It would be a kindness, Elizabeth realised, to keep this part of things from her sister. Jane’s open heart and earnest nature would be tested by the need for secrecy, and if their mother—until recently so excitable and prone to suspicion—were to discover that Jane knew something she was not meant to, the situation could become unbearable. No, it was better this way.
Elizabeth was resolved. Other than the Milners, who already knew, she would shoulder the burden of Christmas House on her own. At least until—unless—she married. She folded Jane's letter carefully, her fingertips touching the familiar handwriting before she placed the letter in a drawer of her writing desk.
She gazed around the room she had chosen for a study. The high ceilings and wide windows, at first daunting in their grandeur, allowed the soft light of autumn to illuminate it, and she was certain she would be happy here.
Hollydale House was vast and full of new responsibilities, but now that the surprise of it was past, she was growing increasingly attached to it. Even the long gallery, where the portraits of so many former masters and mistresses hung, no longer intimidated her as they had at first. She smiled to herself.Of course, nothing intimidated her for long, but this had been different. Now, Elizabeth imagined the generations that had walked these halls and felt pride, for she was now also a part of Hollydale’s history.
And its legacy.
As she wandered through the house, her footsteps echoing against the polished wooden floors, she let herself admire the details she had not fully appreciated before. The intricate woodwork, the delicate moulding along the ceilings, the sturdy elegance of the staircase that curved gracefully toward the upper floors—each small beauty drew her in, offering comfort and a sense of belonging. Hollydale was no longer just an inheritance or a daunting responsibility. It was becoming a home. Her home.
Elizabeth found herself drifting toward the doors that led out to the garden, and after tossing her cloak over her shoulders, she stepped outside into the crisp air. The garden, though overgrown in places, held the same quiet promise as the house. The hedges might need trimming, and the flowerbeds would require attention come spring, but a beautiful garden was there waiting, just as the house had been, for someone to care for it in the way Mr. Ellis’s final illness had not allowed. She walked slowly along the path, breathing in the fresh scent of the earth and the faint trace of roses that bloomed stubbornly despite the chill. And though there was much to be done, Elizabeth felt herself growing more confident with every step she took.
As she stood beneath a canopy of trees that marked the entrance to the park, Elizabeth realized something unexpected: after only a few weeks here, she was falling in love with Hollydale. This house, this land, could be hers in a way that Longbourn, because of the entail, could not. This was a safe place, somewhere she could grow and flourish, just as she knew it would grow and flourish under her care.
For the first time since her arrival, Elizabeth truly felt at home.
It took another fortnight of working on the field to correct the drainage issue so that they would be able to run sheep on it. But then Darcy’s mind turned to Hollydale and its newest tenants.
Good manners compelled him to introduce himself to Mr. Bennet, of course. Their estates were only a few miles apart. But he could not deny he hoped to see the man’s daughter again while he was there.
Darcy rode up to the estate, noting the activity around the house—there were a handful of men examining the roof and chimneys, and others cleaning out the cast-iron guttering. More still were testing the windows for drafts. Clearly the new family was settling in and preparing the home for winter. He could only approve.
The door was opened by a lean man of middle years.
“Good day, Mr. Riggs,” he said to the butler. He was pleased the man and his excellent wife had been retained by the new family in residence.
“Good day, Mr. Darcy. Do come in but watch your step. The house is a bit disordered at present.”
Three maids were dusting the entry hall from top to bottom. He coughed a little at the dust in the air.
“Through here,” Mr. Riggs said, and they stepped farther into the house. Everything was still as he recalled it being over the summer when he and a few other gentlemen from the area had gathered for the funeral. As he passed the drawing room, he noted the old dark blue velvet curtains had been removed, and light was streaming in through the large windows.
Miss Bennet had been emerging from the draper’s when she had been knocked over by the boys. The ladies were planning to redecorate, then. He had not thought there was anything wrongwith the room the way it was, but he had to admit the light made a world of difference to the feel of the place.
They walked down the hall to a room Darcy did not believe he had been in before—Ellis’s study had been in the other wing. Mr. Riggs stopped to knock on the door.
“Come,” he heard from inside.
Mr. Riggs opened the door and stepped inside to announce him. “Mr. Darcy of Pemberley to see you, Mr. Bennet.”
“Thank you, Mr. Riggs, show him in.”
Darcy stepped inside to see a man on the higher side of forty going through a stack of books, wiping each one down, reading its title, and setting it on one of several other piles that were scattered over the desk and chairs.
Seeing the state of the room, Darcy began to think he had called too early. He bowed slightly. “Forgive me for intruding. As one of your neighbours, I simply wished to welcome you.”
Mr. Bennet glanced around and took out a handkerchief to wipe his hands clean. “I am afraid you find us topsy-turvy, Mr. Darcy. We discovered a leak in the roof on the other side of the house late in the day yesterday. I had the contents of Mr. Ellis’s book room moved here immediately and am inspecting each one for damage.”
“I would not wish to presume . . .”
“Not at all, not at all. I am due a moment of ease, I think.” Mr. Bennet waved him inside, clearing the books from a chair.
“I am glad you thought to rescue the books so promptly,” Darcy said, “for Mr. Ellis was in possession of many rare volumes. He had a fondness for Defoe, Haywood, Locke, Pope, Sterne, Swift, Johnson, and many others. We often discussed them when I came to call.”
Mr. Bennet tipped his head to one side. “So you knew him?”
“As well as anyone did, I suppose. He was a widower of many years, and by the time I took over visiting from my father, he was already elderly. But he had a sharp mind and a good heart.”
