“I insist,” Darcy interrupted. “It is the least I can offer after your travel difficulties.”
Why had he extended his offer of assistance? Why had he put her under his protection in the first place? She wasn’t his little cousin. His fascination with Elizabeth Rose Bennet could be attributed to fatigue, frustration with Bingley, and an overactive imagination.
The dead remained dead. Elizabeth Rose Darcy had perished in flames twenty years ago.
The woman sitting across from him was merely a Bennet. A warning from the dead. A complication.
CHAPTER TWELVE
APPROACHING PEMBERLEY
Elizabeth turnedher reticule over and shook it vigorously, hoping against hope for any coin it might produce.
Nothing.
She shouldn’t have shared a room with Mrs. Younge, who was no longer present. But what could she do? The White Hart Inn was respectable, but she could not afford two rooms. Now, her last few shillings were gone with Mrs. Younge’s final act of treachery.
“Compensation for my troubles,” the woman had declared upon their arrival in Lambton, palm extended expectantly. “The journey has been most taxing, and I find myself in need of recompense for the additional strain.”
Elizabeth had given her three pounds—nearly all she had left from Wickham’s funds—leaving herself with only a few shillings. Now, those too had vanished along with Mrs. Younge.
No sense crying when she was so close to her goal. The conniving woman’s departure was a relief in many ways. Even Mr. Darcy had seemed disturbed by Mrs. Younge’s presence during their unexpected carriage journey yesterday.
Elizabeth dressed quickly in her most practical gown, pulled onher pelisse and bonnet. Thankfully, she had settled her account with the innkeeper before retiring, but without funds, she would have to walk the remaining distance to Rose Cottage. She counted herself fortunate that she was a walker, and the day was young.
Elizabeth gathered her few possessions into her valise and slipped out while most in the inn slumbered. The eastern sky held the first pale promise of daylight, mist clinging to the valley floor like gossamer. Despite her predicament, Elizabeth could not help but appreciate the beauty of Derbyshire’s rolling landscape—the gentle hills, ancient trees, and distant peaks barely visible through the morning haze.
This was where she was born, and perhaps, this was where she belonged.
The road stretched before her, empty in the early hour. A blessing, Elizabeth decided. She had no desire to explain her solitary state to curious travelers. She walked by trees bright with autumn leaves and harvested fields stacked with hay. The countryside was beautiful in the early light. Under different circumstances, she might have enjoyed the solitude and scenery. As it was, she focused on placing one foot before the other and ignoring the growing ache in her shoulders.
Her Gothic romance disguise had crumbled under the weight of Uncle Philips’ legal assessment. Instead, she would pose as a biographical researcher—present herself as a diligent niece investigating the life of her father’s sister, Rose Bennet, about whom he had told her so little. What could be more natural than wanting to know more about the aunt for whom she’d been partially named? Such a cover would grant her access to household records, family documents, and the recollections of those who had known her mother without revealing her true purpose.
The rolling hills presented a challenge Elizabeth had not anticipated. She would lose sight of the Pemberley woods every time the path dipped, and wonder if she had taken the wrong turn. Her valisegrew heavier with each step, and her damp boots pinched so that she was developing a blister.
She had walked perhaps a mile when the steady rhythm of hooves broke the morning silence. Elizabeth stepped to the side of the road, expecting a tradesman or farmer on early business. Instead, a lone rider approached at an easy canter, confident and familiar.
Mr. Darcy.
Of all the mortifying possibilities she had imagined, encountering Pemberley’s master while trudging along the road like a vagrant had not featured prominently. Her first instinct was to hide, but the open countryside offered little concealment, and her pride rebelled against cowering in a hedgerow like a criminal.
She continued walking, head high, as the hoofbeats grew closer.
“Miss Bennet?” Darcy’s voice carried a tone of concern as he reined in his horse. “What in heaven’s name are you doing on foot at this hour?”
Elizabeth managed a curtsy, grateful that the early morning light might conceal the warmth rising in her cheeks. “Mr. Darcy. You are abroad early.”
“As are you.” His gaze traveled from her face to her valise, comprehension dawning in his expression. “Where is Mrs. Younge?”
“Departed,” Elizabeth replied with a wry smile. “Our arrangement concluded rather more abruptly than anticipated.”
Darcy frowned. “She abandoned you here?”
“I prefer to think of it as a mutual parting of ways,” Elizabeth said, unwilling to admit the full extent of Mrs. Younge’s duplicity. “Though I confess, I had not planned to make the remainder of my journey on foot.”
“This is unconscionable.” Darcy’s expression darkened. “I knew that woman was not to be trusted. I should never have left you in her company yesterday.”
The concern in his voice surprised Elizabeth. This was not the haughty, dismissive man of the Meryton assembly, but someone who appeared disturbed by her predicament.
