His expression clouded suddenly, a shadow of grief passing across his face so quickly Elizabeth might have missed it had she not been watching him so closely. She recognized the pain of lost memories—how they could ambush one in moments of unexpected recollection.
She remained silent, allowing him his privacy in that moment of remembrance. Some griefs were too personal to intrude upon, even in the name of her quest.
They had reached the edge of the small wooded area, and as they emerged from the trees, Rose Cottage came into view. It was a charming stone building with a slate roof and climbing roses framing the doorway, smoke rising gently from its chimney against the morning sky.
A woman stood in the doorway—stout but straight-backed, her silver hair neatly arranged beneath a simple cap. Her hooded eyes widened at the sight of Darcy leading his horse with Elizabeth perched upon it.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, curtsying stiffly. “This is unexpected.”
“Mrs. Wickham,” Darcy inclined his head. “I encountered Miss Bennet on the road and offered my assistance.”
“Most kind of you, sir,” Martha Wickham replied, her gaze moving from Darcy to Elizabeth. “And this must be Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I received your letter about your aunt Rose.”
Elizabeth wondered at the agility with which Mrs. Wickham disguised the fact that she had first written to Elizabeth. Perhaps her son had sent an express confirming that Elizabeth was on her way.
“Yes,” Elizabeth confirmed as if she were indeed a family researcher making the first contact. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
Darcy stepped forward to help her dismount, his hands strong and sure at her waist as he lifted her down. They stood close enoughthat Elizabeth could detect the subtle scent of sandalwood and horses that clung to him. She noticed the varying shades of brown in his eyes, and when he set her on her feet, she felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
“Thank you,” she said softly as he stepped back, retrieving her valise from where he had secured it to his saddle.
“You are welcome to join us for tea, Mr. Darcy,” Martha offered, though her expression suggested she did not expect him to accept.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wickham, but I must return to Pemberley. Estate matters require my attention.” He paused, then added, “Perhaps, Miss Elizabeth would prefer to take tea with me and my sister this afternoon.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Darcy’s expression registered something between surprise and dismay. Elizabeth observed the slight tightening around his eyes—signs of a man who had committed a social blunder contrary to his carefully maintained habits.
Martha stepped forward with a swift curtsy. “How thoughtful of you, Mr. Darcy. We would be delighted to accept your gracious invitation. What time shall we present ourselves?”
Darcy’s expression flickered—had Elizabeth not been watching him so closely, she might have missed the momentary conflict in his countenance. Clearly, he had not intended to include Martha in the invitation, yet propriety forbade him from excluding her now.
“Four o’clock would be convenient,” he replied, his tone returning to its usual formal register. “I shall inform Mrs. Reynolds to expect you both. Miss Bennet, should you require anything during your stay, please do not hesitate to send word to Pemberley. Mr. Blythewood, my solicitor in Lambton, is also at your disposal.”
“Your consideration is greatly appreciated, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, and she meant it sincerely. “I look forward to meeting your sister.”
He inclined his head and handed her valise with a steady hand, and she noted how different he was here on his estate. He belongedhere, and she had the inexplicable feeling of wanting to continue their connection, defying all logic and propriety.
Darcy mounted his horse. “Good day, Miss Bennet. Mrs. Wickham.”
With a final nod, he turned and rode back toward Pemberley.
“So,” Martha Wickham said, “you have come at last, Elizabeth Rose Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught at the sound of her true name—her real name.
“Elizabeth Rose Darcy,” she repeated softly, testing the shape of it on her tongue. “It still feels like someone else’s name.”
Martha’s weathered hand touched her arm with gentle understanding. “It is yours by birth and by right. Your mother chose it with such care—Elizabeth for your Bennet grandmother, and Rose for the gardens she loved.”
“I cannot begin to thank you,” Elizabeth said, her voice thick with emotion. “You risked everything to save me as an infant—and now again, by helping me claim what is rightfully mine.”
“I did what any decent soul would do, child. I couldn’t save your parents, but I could save you. And I’ve lived all these years hoping for the day you would return.” Her gaze, sharp and clear, studied Elizabeth’s face with evident satisfaction. “To see you grown into such a fine young woman… it makes the waiting worthwhile.”
Elizabeth was struck by the selflessness of this woman who had devoted decades of her life to protecting a child not her own, who now seemed to want nothing more than to see justice done. Such pure goodness in a world that had shown such cruelty seemed almost miraculous.
“Come inside,” Martha said, opening the cottage door wider. “There is much to tell you about your parents—and about who you truly are.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
