Mrs. Gardiner placed a gloved hand on her niece’s arm. “We should return to the inn,” she said gently. “We can depart for London in the morning.”
Elizabeth gave a faint nod, though her eyes remained fixed on the road ahead—torn between disappointment and the echo of some instinct that refused to fade.
Then, just as the carriage curved past a narrow break in the trees, a glint of sunlight caught something ahead—a flash of motion on the road. The low rumble of wheels—not their own—stirred faintly in the distance, and Elizabeth leaned forward, her heart stuttering.
A dark carriage crossed the lane, sleek and unmistakable.
Then she saw it: the gold stag of Pemberley, glinting on the door like a sign drawn from memory.
A sudden beat quickened in her chest.
It might be anyone—his sister, his cousin. Or it might be him.
Had they turned toward London, she would not have seen it. Had they left a moment earlier, she would have missed it entirely.
Her hand flew to the glass.
"Stop the carriage," she said.
Chapter 53
Mr. Gardiner tapped twice on the panel. The coach slowed, then drew to a halt near the narrow break in the trees.
Elizabeth pressed forward, eyes scanning the curve of the road. “Turn back,” she said, the urgency rising in her voice. “Please—toward the house.”
Mrs. Gardiner turned, startled. “Elizabeth—”
“I have to know,” she said, already shifting in her seat. “I know they turned us away, but that carriage—it belongs to Pemberley. If he’s in it—”
Mr. Gardiner exchanged a glance with his wife, then nodded. “Very well.”
The carriage turned. As they approached the drive, Elizabeth leaned forward, straining to see. Her heart pounded. She saw the Pemberley carriage had stopped before the house. A footman stood ready. Colonel Fitzwilliam had stepped down and was issuing brisk instructions, one hand still resting on the open carriage door. Elizabeth pressed a hand to the glass. Was Fitzwilliam—her Fitzwilliam—within?
Colonel Fitzwilliam had not slept in thirty-six hours, and it showed. His cravat was askew, his coat dust-streaked, his jaw dark with stubble. He had never been so weary—or so aggravated—with one man.
The moment the wheels crunched onto the Pemberley drive, Darcy had tried to rise.
"Lie back," Richard snapped, pressing him down. "You’ll tear the stitches again."
Darcy grimaced, muttering something indistinct and unprintable.
Richard had swung out of the carriage and barked to the footman, “Send for Mrs. Reynolds. And the physician, if he hasn’t already been called. Tell them—Mr. Darcy is home.”
Mrs. Reynolds was already descending the front steps at a near run, wringing her hands. “Colonel Fitzwilliam! Thank heavens. There were such dreadful rumors—”
“Later,” he said. “He needs a bed, not explanations. Where is the doctor?”
“I sent for him the moment we saw your crest at the rise.”
Richard gave a curt nod. “Good. We need—”
He stopped. A second coach was approaching up the lane—a modest, hired vehicle from Lambton.
Mrs. Reynolds turned sharply. “That’s the same carriage from earlier.” Her eyes narrowed. She snapped her fingers, sending two footmen down the path to intercept it before it reached the steps.
They moved swiftly, halting the vehicle at a respectful distance—close enough to observe, far enough to preserve the master’s privacy.
Inside the halted coach, Elizabeth’s breath caught. “I’m so close,” she murmured. “I just know it.”
