BREAKFAST AT ROSE COTTAGE
Elizabeth heldher breath as Martha led her over the threshold of Rose Cottage. This was her first home, and she wanted to take in her entire surroundings. The interior was modest but comfortable—a small sitting room with simple furnishings, walls lined with faded botanical prints, and a fire crackling in the hearth that dispelled the morning chill. She glanced at the carpets, the landscape painting on the wall, the arm chairs, hoping for a sign of remembrance.
“Come to the morning room,” Martha said. “We shall have a small breakfast before we go into town.”
Elizabeth followed Martha through a narrow doorway into a cheerful space where morning light streamed through lace curtains. A small oak sideboard held a plate of freshly baked scones, a pot of preserves, and a steaming teapot wrapped in a knitted cozy. Her gaze lingered on a delicate porcelain figurine of a shepherdess placed at the center of the table—something about its gentle curves and faded colors stirred a strange familiarity that Elizabeth quickly dismissed as fancy.
“I hope you don’t mind simple fare,” Martha said, gesturing toward the table. “I wasn’t certain when you would arrive.”
“It looks wonderful,” Elizabeth replied. “You’re very kind to receive me with such hospitality, especially on such short notice.”
They settled at the small table, Martha pouring tea into mismatched cups while Elizabeth helped herself to a scone still warm from the oven.
“Please, eat,” Martha encouraged, placing a bowl of thick cream and strawberry preserves beside the plate. “The journey must have left you famished.”
“Thank you for receiving me, Mrs. Wickham,” Elizabeth said, spreading preserves on the scone. “I cannot express how much this opportunity means to me.”
“You have her eyes, you know. Your mother’s eyes. The same shade of brown, the same liveliness.”
A lump formed in Elizabeth’s throat, making it difficult to swallow her bite of scone. All her life, she had wondered about her resemblance to the mother she had never known. “Did I… did I look like her in other ways?”
“The chin,” Martha said, reaching out to tip Elizabeth’s face toward the light. “That way of tilting your chin when your mind is made up—pure Rose Bennet.”
“Rose Darcy,” Elizabeth corrected quietly, accepting the cup of tea Martha offered. “She was Rose Darcy when she lived here.”
“Indeed, she was.” Martha sliced a piece of ham and placed it on Elizabeth’s plate alongside a fresh egg. “And happy as I have ever seen anyone be. Your father adored her completely, and she him. Their love was something rare and precious.”
Elizabeth leaned forward eagerly, momentarily forgetting the breakfast before her. “Tell me about my father. What was he like?”
Martha settled herself in the opposite chair, buttering a piece of bread as she gathered her memories. “He was everything a gentleman should be—kind, principled, devoted to his tenants and his family. He had a laugh that could fill a room and a way of making everyone feel valued, from the highest lord to the humblest servant.”
“Was my mother the same?” Elizabeth asked.
“Oh yes. She was spirited beyond anything considered proper for a lady of her station. She insisted on teaching reading to the servants’ children, scandalized the neighborhood by walking unescorted in all weather, and had opinions on everything from estate management to political reform.” Martha’s smile grew fond. “The older ladies declared her quite impossible, but she charmed them all in the end through sheer force of personality.”
Tears pricked Elizabeth’s eyes. These people—her parents—sounded exactly like the sort of family she would have chosen to be born into. She sipped her tea, finding comfort in its warmth.
“They lived here at Rose Cottage?”
“Old Mr. Darcy thought it prudent initially, given the difference in their stations. But by the time you were born, all such concerns had evaporated. George and Sarah Darcy doted on Rose as if she were their own daughter, and they were absolutely besotted with you.”
“Me?” Elizabeth’s voice caught slightly.
“Oh, my dear child, you were the light of their lives. Such a beautiful baby—dark-eyed and alert, with a head full of curls that proclaimed your Darcy heritage. Your grandmother sang to you and your grandfather taught you to say ‘Grandpapa’ before you could manage any other words.”
The image of loving grandparents Elizabeth had never known brought fresh tears. “They created the settlement that names me as heir?”
Martha nodded gravely. “George Darcy was a man of strong convictions. When he saw how deeply John and Rose loved each other and how perfectly Rose fit into the family, he amended his will to ensure their children would inherit regardless of gender. A fee tail female, the legal men called it. Most unusual, but your grandfather was determined that love and worth should triumph over mere convention.”
“And when my parents died?”
Martha’s expression darkened. “The will remained unchanged. George and Sarah refused to believe you had perished with yourparents. They maintained until their own deaths that if you lived, Pemberley was yours by right.”
Elizabeth took a moment to compose herself. Hearing about her parents and grandparents and their happy life before the tragedy… How she had been loved brought tears to her eyes. But she had to know what had happened to them, no matter how painful.
She set down her fork and looked at Martha. “I did live. You saved me.”
“I was your nursemaid,” Martha replied. “From the day you were born until the night of the fire.”
