Page 75 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

Every one of them was looking at the new mistress of the house, in her husband's arms.

"Fitzwilliam," said Elizabeth through her teeth. "Put me down."

He set her on her feet. His mouth twitched. Her face was scarlet.

"Mrs. Darcy," he said to the hall, "this is Mrs. Hobbs, who keeps this house. And Burrell, who keeps everything else."

Mrs. Hobbs curtsied. "You are very welcome, ma'am. We have all heard a great deal about you."

Elizabeth glanced at her husband. From whom? His face was perfectly grave.

She went down the lines on his arm. There was a cook, and two housemaids, and a kitchen maid, and a boy who could not have been twelve. There were two footmen, very tall, who stared straight ahead. She said a word to every one of them. She made the boy smile. She came to Parrish at the end.

"Good evening, Mrs. Darcy," said Parrish gravely. His eyes were very bright.

"Good evening, Parrish. You will have to teach me the house."

"With pleasure, ma'am." He bowed. "There is a supper laid in the small dining room, sir. And a fire in the library after."

The supper was a cold fowl and a ham, with hot soup and a dish of buttered eggs. Elizabeth had not known she was hungry. She had eaten nothing since the bride cake, and she had spent half the road on her husband's lap. She found she was ravenous.

Darcy sent the footmen away. He took up the carving knife and cut the fowl himself. He put the best of it on her plate. Then he took her plate back and cut her meat into small pieces, very neatly.

Elizabeth stared at him. "I am perfectly able to cut my own meat, sir."

"I know." He set the plate in front of her. "Do not thank me. You are in my debt."

She laughed so hard that Burrell looked in at the door to see what was the matter. He looked out again, very quickly.

She ate every piece. He watched her do it, and ate almost nothing himself.

"You are not hungry," she said.

"I am," said Darcy. "Not for ham."

She put down her fork. She found she had finished.

He took her hand and led her across the hall to the library. The candles were out in the hall now, and the servants were gone. Only the fire showed under the library door.

He opened it and stood aside to let her in.

It was a long room, lined with books to the ceiling. A fire burned in the grate. There were two deep chairs before it and a carpet the color of wine. There were no books on the floor now.

"Papa told me you laid them out in here," she said. "In rows. All his grandfather's books."

"On this carpet. In rows." He walked to the hearth. "I could not write to you. I wrote three pages and burned them, and then I could not write a word. So I bought books instead."

He turned round, with his back to the fire. He stood still a moment. Then he touched his own cravat. "Will you undo this for me?"

Elizabeth looked at him. He had tied it himself that morning. She could see that, because it was a little crooked at the knot. He had no need of her for it at all.

He wants my hands on him. Only that.

She walked to him.

She walked the length of the room, across the carpet where the books had lain. She had no crutch, and no arm to lean on, and no pain in her ankle anywhere. She walked to him on her own healed feet, and he watched her come every step of the way.

She stopped in front of him and put up her hands to the knot.