"Ah yes. Mrs Reynolds mentioned you had taken charge of that initiative. The tenants will appreciate it—the late autumn can be difficult for families with limited means." He gestured to a chair positioned near his desk. "Would you join me? I find I could use your perspective on some of these letters."
Elizabeth settled into the offered chair, intrigued. "What sort of letters?"
"Correspondence from tenants, mostly. Requests for repairs, concerns about drainage in the lower fields, that sort of thing. I value your judgement. You seem to have developed a good understanding of the people here quite rapidly."
The compliment drew a smile from her. "Mrs Reynolds has been an excellent guide. And the tenants themselves have been welcoming."
"They like you." He said it simply, as a statement of fact rather than flattery. "Mrs Reynolds reports that you are spoken of with considerable approval throughout the estate. Apparently, you have a gift for remembering names and circumstances, which people appreciate."
"I merely pay attention. Everyone wishes to be seen and heard."
"A simple principle, yet one many in our position fail to observe." He handed her several letters. "These are from families in the north quarter. If you would read through them and share your thoughts, I would be grateful."
They worked in comfortable silence for a while, Elizabeth reading through the correspondence and offering observations. He listened attentively, occasionally asking questions or nodding in agreement. The ease between them felt natural, asthough they had been partners in such endeavours for years rather than a few days.
"The Galpin family needs new thatch for their roof," she said, setting aside one letter. "Mr Galpin writes that the current state is adequate for now but will not survive another hard winter."
"Then we shall see it repaired before the weather turns." He made a note. "Anything else in that letter?"
"Nothing. But I believe there is more to their situation. When I called there last week with Mrs Reynolds, I noticed Mrs Galpin looked unwell. The children were thin. I wonder if they might benefit from additional support beyond just the roof repair."
"You are observant. I shall have Mrs Reynolds send some provisions and enquire discreetly about Mrs Galpin’s health. Perhaps the physician should call."
"That would be kind."
They continued in this manner for another quarter hour, discussing repairs needed, disputes to be mediated, and improvements to be considered. She found herself relaxing into the work, appreciating both the practical nature of it and the easy collaboration between them.
A short while later, Fitzwilliam rose and moved to a cabinet against the wall. He produced a key from his waistcoat and unlocked a drawer she had not previously noticed.
"There is something else I wanted to show you. Something I have been wrestling with these past weeks."
He withdrew a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon and returned to his desk, setting them down between them. Her heart began to pound even before she recognised the handwriting on the topmost letter—her own, disguised as Cassandra's.
"After my accident," Fitzwilliam began, his gaze on the letters rather than on her, "I was told I had been corresponding with Miss Rochford. That we had developed an attachment through these exchanges. I read them over and over, hoping they might trigger some memory, some recognition of the feelings I supposedly held."
"I travelled to Hertfordshire largely because of these letters," he continued. "As you know, I thought that meeting Miss Rochford might stir something in me, might help restore what I had lost." He finally looked up, meeting her eyes. "But meeting her confirmed something I had begun to suspect."
"What was that?" She managed, although her voice came out barely above a whisper.
"That she did not write these letters." He picked up one of them and unfolded it. "Listen to this passage:My father once told me something I have never forgotten: ’'When a man shows you his wounds, you have two choices—to turn away, or to help bind them. The former is easier, but the latter is what separates us from savages.’ I think of those words often, particularly in situations where compassion conflicts with convenience.”
He set that letter aside and picked up another. "Or this one: 'Your discomfort does you credit.It means you understand the weight of what has been lost. But do not let that weight prevent you from honouring their memory as you ought.’”
Elizabeth sat stiffly as she listened. Hearing her own words—her secret—being read back to her in Fitzwilliam's voice was almost unbearable.
"These letters are filled with intelligence and depth," he said quietly. "With a way of thinking that challenges and provokes and comforts all at once. When I met Miss Rochford and attempted a conversation with her, I saw immediately that she was not capable of such correspondence. She is lovely, certainly, but she lacks the particular quality that permeates every line of these letters."
He paused, and Elizabeth braced herself for the next question. Do you know who wrote them?
But instead, he retied the ribbon around the bundle and returned them to the drawer, locking it once more.
"Do you..." She forced herself to continue despite the light tremor in her voice. "Do you wish to discover who actually wrote them?"
He turned back to face her, his expression contemplative. "No. I do not think I do."
"But surely you want to know the truth?"
"The truth?" He smiled at that. "The truth is that these letters served their purpose. They brought me back to Hertfordshire at precisely the moment I needed to be there. Had I not made that journey, had I not attended that ball at Netherfield, I would never have been in the position to marry you."
