“Good morning, Darcy. Out early, I see,” Lord Hartford said.
“My lord,” Darcy replied, inclining his head. “Old habits. I wanted to check the progress on the stone wall repairs before the weather turns.”
“Commendable diligence, though you need not concern yourself with such details much longer. The new steward arrives tomorrow. You’ve done excellent work here, Darcy. The estate has never been better managed. But your position has changed now, and you must learn to delegate such concerns to others.”
“I understand completely.” Darcy’s voice remained steady despite the turmoil beneath.
“There is another matter I wished to discuss,” Lord Hartford continued, his tone growing more serious. “About the unfortunate incident on the night of the ball. If you should happen to remember anything further—any detail about the man who attacked Elizabeth—I trust you would inform me immediately.”
Darcy met the earl’s gaze directly, though his stomach clenched. “Naturally, my lord.”
“Good. The scoundrel cannot be allowed to escape justice, whoever he may be.” Lord Hartford touched his hat brim. “I’ll leave you to your inspections then. Give my regards to Elizabeth.”
As the earl rode away, Darcy remained motionless, the weight of his deception pressing down upon him like a physical burden. The secret of Wickham’s identity felt heavier with each passing day, made worse by Lord Hartford’s evident trust in his integrity.
***
The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of Longbourn’s drawing room as Darcy entered to find Elizabeth seated at the escritoire near the far wall. She appeared to beexamining something spread before her, her dark head bent in concentration. At his footsteps, she looked up with a guilty start.
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” she said, rising quickly and moving to fold whatever she had been studying. “I was merely—that is, I did not mean to pry into your private correspondence.”
Darcy approached slowly, noting the flush that coloured her cheeks. “There is no need to apologise. We are husband and wife now, after all.” The words felt strange on his tongue, formal yet intimate in a way that unsettled him. “What has captured your interest so thoroughly?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then gestured towards the papers on the desk. “I found this sketch among some documents. I fear my curiosity got the better of me.”
Darcy moved closer and recognised the drawing immediately—a detailed rendering of Pemberley’s main facade, executed in delicate pencil strokes. His sister Georgiana had created it during one of her artistic phases, capturing not just the house but something of its serene dignity.
“You need not feel guilty about examining it,” he said, settling into the chair opposite the desk. “Though I confess myself curious about your thoughts on the subject.”
Elizabeth resumed her seat, her fingers tracing the edge of the sketch without quite touching it. “It’s beautiful,” she said simply. “The proportions are so elegant, and the setting appears quite peaceful. What is this place?”
“Pemberley,” Darcy replied. “The estate in Derbyshire where my father served as steward for many years. Where my sister and I were born and raised.”
“Your family home,” Elizabeth said, and something in her tone suggested understanding rather than mere polite interest.
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Darcy pulled the estate ledgers towards him but did not open them, his attention caught by her evident fascination with the drawing. “Though we lived in the steward’s cottage rather than the main house, of course. A comfortable dwelling, but quite modest compared to this grandeur.”
Elizabeth’s eyes remained fixed on the sketch. “It must have been a wonderful place for a child. So much space, and the grounds appear extensive.”
“They were paradise to a boy,” Darcy admitted, allowing himself to remember those early years with something approaching fondness. “Miles of parkland to explore, streams for fishing, ancient oaks perfect for climbing. My sister and I had the run of the place, within reason.”
“Your sister must have been very young when you lived there, yes? Is she much your junior?”
“Georgiana is ten years younger than I, but yes, she spent her early childhood at Pemberley. Until our circumstances changed.” The familiar weight of loss settled over him. “Our mother died of consumption when Georgiana was but a babe. I think I told you some of this.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened with sympathy. “Yes, you did. Dreadful.”
“It was. My father never quite recovered from losing her. He continued his duties faithfully, but something vital went out of him. I suppose love will do that. Mr Havisham, Pemberley’s owner, passed soon after his wife died from fever as well. It wassaid to be apoplexy but those of us who knew him understood it was a broken heart that took him. I like to think that they are together somewhere now. The Havishams. And my mother and father, of course.”
The room fell silent except for the soft tick of the mantel clock and the distant sound of servants moving about their duties. Elizabeth waited, seeming to sense there was more to the story. Then, when he said nothing, she gently prodded.
“And they are the ones who saw that you were looked after?”
“Yes. They arranged for me to live with Mr Wickham. Mr Wickham was a clerk for them and was elevated to steward. He was fond of my father. They were friends. He was always like an uncle to Georgiana and I. So, it seemed natural for him to succeed my father both as steward and as our guardian.”
At the mention of Wickham’s name, Elizabeth’s posture grew noticeably rigid. Her hands, which had been resting casually in her lap, clenched into small fists, and her breathing became shallow. The reaction was so pronounced that Darcy stopped speaking entirely.
“Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “I did not mean to distress you. Perhaps this is not the appropriate time for such reminiscences.”
