarding the embroidery, a resolve formed in Darcy's mind: such wretched beast must no longer be indulged in their monopolizing of the sofa—they belonged in the fields, not here to contest space and attention with him.

"Has your headache improved?" she inquired with concern. "Last night I thought to send up some composing tea by the servant, but hearing you had retired, I forbore to disturb you. I daresay the ball's uproar left you in need of sound repose."

"It has much abated, thank you for your solicitude," he replied with a slight smile. The remnants of his earlier irritation softened under this gentle solicitude. Just then, Phoebe, as if sensible of the moment, sprang from the sofa and approached him with a light tread, nudging his hand with her head. This unanticipated overture of affection dispelled the faint residue of his displeasure, and he resolved on the spot to set aside the sofa dispute for the present.

In the evening, a servant hurried in with a troubled countenance. It seemed an aged gardener, long in faithful service at Pemberley, had a grandchild stricken with sudden fever, crying through the night; the family, at their wits' end, had ventured to beseech the mistress's aid.

Elizabeth at once penned a note to the apothecary, dispatched a carriage to fetch him to the old man's cottage without delay, and ordered nourishing broth, warm blankets, and feverfew to be sent; she then rearranged the schedules to allow them ease in tending the child. During this, Darcy sent a servant to inquire if she required assistance, but Elizabeth, mindful of his headache and the rest it demanded, politely declined. She laboured on until late, the candle's flame waning, before all was satisfactorily settled.

The following morning, her appetite was indifferent; she made a hasty breakfast and, with Georgiana, threw herself into directing the hall's decorations with undiminished spirit. Darcy, meanwhile, immersed himself in letters and accounts in his study until the afternoon, when he at last laid down his pen. He contemplated inviting his wife for a walk, to reclaim the companionship these days of trifles had stolen from them.

Yet from the window came a burst of merry laughter. There were Elizabeth and Georgiana, with Phoebe now in high spirits, disporting on the lawn with a ball—having commandeered the entire expanse. That lawn he had expressly preserved for the pleasure of glimpsing her graceful figure strolling within his study window's view. Now his wife hurled the ball with vigour, Phoebe darting after it like an arrow loosed, while his sister stood at a distance, laughing in readiness to catch. So engrossed were the two ladies and the hound in their play that Darcy, lingering at the window, once more felt himself a superfluous observer, a familiar, subdued melancholy stealing over him anew.

Georgiana, catching sight of the figure at the window, waved to him with eager warmth; but Darcy merely raised his hand in faint acknowledgment before turning from the casement, compelling himself to resume his seat at the desk—and resolutely forswearing any impulse to join that self-contained realm of their delight.

"These two days... Brother seems quieter than usual," Georgiana murmured to Elizabeth in a lull of their play.

"Does he?" Elizabeth caught the ball Phoebe brought back, a touch surprised. "He has never been the loquacious sort." Inwardly, she wondered if his headache lingered yet.

"No, not quite," Georgiana shook her head, her voice dropping lower. "Since that evening of the ball, he has seemed... preoccupied, somehow."

Elizabeth paused involuntarily. Georgiana's perceptions were keen, her words no idle fancy. He had indeed been unlike himself of late. She realised, of a sudden, how these days of trifles had blinded her to his moods—and even to the subtle weariness which she had, until that moment, given little thought to.

Yet before she could ponder further, in the late afternoon a servant came hastening with word that Darcy had set out for London. No farewell had passed between them; only a brief note remained.

“Pressing business compels my immediate departure for London to meet with the attorney. I shall return to you with all haste.

Yours, W.”

Chapter Text

Several days later, Darcy returned from London, somewhat travel-worn. As the carriage drew near Pemberley, he found himself arrested by the scene before him. The estate had undergone a transformation, alive with the spirit of festivity: garlands of glossy holly and scarlet berries adorned the walls, ivy and crimson ribbons wreathed the entrance with elegance, mistletoe boughs hung gracefully in the parlour, the dining room boasted fresh tapers in gleaming silver candelabra, and new draperies graced the windows—everywhere the touch of thoughtful ingenuity. All this gaiety sprang from Elizabeth's deft arrangements, her unremitting exertions, and Georgiana's eager aid at her side.

Darcy surveyed it all in silent admiration, his mind conjuring the image of Elizabeth at her labours—her countenance alight with that animated smile, so intent and spirited. She seemed ever possessed of such vitality, as if fatigue could never claim her. A swell of sincere approbation, mingled with delicate regard for her unseen toils, rose unbidden in his breast.

