Eternal Flame ~ A Pemberley Fairy Tale

Chapter Twenty

As William drove them back to Derbyshire on Tuesday morning Liz had plenty of time to dwell upon the abrupt change in direction her life had taken. She’d never been big on planning but every time she’d imagined what she might be doing in two or five years time, the most she’d ever hoped for was a larger apartment, and maybe seeing her book about Pemberley in print.

William seemed to recognise her need to think. Either that or he was so used to being on his own that he didn’t feel obliged to fill the silence. As they entered Pemberley village, she woke from her reverie as he drove past the road that ran in front of the green. Instead he continued on, parking the car against a low stone wall at the end of the village.

He pulled the key from the ignition. “Before we go home there’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.”

The squat stone chapel huddled on a rise, the land beyond sloping up into the trees. A scattering of gravestones leaned at angles, the inscribed names almost obscured by the lichens blooming on the limestone. William’s hand wrapped around hers, warming her chilled fingers as he urged her through the wrought iron gate and up the path.

“Did you build this as well?”

He smiled. “No, I only paid for it.” He stopped under the gothic archway, his hand brushing the carved stone. “The original church stood closer to the house but lightning struck the spire while I was in America with Georgiana. The resulting fire destroyed the roof and all the contents; it was one of the reasons I chose to come home. I decided to build a new chapel here where it was more convenient for the tenants and pensioners. It also meant more privacy for the house because we didn’t need to allow access to the church.”

“I remember reading a little about the construction in the steward’s book. They were going to tear down the old building and reuse the stone.”

“They demolished the bell tower, because it was unsafe. Most of the nave remains but it’s tucked away behind the shrubbery now. Sometimes I go there when I want to get away from things for a while.” He ran a finger down her cheek. “It’s strange. I used to visit almost every day, but when you arrived I lost the urge to leave the house.”

Liz glanced at the thick oak door, which stood slightly ajar. “So when we argue, and you storm out of the house, I’ll know where you’re hiding?”

“You seem very sure we will quarrel.”

“Doesn’t everyone? Amanda and Shelly are the only people I spent any amount of time with and they fought all the time.”

“They were not me.” He pulled her closer, whispering in her ear. “I haven’t waited this long to waste precious time bickering. I’m sure you’ll find me a most indulgent husband.”

Husband. There, he’d said it. By the end of the month, possibly by the end of the week, she would be William’s wife—in the eyes of God, if not in the eyes of the Office of National Statistics. And she wasn’t marrying William Bingley but Fitzwilliam Darcy, son of George and Lady Anne Darcy; a man believed to have died almost two hundred years ago.

The hinges protested as William pushed the heavy door open and showed her through into the church. The thick stone blocked out the background sounds she hadn’t previously noticed: birds singing in the trees, and the rustle of the long grasses swaying in the wind. The space inside was simply furnished. Five rows of chairs faced a shallow apse, with a plain yellow and red cloth draped over the altar.

A rounded individual walked towards them, his black clothes relieved only by the white collar around his neck and his bald head protruding through a wispy circle of grey hair. “Good morning.” He rubbed his hands together, blowing on the ends of his fingers. “A chilly one but at least we’re not expecting any rain today.”