Martha’s criticisms didn’t sit quite well with Elizabeth. Though she harbored her own misgivings about Darcy’s character, there was something discordant about Martha’s complaints when she lived in Rose Cottage by Mr. Darcy’s grace. Yet Elizabeth couldn’t deny the truth of the statement. Darcy was indeed high-handed and privileged, carrying himself with the unmistakable air of a man whobelieved himself well above reproach. Still, his kindness on the road—the way he had walked beside his horse rather than see her continue in pain—suggested compassion that Martha couldn’t comprehend.
“We should depart soon,” she said, purposely changing the subject. “It would not do to keep the master of Pemberley waiting.”
The carriage ride through the estate grounds provided Elizabeth with glimpses of what should have been her inheritance—rolling parkland, ancient oaks, and the occasional flash of the grand house through breaks in the treeline. Each view sent a pang through her chest.
“Remember what I told you about the family,” Martha murmured as their carriage drew up to the entrance. “There are complexities you do not yet understand, loyalties that run deeper than surface appearances suggest.”
Elizabeth nodded, though Martha’s cryptic warnings had become increasingly frequent and less comprehensible. The woman seemed to see conspiracies and hidden meanings in every social interaction, a tendency that Elizabeth attributed to too many years of isolation in a cottage with only her memories for company.
The carriage rolled to a stop before Pemberley’s grand entrance. As a footman helped her descend, Elizabeth was struck anew by the magnificence of the house—honey-colored stone gleaming in the autumn sunlight, hundreds of windows reflecting the sky, the entire structure appearing to grow from the landscape rather than impose upon it.
My birthright,she thought with a mixture of pride and resentment.What would my life have been had I grown up here instead of Longbourn?
A stern butler ushered them into the entrance hall, where Elizabeth’s breath caught at the soaring ceiling and grand staircase. She had seen nothing like it, even during her brief London seasons with the Gardiners.
“Mr. Darcy is entertaining other guests this afternoon,” thebutler explained. “He asked that you be shown in immediately upon your arrival.”
Elizabeth’s steps slowed involuntarily. Other guests complicated matters considerably, but of course, she could not turn back.
The drawing room doors opened to reveal not just Mr. Darcy, but an entire party. Charles Bingley, his sister Caroline, and Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were arranged around the elegant room as if they were fixtures rather than last seen at Hertfordshire.
“Miss Bennet!” Bingley rose immediately, his sunny countenance contrasting with Darcy’s grave expression. “What a delightful surprise. We had no idea you were visiting Derbyshire.”
Elizabeth recovered quickly, dropping into a polite curtsy. “Mr. Bingley, Miss Bingley, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst. How unexpected to find you here.” She glanced at Darcy, whose face revealed nothing, and dropped another curtsy. “Mr. Darcy, I hope we are not intruding upon a private party.”
“Not at all,” Caroline said with a glacial smile. “We’ve only just arrived. Such a coincidence to find you in this remote corner of the country.”
Caroline’s gaze swept critically over Elizabeth’s dress, lingering on the slight fraying at the cuff.
“I am here researching my aunt, Rose Bennet Darcy. She was my father’s sister,” she explained, settling into her practiced narrative. “Mrs. Wickham has been most helpful in sharing her recollections.”
Caroline’s sharp eyes missed nothing, while Mr. Hurst seemed half-asleep already. Mrs. Hurst watched Martha with peculiar intensity, as if trying to recall something long forgotten.
“Mrs. Wickham,” Bingley addressed Martha directly, his usual cheerfulness subdued. “I trust you are well? I remember my father speaking of your husband with great respect. Such a loss to the estate when he passed.”
Martha’s response was barely audible. “Thank you, sir. Ralph served the Darcy family faithfully for many years.”
“How interesting,” Louisa Hurst said suddenly. “I remembervisiting Pemberley often as a child. Mr. John Darcy was especially memorable, but as I recall, he did not agree with his brother about Mr. Wickham.”
“Indeed, that is news to me,” Darcy said. “My uncle did not take me into his confidence concerning the steward.”
“Oh, but we were much too young,” Bingley said. “Louisa has a memory like an elephant.”
Mr. Hurst snorted into his tea, rousing from his usual torpor. “Did you just compare your sister to a pachyderm, Bingley?”
“Charles!” Louisa exclaimed, her fan fluttering in mock indignation. “You had better not tell them how much older I am if you insist on such unflattering comparisons. A lady’s memory may be remarkable without drawing such bestial parallels.”
“Mrs. Wickham,” Caroline addressed Martha with deceptive sweetness, “you must have such interesting stories from your years on the estate. The changes you’ve witnessed, the families you’ve served—quite a remarkable perspective on local history.”
Martha’s teacup rattled against its saucer. “I keep my observations to myself, Miss Bingley. ’Tis not a servant’s place to gossip about their betters.”
“Of course not,” Caroline agreed smoothly. “Though surely your recollections of happier times—before the tragedy—might be worth preserving alongside Miss Bennet’s research?”
“How commendable of you to assist Miss Elizabeth with her quest,” Louisa said, rolling her eyes at Mrs. Wickham. “I do wonder. How is little Georgie faring?”
“Why, Louisa, we just spoke to George Wickham in Meryton a few days ago,” Charles said, sipping his tea noisily. “Miss Lydia reported that it was Wickham who brought news to Longbourn on Miss Elizabeth’s departure.”
The tension in the room thickened perceptibly. Elizabeth felt Martha stiffen beside her. Her hand gripped Elizabeth’s arm with surprising strength.