It being evening, he forbore to disturb her, retiring quietly to his chamber and bidding a servant ascertain if his wife yet kept vigil; only then did he announce his arrival. The man soon returned with word that the mistress was not abed, and presented a small token for his perusal. Unfolding a neatly wrapped parcel of silk, Darcy discovered a fine handkerchief, its corner embroidered with "W&L" entwined with a pair of roses—frivolous yet profoundly affectionate. His heart, as if caught in those silken threads, stirred with a gentle thrill, faintly prickling, that impelled him to tap lightly at her door.

"Pray wait a moment!" her voice floated from within. "I fear an interruption might lose me my place entirely!" At this hour, still at her tasks? Darcy reflected, a flicker of concern stirring within.

She opened the door to admit him, her face wreathed in smiles.

"Allow me to tender my heartfelt thanks," he said, inclining his head with mock solemnity. "To return and find a gift from Mrs. Darcy awaiting—such felicity overwhelms."

Elizabeth, well accustomed to his peculiar vein of humour, dimpled with added mirth. "Mr. Darcy's approbation honours me exceedingly," she rejoined in like vein, her tone a parody of courtly deference. She then inquired after the London errand that had so abruptly claimed him.

"All is satisfactorily settled," Darcy replied, though his gaze had already followed hers to the dressing-table. The candle there had burned half away, papers and pens scattered beside it; a warm current of tenderness and compassion welled up within him. He stepped softly forward, enfolding her from behind in a affectionate embrace.

"You fret over London affairs, yet what I long to know is," he drew her closer, "what pressing matter keeps my dearest Lizzy at her labours till the midnight hour?" he murmured, before turning to extol the charms he had beheld upon his return—the enchanting holly garlands and ivy ribbons, the seasonal tapers, the fresh linens for table and window. Even Pemberley's Christmas bill of fare had been renewed, unchanged these ten years past. Mrs. Reynolds had ever sought his approbation thereon, and he had invariably replied, as ever before.

And since her arrival, the estate had blossomed anew: the servants exerted themselves with zeal, no longer mere executors of orders; she had proposed a wildflower path through the rose garden, echoing the rustic charms of her childhood at Longbourn, and the gardeners, fired with enthusiasm, tended the beds with novel topiary conceits; she arranged more neighbourly teas and charitable visits, calling personally upon the tenants with provisions and kind words, even distributing gifts among the staff before the holidays—transforming those once austere observances into scenes of lively warmth.

Darcy knew well that in his sole stewardship of Pemberley, all had proceeded with decorous efficiency, orderly yet inevitably sombre; now her vivacity breathed life into every corner, as if the very stones had quickened with fresh spirit.

"The mistress of Pemberley moves with perfect ease," he observed with a sigh. "To see you and Georgiana so engaged fills me with the utmost satisfaction. Yet," he paused, a shadow of imperceptible regret crossing his features, "I must confess a selfish wish that you might still require my clumsy assistance..."

Ere his words had fully faded, she turned swiftly to face him.

 "Of course I need you, Will," she exclaimed, her voice not startled but a soft exhalation of sudden insight into her husband's hidden cares. He was wont to array himself in that mantle of steadfast composure, impervious to all; yet in this moment, she glimpsed clearly the sensitive heart it veiled, tender for her sake.

"I know you have been aiding me in silence all this while, and dear Georgiana—how kind a girl she is! With your help, I have slowly adapted to, and shouldered, all that Pemberley entails. As for me... my little caprices, you have ever met with indulgence; I am sensible of it all, and ever grateful in my heart..." She placed her cool, soft hand frankly into his waiting palm. He responded at once, clasping it with a gravity almost ceremonial.

"That is but my duty," he replied, his tone melt by reminiscence. "That night you laboured till midnight to summon the physician. It was your first such trial, and I feared you might falter; yet you declined my aid. In the end, all resolved happily, and I marvelled—my Lizzy could truly stand alone..."

"As mistress of Pemberley, it is my office," Elizabeth returned, her voice firm with a sense of obligation. "Besides, with your indisposition from the ball, how could I bear to trouble you further?"

Her words kindled a gentle warmth in Darcy's breast, laced with remorse for his own peevish flight. It was his hasty departure in headache that had sown the misunderstanding.

"Twas but a trifling misunderstanding," he murmured, his voice low and earnest. "But know this, Lizzy: whenever you have need of me, I am ever at your side."

