“That’s impossible,” Mary said firmly. “You’re due to deliver any day now.”
“I don’t care,” Elizabeth retorted, a flash of her old fire returning. “I’ll walk to London if necessary.”
Graham read through the letter, his expression grave. “Mrs. Darcy, your sister is right. Traveling now would endanger both you and the child.”
“And what good would it do?” Mary added, her practical nature asserting itself. “Lady Catherine has made it perfectly clear that you would not be admitted. You would risk your health and the baby’s only to be turned away at the door.”
“I am his wife!” Elizabeth’s voice rose with desperation.
“Without proof, you are nothing to them,” Mary said with her usual bluntness. “You are the dirty little secret they wish would disappear.”
Elizabeth flinched at her words. They were true, of course. For months, she had clung to hope—that Darcy would wake, that evidence of their marriage would surface, that Lady Eleanor’scautious support would eventually lead to recognition. But with each passing week, that hope had grown thinner, stretched to transparency.
“I cannot let him die without seeing him again,” Elizabeth protested. “Perhaps if I were there. If I could speak to him, give him hope, he would weather this illness.”
Graham’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. “Mrs. Darcy, your sister speaks sense. The roads between here and London are rough, and the journey in your present state would be inadvisable at best.”
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Darcy,” he added. “Though I wish it were otherwise.”
“And scandal would only damage the Darcy family name further,” came Georgiana’s voice from the doorway. The girl—no, the young woman now—stood framed in the entrance, her dark eyes so like her brother’s that Elizabeth sometimes had to look away.
“Miss Darcy,” Graham acknowledged Georgiana with a bow. “I did not realize you had returned from your ride.”
“Just now,” Georgiana said, stepping into the shed. At sixteen, she had grown into her height during their months together at Bellfield. “I heard voices. Is there news of my brother?”
Mary summarized the letter’s contents while Elizabeth sank back into her chair, one hand pressed to her forehead. The world swam around her. Her husband might slip away without ever knowing he was to be a father. She’d held onto the hope and the reports from Lady Eleanor.
“I should go to him,” Georgiana said when Mary finished. “If he truly is…” Her voice broke, unable to complete the thought.
Of course, Miss Darcy, as his sister, was allowed to travel to Pemberley.
“Please, Georgy, give my regards to your brother. Mention my name, perhaps he would remember.”
“Yes, dear sister.” Georgiana clasped her hand and returned to the house, no doubt to pack.
Silence fell over the small group, broken only by the distant bleating of sheep and the soft whisper of wool as Graham absently continued sorting. Elizabeth felt his gaze upon her but could not meet his eyes. She knew what she would find there—pity, concern, and something more dangerous: devotion.
“Perhaps,” Graham finally said, setting aside the wool with deliberate care, “we might speak privately, Mrs. Darcy?”
Elizabeth looked up, surprised by the formal request. “Of course, Mr. Pullen.”
Mary took the letter from Mr. Pullen. “Perhaps I shall share the sad contents with the Honywoods. Lizzy, please don’t overtax yourself.”
“I shall be back at the house to help Georgiana pack,” Elizabeth assured her sister. “Mary, thank you for your counsel. I see that my duty is to keep Darcy’s heir in good health.”
The child within her seemed to sense her distress, shifting restlessly against her ribs. She placed both hands on her belly, trying to calm both herself and the baby.
Once Mary had gone, Graham stood awkwardly before her, his tall frame silhouetted against the sunlight streaming through the open door.
Graham knelt, bringing himself to her eye level. “Mrs. Darcy,” he began, then stopped, seeming to wrestle with himself. “Elizabeth. May I speak plainly?”
She nodded, too weary to protest the use of her Christian name.
“I have presumed upon our friendship too long without speaking,” he began, his Yorkshire accent more pronounced with emotion. “But circumstances now compel me to offer what small comfort may lie within my power.”
“Mr. Pullen?—”
“Graham,” he corrected gently. “After all these months, I should be Graham to you.”
