“That does not sound like you at all,” Jane said quietly. “In all our years together, I have never known you to speak with deliberate cruelty.”
“That’s what troubles me most,” Elizabeth replied. “I don’t recognise the woman I’ve become. This anger, this bitterness—it is consuming me, Jane. I’m turning into someone I don’t like, someone who strikes.”
“You are in an impossible situation,” Jane said with gentle firmness. “Your entire life has been upended, your choicestaken from you. It would be unnatural if you weren’t struggling with anger and confusion.”
“But that doesn’t excuse cruelty. I am not certain what I saw that night anymore, and if I am not, perhaps he is not either. I cannot know what is in his heart, what he saw. But I do not that he does not act like a man pleased with his new station. This morning, he was humble and we even conversed for a spell.”
“So he has forgiven you,” Jane stated.
“I do not think so. I believe he is trying to make the best of things. How can he forgive me for being so horrid to him? Even if he could, I will never be certain that he did not see Mr Wickham that night and is trying to protect him somehow.
“Has he reason to protect Wickham? I thought it clear they did not care for one another. Mr Wickham was most certainly unkind to him during tea. Perhaps it is true and he simply saw nothing. Even if he wishes to. Would you have him lie for you?”
She wanted to say yes, she wanted him to. So they could both be free. Yet at the same time she knew she would never want a man to embroil himself in lies for her sake. Not truly. It reminded her of the time her mother had asked their father if he would re-marry should she die before him. He had said he might, for the sake of company and she had been most upset.
Although later, she had confessed that the selfish part of her had been upset. The part that truly cared about her husband had wanted him to find love again too. It was like that, somehow. The selfish part of her wanted one thing, but the selfless part wanted another.
“I suppose not,” she answered at last.
“Well then. I think you should try to be the woman who has always sought to understand rather than condemn. Who looks for the good in people rather than assuming the worst.” Jane smiled gently. “Most people are more forgiving than we expect, particularly when they recognise that harsh words spring from pain rather than malice.”
They sat for a while in silence, and then, Jane smiled. “There is something I wanted to tell you. Mr Bingley has asked if I might accompany him and his sister on a walk this afternoon. He wishes to show me Ashcroft House—he’s considering purchasing it.”
“Ashcroft House? I heard that someone was interested in it but I did not know it was Mr Bingley. So he is still determined to make himself a gentleman.”
“Precisely. Papa has given his approval for the visit, though Mama claims her nerves are too fragile for me to go. She cannot stand the idea of losing another daughter to the low born, as she says.” Jane’s eyes sparkled with suppressed happiness. “Papa told her she needn’t concern herself—that he would handle any decisions regarding Mr Bingley’s suit.”
Genuine joy for her sister filled Elizabeth’s heart. “Papa does not wish to see another daughter married of for status and convenience instead of love. This is your chance, Jane.”
“I hardly dare hope,” Jane admitted. “But it does seem promising.”
They talked a few minutes longer before Jane had to return to prepare for her outing. As Elizabeth watched the carriage disappear down the drive, Jane’s words echoed in her mind—Focus on what you can discover.
***
After Jane’s departure, Elizabeth returned to the house and wandered aimlessly, finding herself drawn to rooms she had rarely entered during her childhood visits. The library called to her, as libraries always did, but she resisted the temptation to lose herself in books. Instead, she stood before the door to what had been Lord Hartford’s study and was now, presumably, Darcy’s domain.
The door stood slightly ajar, and after a moment’s hesitation, Elizabeth pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was empty, though evidence of recent occupation was scattered across the mahogany desk. Estate ledgers lay open, their pages covered with neat columns of figures in a precise hand. Several letters awaited sealing, and beside them, a small stack of papers that had been set aside.
Elizabeth approached the desk cautiously, her curiosity warring with her sense of propriety. She had no right to examine her husband’s private correspondence, yet something about the careful arrangement of his things spoke to a methodical mind that intrigued her.
Atop the stack of papers lay a drawing that made her breath catch. Executed in fine pencil strokes, it depicted a grand house set among rolling parkland, with a lake reflecting the elegant facade. The artist had captured not just the building’s architectural details but something of its serene dignity, the way it seemed to nestle naturally into the landscape.
The craftsmanship was remarkable—every line deliberate, every shadow placed to create depth and atmosphere. Elizabeth studied it with growing fascination, wondering at the skill required to create something so beautiful.Had Darcy drawn this himself? Did he possess artistic talents she had never suspected?
The house depicted was clearly substantial, far grander than Longbourn or even Netherfield, with classical proportions that spoke of both wealth and refined taste. Was this his family’s estate? Some place he had visited and admired enough to render in such loving detail?
Elizabeth realised she knew virtually nothing about her husband’s interests or accomplishments beyond his obvious competence in estate management. Did he read poetry? Play instruments? Keep collections of natural specimens or ancient coins? What thoughts occupied his mind during quiet evening hours?
Chapter Eighteen
Darcy
The morning carried a bite that warned of winter’s approach as Darcy made his way across the fields of the estate. Frost silvered the grass beneath his boots. He had risen early, as was his custom, to inspect the estate before the day’s other obligations claimed his attention.
This was familiar work—checking drainage ditches, examining hedgerows, noting which fields would benefit from winter fallowing. He had been performing such tasks since boyhood, first at Pemberley under his father’s tutelage, then at Matlock and then Netherfield and its estates. The rhythm of it soothed him, the practical concerns of land management providing a welcome respite from the turmoil of his personal circumstances.
Yet something felt different this morning. The tenants he encountered greeted him with a new formality that sat strangely between them. Where once they had addressed him as Mr Darcy or simply Darcy in the easy manner of men who worked together, now he received bows and careful responses that created distance where none had existed before.