"I know..." Ripples stirred in her heart; his assurances ever soothed her. Suddenly mindful of something, she drew him lightly to the dressing-table, where the candle-flame flickered over scattered sheets. "Well then... pray look at this seating plan, William. I have puzzled over it till my head aches!"

He took the paper willingly, perusing it gravely in the candle's glow; but in moments, he laid it aside.

"Must this be broached now?" His countenance wore its customary solemnity; yet to Elizabeth's eye, the slight furrow of his brow and the studied composure betrayed that hint of drollery so familiar to her.

"Permit me to remind you, Mrs. Darcy: as master of Pemberley, your husband, and your Will, I strenuously insist this matter wait upon the morrow."

"Very well, then—as you wish." she said with a roguish smile, nestling close; the warm ripples in her heart had by now swelled into a lake brimming with affection.

Chapter Text

"That evening's ball," Darcy's voice held a sediment of lingering disquiet, long faded yet not wholly dissolved, "I was beset by several tedious gentlemen, to my infinite irritation. My sole desire was to make my way to you, to find a moment's respite in a dance with you. I gazed upon you with such ardour. Yet you, Lizzy—you bestowed not a single glance." This petty grievance, revived, coloured his complaint with a petulance that surfaced only in her presence, almost childish in its plaintiveness.

Elizabeth fell silent for a brief interval. Memory raced back; she recalled vividly how that night she had been deep in animated discourse with several neighbouring matrons on the latest Derbyshire on-dits, laughing so heartily that her husband's anxious regard from the far end of the room had escaped her entirely. Yet her quick intuition seized upon the genuine yearning beneath his words. Thus she resolved at once to lay aside the truth, weaving instead a gentler response—one more palatable to his ear.

"Oh, my dear," she said, her eyes gathering just the right measure of regret. "Of course I saw you; I know how little you care for balls, and I could not bear to witness your torment. You cannot imagine how I longed to join you, but those ladies prattled on interminably, pinning me in place." As she spoke, she studied his countenance closely; the boyish resentment and grievance that had clouded it melted away like snow in sunlight, yielding to that boundless tenderness reserved for her alone. And in the depths of that tenderness flickered a subtle gleam, betokening that his discernment had perhaps pierced the sweet artifice of her words—yet he willingly surrendered to it, soothed utterly by her contrition, and rejoiced therein.

"But do you know, William," she leant against the dressing-table, tilting her face up to regard him gravely.

"Only now do I truly, profoundly comprehend you—your former pride, so formidable, and that propensity to command." Her tone grew serene. "As a brother, a landlord, a master, how many people's happiness rests in your guardianship! To do good or evil often rests upon a single thought. The power in your hands, which can bestow such pleasure upon others, may likewise inflict such pain.”

Darcy looked steadily into her eyes with deep emotion, momentarily speechless. That burden, laid upon him since his youth—of livelihoods and trusts for countless souls—had forged an edifice of proud isolation, his pride and reserve but the armour he donned to endure. Once, her words, sharp as a blade and pitiless in their precision, had pierced him with such acute agony and indelible mortification. Yet it was that very sting that had rent his self-imposed shell, rousing the true gentleman within, and guiding him toward this transformation.

"I reproached you then with such severity," her voice carried a trace of regret, "and now, experiencing it myself, I truly comprehend the weight upon your shoulders." Her eyes were clear and resolute. "Only now do I understand that to be master of Pemberley signifies not merely the enjoyment of its landscapes, the possession of enviable wealth, the command of a position that commands awe, and all the privileges and conveniences attendant thereon—but the shouldering of those intangible duties: the ceaseless round of household arrangements, the sustenance of servants' families, the expectant eyes of tenants, even the tedium of balls and teas one must navigate." She sighed softly. "I still recall Colonel Fitzwilliam's defence of you that day—he said you 'will not give yourself the trouble.' In truth, William, I do not always relish these either. Sometimes... sometimes I long for a whole day without uttering a word, to hide away in some quiet corner..."

Darcy listened intently, a thousand sentiments swelling in his breast. A complex tide assailed him: remorse for his past failings, profound gratitude for her acute empathy in sharing his lot; and, threading through it all, an inexpressible apprehension. He feared these ceaseless duties and pressures might erode that vital spark in his beloved Lizzy—the lively glance, the arch smile—that once so captivated him.

"And I have been at Pemberley but a year," she sighed lightly, "while you have borne this weight alone, for so long..."

