And then, the gates of Pemberley.
Her breath caught.
The house stood just as it had in memory—elegant, serene, its stone façade bright in the morning sun. Ivy curled neatly along the walls, the gravel drive swept clean. It was unchanged. And yet she was not.
She descended from the carriage, her boots striking the stones with quiet purpose. These were paths she had once walked in wonder, in joy. Today, she walked them for truth.
They had not reached the door before it opened.
A woman stepped out—erect, composed, her cap crisp, her expression cool. Elizabeth knew her instantly.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” she said, the name escaping her more gently than intended.
The housekeeper gave a shallow nod. “Good day,” she said. “I regret to inform you that the family is not receiving callers. Mr. Darcy is not in residence, and the house is presently closed. There are no public hours.”
Mr. Gardiner removed his hat with courteous ease. “We understand, ma’am. We mean no intrusion. My niece has an acquaintance with Mr. Darcy, and we had hoped—briefly—to inquire after his health. A personal matter, nothing more.”
Mrs. Reynolds’s gaze shifted to Elizabeth. Appraising. Reserved.
Elizabeth met her eyes. “We heard… troubling reports,” she said carefully. “Only rumor. But if Mr. Darcy is well—if he is merely in London—we would be grateful to know it.”
At this, Mrs. Reynolds’s expression cooled further. “I am sorry, miss,” she said, with just enough curtness to be noticeable. “The master’s affairs are not a subject for public conversation. We have had more than one stranger inquire under polite pretenses these past weeks. I trust you will excuse me if I do not oblige.”
Elizabeth felt the blow of it—sharp, though not unearned. To Mrs. Reynolds, they were nothing more than unfamiliar travelers, hinting at connections they could not prove. And Mr. Darcy had ever been a man whom others sought: for his name, his fortune—rarely, if ever, for his friendship.
She swallowed, then asked quietly, “May I ask—does a maid by the name of Molly Jones work at the house?”
Mrs. Reynolds hesitated—barely more than a breath—but Elizabeth caught it.
“No,” she said at last. “No Molly Jones works here.”
Something in Elizabeth’s chest shifted. Of course. She had come too soon. Molly had not yet joined the household. Not in this version of time.
“She is not one of yours, then,” Elizabeth murmured. “But… Jones is a tenant name, is it not? On the northern field?”
This time, Mrs. Reynolds's posture altered slightly—not alarmed, but watchful. “Yes. That family holds one of the smaller farms, I believe. But I cannot say more. If you will excuse me—”
“We won’t trouble you further,” Mr. Gardiner said quickly, stepping forward with a respectful nod. “Thank you for your time.”
Mrs. Reynolds inclined her head and, without another word, turned and disappeared into the quiet of the house.
Elizabeth stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the gravel where the door had closed. No welcome. No answers. But perhaps… a sliver of possibility.
They had only just reached the edge of the drive when Mr. Gardiner glanced back at the great house and shook his head.
“I think we had best be on our way, Lizzy,” he said gently. “There’s no good to be gained from lingering where we’re plainly unwelcome. I don’t like to see you pressed so.”
Elizabeth did not respond at once. Her eyes were on the road ahead, her hands clenched loosely at her sides.
Mrs. Gardiner, watching her niece with quiet worry, reached for her arm. “My dear… perhaps it is time we accepted there is nothing more to learn here. I would not have you suffer more than you must.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said, her voice soft but composed. “I know you are both trying to spare me.”
She turned to face them fully, her gaze steady. “But I must ask one more thing. The Jones farm—just past the northern fields. I remember the path.”
Mr. Gardiner looked at her, concerned. “I am sure you do, but Lizzy, what do you hope to find? If Mrs. Reynolds cannot—or will not—speak, I do not see how a tenant might do better.”
Elizabeth folded her hands before her, not pleading but resolute. “When I asked about Molly Jones, Mrs. Reynolds hesitated. Not long, but enough. I am almost certain she knows the name—and is choosing silence.”
