Elizabeth felt another stab of guilt about deceiving such a man.
Their conversation was interrupted by a commotion in the outer office—masculine voices, the sound of boots on wooden floors, and a familiar tone that made Elizabeth’s heart skip uncomfortably.
“Mr. Darcy,” Blythewood’s clerk announced, and Fitzwilliam Darcy appeared in the doorway, drawing Elizabeth’s gaze against her will.
“Blythewood, I hope I do not intrude—” He stopped short upon seeing the ladies. “Mrs. Wickham. Miss Bennet. What a delightful coincidence.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Martha said, rising to curtsy. “How fortuitous. Miss Bennet has been learning about her aunt from Mr. Blythewood.”
“Indeed?” Darcy’s attention focused on Elizabeth with that intensity she was beginning to recognize. “And has your research proven fruitful?”
“Very much so,” Elizabeth replied, acutely aware of how the cramped office seemed to shrink with his presence. “Mr. Blythewood has been wonderfully informative about Rose and John’s life together.”
“They were remarkable people,” Darcy agreed. “I have often wished I had been old enough to know them better.”
“Perhaps,” Blythewood suggested, “you might share your recollections with Miss Bennet? A child’s perspective could add a valuable dimension to her biographical work.”
Elizabeth saw something flicker across Darcy’s expression—interest, certainly, but also something more complex. “I would be honored to contribute what little I remember. Since Miss Bennet is coming to Pemberley for tea, she might speak to the older servants. Their recollections might prove invaluable.”
Martha’s eyes brightened with unmistakable delight. “How generous of you, Mr. Darcy! Miss Bennet would surely benefit from such firsthand accounts.”
Elizabeth felt caught between longing and terror. To see Pemberley, to speak with those who had known her parents, to walk through the halls that should have been her childhood home—the opportunity was precious beyond measure. But to do so as Darcy’s guest while plotting to claim his inheritance seemed almost unbearably deceitful.
“That would be extraordinary,” she said carefully. “Though I would not wish to impose upon your household.”
“It would be no imposition whatsoever,” Darcy assured her, hissmile transforming his usually serious features. “Family connections should be honored, and I confess myself quite interested in your project. I’ve already informed my housekeeper to expect you.”
After arrangements were finalized, Martha bustled Elizabeth back into the carriage.
“I have my misgivings,” she declared as they set off for St. Michael’s church in Kympton. “Mr. Darcy’s obvious interest and the invitation to Pemberley seem too convenient. He may be testing us, wondering why a distant Bennet relation suddenly appears, making inquiries.”
“I’m afraid it may be awkward,” Elizabeth said. “Especially if his father had a hand in the murders.”
Martha’s expression shifted, her earlier certainty giving way to hesitation. “I—I couldn’t know for certain, you understand. Everything was so tumultuous that night.” She twisted her handkerchief between her fingers. “The smoke was thick, the figures mere shadows. I only suspected William because of the height and bearing of the man giving orders.”
Elizabeth studied the older woman carefully. “You were quite convinced earlier.”
“William did act strangely after his brother’s death,” Martha continued, avoiding Elizabeth’s gaze. “He became reclusive, dismissed several longtime servants without explanation. The guilt weighed on him, I believe. But as for definitive proof…” Her voice trailed off.
“If you harbor doubts about his involvement, why raise such suspicions against his son?” Elizabeth pressed.
Fear flickered across Martha’s face. “The current Mr. Darcy might—” She stopped abruptly, glancing toward the carriage window as if concerned about being overheard.
“Might what?” Elizabeth prompted, a chill running through her.
“I don’t know what he knows of that night,” Martha whispered. “Whether his father confessed before dying, whether he inherited not just the estate but knowledge of how it came to him.”
“Then we should question him and ascertain what he knew of his grandparents’ settlement,” Elizabeth reasoned. “Or whether there was any inheritance given to his baby cousin.”
“That would be wise,” Martha admitted. “He may have heard his parents speak about it. The servants who knew your parents might also provide crucial information, perhaps even identify the real culprits. John was having a dispute with the butler—there were tensions below stairs that I never fully understood.”
Elizabeth noted the deflection with growing suspicion. First, William Darcy was definitely involved, but now possibly the butler? Martha’s story seemed to shift with the wind.
“We shall proceed carefully,” Elizabeth decided, unwilling to abandon an opportunity for both her curiosity and justice’s sake. “For now, let us focus on the parish records. Concrete evidence must take precedence over speculation.”
The journey to Kympton passed in relative silence, Elizabeth’s mind too full for idle conversation. The parish church of St. Michael’s stood on a gentle rise overlooking the village—a solid Norman structure with a square tower and weathered gravestones clustering around its walls like forgotten sentinels.
The rector, Mr. Hanley, welcomed them with polite curiosity. Martha explained that Miss Bennet was researching her family history, particularly her aunt Rose, who had married into the Darcy family.