"No, my dear," he interrupted, his voice low and tender, giving her shoulder a light squeeze as if to reclaim the burden upon himself, "I never wished you ensnared in such fetters..."

Her countenance steadied with resolve once more. "It is my choice, my duty," she declared gravely, her tone clear and composed. "I mean to be a true mistress of Pemberley, worthy of the name—not for your sake alone, but for my own, and for every soul we safeguard."

"You have been that from the first," he rejoined at once, his eyes alight with unfeigned pride and affection. "You are Pemberley's ornament, and more truly, mine..." His voice brimmed with admiration. "You throw yourself into it with such spirit, ever drawing Georgiana along at your side—I know it is to guide her." His arm encircled her unbidden.

"But... when you are at leisure, even Phoebe importunes you. Such intrusions ill befit a gentleman..." His even tone bore a thread of wistful grievance, fading to a murmur. She caught, of course, the unmistakable dependence beneath that gentle veil—the candid plea, stripped of all proud panoply, almost a childish coaxing for her notice, if only for a moment wholly his.

"Oh, my dearest Will, accept my sincerest apologies—these days it has been I who neglected you, overlooked your sentiments..."

"Well... I accept them," he replied with a proud smile. "You have done admirably, Lizzy." He raised a hand, fondly tucking a stray lock from her cheek behind her ear.

"No, I think it insufficient," she shook her head lightly, yet fixed him with unwavering gaze, sincere and laced with that roguish innocence.

Darcy regarded the sparkle in her eyes, discerning that familiar cast. Whenever she harboured some unexpected yet delightfully whimsical scheme, her aspect was ever thus. A quiet anticipation kindled within him.

Chapter Text

"As mistress of Pemberley, wife to Mr. Darcy, I deem my foremost—and most pressing—duty to be..." She paused artfully, "...none other than the devoted care of Pemberley's master, Mr. Darcy himself. To esteem him, love him deeply, cherish him, and hold him ever foremost in my heart..."

Her words were as the sweetest vintage, intoxicating him, joy uncontainable. From their first acquaintance, her wit and discernment had ever surprised him in the most unforeseen ways, and he remained ever enslaved, delighting in the bondage. He could restrain himself no longer; bending low, he pressed a light kiss to those lips that so often uttered words to torment and enrapture him in equal measure. The tender contact deepened into fervent dwelling. Until, breathless with a series of soft gasps, she drew back slightly, her hand pressing gently against his chest to stay his advance—yet abiding still in the shelter of his warm embrace.

She informed Darcy of her resolve to entrust the Christmas arrangements and tenants' supper to Mrs. Reynolds for the nonce, and Phoebe to Georgiana's keeping. In a murmur, she proclaimed: "Tomorrow, I do nothing, think nothing—only be with you."

Darcy could not forbear a fond laugh, his eyes brimming with tenderness. He protested that such utter devotion was needless, yet insisted that the afternoon and evening must be wholly his—admitting not even a wandering fly to interrupt.

He leant by the fireside, accepting naturally the posset of herbs she offered. The conversation turned; he spoke of his recent occupations. The season's inclement weather had driven up the price of grain, rendering the tenants' lot precarious, yet the harvest had proved tolerable—witness to their diligence. He hoped only for a kinder clime next year, to fortify Pemberley's foundations.

Through Mr. Gardiner's introduction, he had made the acquaintance of Mr. Arkwright and Mr. Strutt. At first averse to truck with mill-owners, deeming them deficient in gentlemanly polish, he had yielded to his kinsman's character and discernment; and unexpectedly, their converse had proved congenial. Now they schemed a venture: the pair to furnish the machinery, he the land and portion of capital, for a steam-powered cotton mill in Derbyshire. Should it prosper, the returns promised handsome, offsetting the caprices of agriculture. He stipulated, however, commodious lodgings for the workers, with schools and an infirmary, akin to Pemberley's cottages.

His surveyor had discovered a seam of coal upon the estate; he planned to invest in a colliery, the annual yield in thousands of pounds far surpassing annuities. The county's projected canals and bridges would demand funds likewise. Bingley often jested with him: "My fortune sprang from trade—the times are changing!" He was no blind conservative; surveying the currents, he deemed the hour ripe.

Moreover, the steam engine intrigued him—not some fire-breathing monster, but a contrivance to propel spinning jennies with doubled efficiency. He pondered summoning an engineer to deliberate the matter...

