Darcy smiled. “I think you would.”
The journey south was undertaken at a gentler pace than Darcy might once have chosen. For Georgiana’s sake, they lingered in market towns, rested at clean inns, and spent a night at Darcy House in London.
It was there, standing once more in his father’s chambers, that Darcy felt the old weight return. The rooms were immaculate—and utterly lifeless. His father’s presence had been erased with ruthless efficiency, but the heavy red drapes still hung at the windows.
Darcy stood before them, scowling.
Later, he left instructions with the housekeeper: lighter fabric, fewer shadows, fewer reminders of his loss.
When he joined Georgiana for tea, her laughter warmed the space in a way the house had not known for years.
Rosings appeared beneath a grey sky, its stone facade imposing as ever. Yet as Darcy stepped down from the carriage, he noted subtle changes: new hedging, improved paths, careful maintenance.
Lady Catherine greeted them herself.
She wore no mourning black. Her bearing was still proud—but her expression was warmer than Darcy remembered.
“My dear Fitzwilliam. Georgiana.”
She embraced them both.
Tea followed—seed cake, ginger biscuits, and Darcy’s preferred blend. Lady Catherine spoke calmly, without command or censure.
“I have taken a more direct role in managing the estate,” she said. “We have introduced incentives for the tenants rather than increased rents. Productivity has improved.”
She described the new schools—separate, modest, effective. Darcy listened in quiet astonishment.
“My father would approve,” he said at last.
Lady Catherine nodded once. “I believe he would.”
The following afternoon, Darcy reviewed the Rosings accounts. Everything was precise. Responsible. Thoughtful.
Then he opened a small, locked box he kept stored in his aunt’s home. Inside lay the remnants of a mystery left unresolved: the innkeeper’s account, the glove Anne had left behind, the map marking their futile search northwards.
He held the glove between his fingers.
Anne had vanished. Perhaps with child. Perhaps willingly. Perhaps forever.
Closing the box, Darcy exhaled slowly. Whatever choice Anne had made, it was beyond his power to undo. Rosings, at least, would move forward.
“But I do not want to go to school!”
Georgiana stomped her slippered foot and folded her arms across her chest. “I want to stay here—with you!” Her voice cracked; tears gathered and spilled, bright and humiliating.
Darcy set aside the papers on his desk with deliberate calm. He had known this conversation would not be easy. Still, seeing her like this—so distraught, so small—struck him deeply.
“Georgiana,” he said gently, “you know this is not a punishment. Girls of your age and station require a proper education. It is expected, and it will serve you well in time.”
“I do not care what is expected!” she burst out. “I don’t want to go anywhere—I want to stay at Pemberley.”
She fumbled a rumpled handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her cheeks with jerky motions. Darcy moved towards her, but she stepped back, shoulders hunched and stubborn.
“Miss Minchin’s is a respectable place,” he continued, careful. “You will have lessons in music, dancing, French, deportment—all the things you enjoy with Miss Fairfax, but taught by specialists. And Aunt Matlockhas written to say she will be delighted to have you visit on holidays or weekends. You will not be alone.”
“But you are not there!” Georgiana cried—no longer loud but broken. “I want you to hear me play, and I want Cook’s hot buns in the morning, and I want to ride Honeybell after lessons. Why can I not just stay here?”
Darcy’s chest tightened.
