The great hall of Pemberley had been transformed into an impromptu courtroom. A large oak table dominated the center, behind which sat Magistrate Sir Thomas Burke, a formidable gentleman with bristling white side-whiskers and a ruddy complexion. To his left sat Mr. Blythewood, surrounded by stacks of documents, ledgers, and legal papers.
Darcy stood near the tall windows, his expression composed, but his eyes immediately seeking hers as she entered. The softening of his features when their gazes met sent warmth cascading through her, a private acknowledgment of their shared understanding that transcended the formal proceedings about to unfold.
“Miss Bennet,” Sir Thomas said, rising as she approached. “Or should I say, Miss Darcy? I understand congratulations are in order on multiple counts—your birthday, your recovered identity, and your recent betrothal.”
Elizabeth curtsied gracefully, noting how naturally the magistrate had addressed her by her legally recognized name. “Thank you, Sir Thomas. Though I confess the past twenty-four hours have contained rather more excitement than one typically expects from a birthday celebration.”
“Indeed,” the magistrate replied with dry humor. “Though I imagine few young ladies can claim to have solved a twenty-year-old murder mystery as part of their coming-of-age festivities.”
The hall was filled with an extraordinary assembly of witnesses and perpetrators. Martha, Wickham, and Rumsey stood under guard by the officers. Mr. Collins hovered near the window, clutchinghis prayer book like a warm blanket. Mrs. Bennet fluttered about Elizabeth, straightening her sleeve and patting her hair while simultaneously casting admiring glances at the grandeur of Pemberley’s architecture.
“Such magnificent cornices,” she exclaimed in what she clearly believed was a whisper. “To think that my Lizzy will be mistress of all this. I always believed you to be particularly elegant, did I not?”
“Indeed, Mama, with remarkable consistency,” Elizabeth replied, wondering not for the first time how she might have grown up with such a mother yet turned out so different, only to remember that, in fact, she resembled the woman who had borne her.
Lydia’s gaze was fixed on the officers who guarded the three criminals from the night before. She clutched a novel underneath her arm, no doubt trying to appear educated enough to sit in on the proceedings.
Caroline Bingley and her sister had positioned themselves strategically near the refreshments, maintaining the fiction that they were hostesses rather than witnesses. Mrs. Amelia Bingley sat nearby, pale but composed, sipping a cup of coffee, still battling the effects of her unexpected sedation. Charles hovered anxiously at her side, his usual amiability subdued by the gravity of the situation.
Georgiana entered last, her quiet dignity unmistakable as she made her way directly to Elizabeth’s side. Her eyes briefly sought her brother’s across the room, sharing a look of understanding before turning to Elizabeth with warmth.
“Elizabeth,” she said softly, her voice carrying just enough volume to be private yet audible to those nearby, “how perfectly lovely that locket looks on you. Fitzwilliam commissioned it weeks ago, you know, when he first discovered the family portraits in the gallery. He spent considerable time with the miniaturist, ensuring every detail was captured just so.” Her smile held both affection and knowing mischief. “I believe he had hopes even then, though he would never have admitted it.”
Elizabeth’s hand instinctively rose to touch the delicate goldchain at her throat, her heart warming at this evidence of Darcy’s early thoughtfulness. “He mentioned nothing of commissioning it so long ago,” she murmured, touched by the revelation.
“My brother,” Georgiana replied with fond exasperation, “has always been better at grand gestures than small declarations. Though I suspect that particular failing may improve with practice.”
Elizabeth’s heart twinged at how thoroughly she had misjudged his character in those early days, mistaking his reserve for arrogance and his careful consideration for coldness. He’d commissioned this locket for her, even when she was a stranger challenging his inheritance. He’d known that if she proved to be Elizabeth Rose Darcy, she would have wanted these miniatures of her parents. This revelation of his true nature only deepened her love as she smiled at him across the room.
“This inquiry shall now commence,” Sir Thomas announced. “We are gathered to determine the facts surrounding the deaths of John and Rose Darcy in the year 1791, as well as the events of last evening.”
Mr. Blythewood opened the proceedings with a methodical presentation of documentation: the marriage certificate of John Darcy and Rose Bennet, the baptismal record of Elizabeth Rose Darcy, and the legal settlement establishing the fee tail female provision.
“Most unusual, this inheritance arrangement,” Sir Thomas commented, examining the document. “Though perfectly legal, provided the signatures are verified.”
“They are, Your Honor,” Blythewood confirmed. “Authenticated by three separate witnesses, all of whom have provided sworn statements.”
The servants’ testimonies followed, each adding another piece to the puzzle Elizabeth had been assembling for weeks. Hodge recalled the missing carriage the night after the fire and Martha Wickham’s unexplained absence. Mrs. Winters described John Darcy’s growing concern about his brother’s business dealings with Benjamin Bingley.Molly confirmed that only two bodies had been recovered from the fire, despite the official report claiming three.
Each testimony, each document, each reluctant admission added to her understanding not only of what had happened, but of who her parents had been—their principles, their love for each other, and their hopes for her future.
“And now,” Sir Thomas said, turning his attention to Martha Wickham, “we come to the matter of your role in these events. Multiple witnesses place you at the center of both the original tragedy and last night’s abduction.”
Martha’s face remained impassive, though her eyes darted occasionally toward the exits as though calculating escape routes.
“I saved the child,” she declared, her chin lifting with defiance. “Whatever else is alleged, that fact remains. Elizabeth Rose Darcy would have perished in that fire if not for me.”
“After you poisoned my parents with foxglove in their tea,” Elizabeth observed.
“I never admitted to poisoning anyone,” Martha said.
“Actually,” Sir Thomas interjected, “we have your testimony as witnessed by Mr. Collins during last night’s events.”
Mr. Collins preened importantly. “Indeed, sir, it is as you say. Most shocking declarations were made, completely inappropriate for a lady’s ears, though Miss Elizabeth was regrettably present for the entirety. Mrs. Wickham spoke in the most alarming terms about ‘special tea’ prepared for Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, containing—” he shuddered delicately, “—foxglove. A most unchristian act, if I may say so.”
“Did she explain her motives for this poisoning?” Sir Thomas queried.
“She indicated that a Mr. Benjamin Bingley had compelled her to—how did she phrase it—eliminate Mr. John Darcy, who had discovered certain business arrangements that were, shall we say, not entirely in keeping with the law.”