He envisaged, once the holidays waned, their departure for London; she had yet to taste the Season's whirl. Their absence last year had not escaped the ton's notice, spawning a flurry of whispers: some murmured that Pemberley's new mistress, no heiress of rank, must be coarse in manner, unfit for polite circles; others averred her fastidiousness matched his own, accounting for their seclusion; bolder still, some insinuated a rift with Lady Catherine had alienated her husband. How, they wondered, had Mr. Darcy chosen such a bride?

To such gossip, Darcy met, as ever, with a disdainful silence. In his bachelor days, he had deemed explanations to fools a futile exercise. Now, though he held their felicity above the world's suffrage, the thought of her bright name linked to such petty malice stirred a sharper sentiment than mere impatience: displeasure at the shallow beau monde's presumption to dissect his wife.

The coming Season held especial import for the Darcys: their first appearance as a married couple, and Georgiana's formal coming out at London assemblies.

 Invitations and engagements would pour in apace. It promised another year of breathless whirl.

"My dear, I am vastly looking forward to the Season!" Elizabeth exclaimed, her eyes agleam. "But we must alter our plans."

"What has occurred?" Darcy inquired, a nameless qualm tightening his breast—though her serene aspect only deepened his perplexity.

"I think... I am with child."

Chapter Text

Darcy was leaning at his ease against the mantelpiece, a cup of herbal tea from his wife's hand in his own. The news made him catch his breath; his hand stilled mid-air, the cup suspended, as he fixed his gaze upon Elizabeth with the same keen attention he had once stolen at the Lucas Lodge ball, ever striving to know more of her.

“Indeed? Are you certain?” No sooner had the words escaped him than he regretted their abruptness—such a question, so ill-suited to draw forth her reply.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy, whatever am I to say to that!” Elizabeth sat composed upon the bed, a smile twinkling in her eyes that she could scarcely conceal, though she assumed an air of grave consideration, tilting her head ever so slightly. “Let me see... I suppose I must grant... a strong probability, at least”

A flood of delight surged through Darcy. They had been married above a year now—this hope, though unspoken, had long nestled in their hearts. And now, it was fulfilled! A child—the future of Pemberley, the living proof of him, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and her, Elizabeth Darcy, a sacred seal upon their indissoluble bond of blood and vow.

He longed to cross the room at once and enfold her in his arms, to share this rapture; yet a prudent thought intruded, untimely as it was: only days before, he had seen her bustling about the preparations for the Christmas season, directing the servants in their indoor and outdoor labors. True, her spirits were ever high, but she was young, quite without experience in such matters... and that teasing air upon her face now—so familiar, ever aimed at him a little—besides, she was ever discreet, and would never trifle with a matter of this gravity.

This inward battle of feeling and reason etched a complex expression upon his features. He straightened his frame, setting the teacup firmly upon the mantel with steady hands, his gaze wandering as his mind raced, all the while scrutinizing her every response with care.

“What I meant was... Lizzy, how did you come to know? Were there any... particular signs?” His tone mingled solicitude with something akin to interrogation.

“Pemberley boasts several maids who have borne children themselves... I daresay you would scarcely wish to hear me prattle on about those topics ladies discuss only behind closed doors!” She nearly laughed at his solemn posture, grave as if auditing the estate's ledgers.

Elizabeth regarded Darcy with a beaming smile; his ears were tinged with red, his gaze now cautiously fixed upon her. He fidgeted with his fingers, turning an imaginary signet ring. Such unease upon the usually composed Mr. Darcy was a sight most rare.

He began to pace the room of a sudden. Elizabeth could not help recalling that disagreeable afternoon at the parsonage—yet the present scene supplanted the old vexation, leaving only a smile she could not suppress.

“But might not the maids' experience prove fallible? If memory serves, only a few days past you were still chasing about with Phoebe in that romping game...” Darcy halted abruptly, then resumed his pacing, careful to maintain a prudent distance and not approach her.

“Well, then, I was not certain at that time—it was my fault, perhaps I ought not to have done so, my dear...” Her voice held a touch of pettish scold, but she turned grave in an instant, adding with mock severity, “yet I think this is no moment for recriminations, Mr. Darcy.”

At last he returned to stand by the fireside, and only when their eyes met—beholding the gentle resolve in hers—did he permit himself to savor the joy. A pang of remorse shot through him: how ill-timed his interrogative concern had been.

The firelight softened Darcy's features; outside, the snow fell ever thicker.

“This is… truly the very best news I could hope for.” he said low.

“Are you glad?”

“Assuredly.”

That he should respond to news of such profound joy with so restrained a reply. Elizabeth could no longer suppress her mirth. Who could behold this solemn, almost clumsy Mr. Darcy and not deem him utterly endearing? And in her eyes, to fail to cherish this charm would be an unpardonable dullness; she counted herself singularly blessed to be the one soul on earth privileged to appreciate and cherish it. She had pictured him seizing her hand in rapturous avowal, or drawing her silently into his embrace upon learning of impending fatherhood—but this composed joy was a complexity unforeseen.

“Will you not come embrace me?” She rose with a smile, extending her arms in gentle invitation. “How long intend you to stand guard by that hearth, Will?”

Light of heart, he advanced to claim the cherished, long-anticipated bliss; yet he halted a mere half-step distant, inquiring abruptly.

“I must not clasp you over-tightly, ought I?”

“Oh, my dear sir, pray do not tease me further!” Before her words had fully faded, she closed the distance, her arms about his waist, her cheek nestling softly against his breast. Darcy stood transfixed for an instant by this unforeseen advance; then, with a piety of restraint, he gathered her gently into his arms. In that moment, those warring sentiments—elation, sorrow, pride, apprehension—subsided into a profound calm. A serenity almost hallowed descended upon him, as though the very world lay secure within his encircling arms. It was the purest possession.

“My dear Will... is to be a father..."she murmured, as if to herself.

He pressed a light kiss to her crown and fell silent. Turbulent thoughts raced like a carriage at full gallop, bearing visions of the past in swift procession across his mind: Pemberley's vaulted corridors lined with ancestral portraits; his affectionate father clapping his shoulder, dubbing him “my son”; his mother kneeling amid the grass, cradling his chestnut-pricked hand with tender reproach for his heedlessness. But as she lifted her gaze, her features blanched and etched with illness... His heart contracted sharply; his arms tightened instinctively, drawing her deeper into his hold. From this brief reverie, her timely words recalled him to the present.

“Why this silence, my dear? What occupies your thoughts?” she ventured at last, awaiting his voice in vain.

The face that met his as his wife lifted her head was one of robust health, aglow in the candle's gleam, her eyes alight with spirit, fervor, and anticipation. He bestowed a kiss upon her brow, striving to reclaim his wonted composure amid this deluge of emotion.

“It has just struck me... that you were atop a ladder, draping the holly...”

“Good heavens! No more indictments, if you please, Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed lightly.

“You must forgive me, Lizzy—but you have such a talent for... the most unforeseen and... truly heart-stopping ventures.” His tone wavered betwixt reproof and fondness. “I cannot forbear untimely admonitions, my dear Mrs. Darcy—you must now safeguard more than your own person alone.”

She commanded him, with a pretty pout, to cease such talk, and he acquiesced with pleasure. Recalling his recent necessary absence in London, leaving her at Pemberley, he felt a lingering qualm despite the exigency. He vowed silently to augment his watchfulness and guardianship over her henceforth. This onerous charge was, to him, the most delectable of burdens. His mind was at once a whirl of preparations, all bent upon her perfect comfort. From the morrow's first light, he would summon the menus from the housekeeper for his scrutiny, consulting her on palatable, temperate fare; bid the servants lay down plush carpets upon every stair, against draught or mishap; unearth that neglected tome of physic to pore over its relevant passages, that he might detect any covert symptoms in season; pen at once to that renowned London practitioner, beseeching his attendance at Pemberley—for the hazards of such an undertaking were manifold and unforeseen; choose a chamber bathed in southern sun for their babe, provisioning it with fine linens and raiment, the furnishings remade to his precise specifications. Pemberley's disused nursery wares had long since fallen into disrepair...

“Lizzy, my dearest, pardon me—I must take my leave.”

“Why? Whither? What has occurred?”

“I shall compose a letter to the physician forthwith.”

“At such an hour!” Elizabeth half laughed, his pragmatic zeal now rendered so adorably  extravagant. “My love, one day can scarce effect a material change.”

Pondering briefly, he postponed this “urgent matter” until dawn. He inquired tentatively after the tranquility of her recent nights, and whether he should refrain from lingering in her apartment hereafter.

“I slumber as soundly as ever,” she assured him calmly, “and should you elect to withdraw now, my dear sir, you will forfeit irrevocably your privilege of ingress to these chambers.”