“Let me out,” Elizabeth said, fumbling with the latch. “Please.”
Mr. Gardiner touched her wrist. “Lizzy—”
“I must,” she said. “Just let me speak to someone.”
He relented with a nod. “Go carefully.”
She stepped down. The gravel crunched beneath her feet. The air felt too still. The house, too far. But she moved forward all the same.
One footman moved to intercept her. Another turned back toward the Gardiners’ coach.
Elizabeth craned her neck, searching for a glimpse beyond the line of livery and wheels—but the Pemberley carriage blocked her view entirely. Only Colonel Fitzwilliam stood visible, issuing sharp orders.
He was here. He had to be. He would not have let her go without a word—unless he could not.
Richard gave a tight nod to the footman. “Good. We’ll need—” He broke off, glancing toward the drive as the sound of unfamiliar voices reached him—low-pitched and urgent, quite unlike the calm of household staff.
Mrs. Reynolds was already descending the steps again, intercepting a small party. A gentleman and two women—travelers, clearly. Her voice was calm but firm. “I’m sorry. The family is not receiving callers.”
Richard glanced up for a moment. Fleetingly, he took in the visitors, something about the younger woman striking him as familiar. But his thoughts quickly returned to Darcy’s condition.
He crouched beside the open carriage once more. “Rest,” he muttered, smoothing the blanket higher across Darcy’s chest. “No more heroics.”
Darcy didn’t respond, though his brow twitched faintly. He was half-conscious at best—his breathing shallow, skin damp with strain. The journey had taken more than Richard had feared.
“Fool,” he muttered, not without affection. “You had to come, didn’t you?”
A sudden shift in the air. A voice.
“Thomas,” Elizabeth said, clearly.
The young footman blinked at her, startled. “Miss?”
“Thomas Harding,” she continued. “Your father is the groundsman near the orchard. Your mother makes the best gooseberry jam in Derbyshire.”
He gaped. “How did—?”
The second footman shifted. “That’s true.”
Elizabeth turned to him. “Jameson. You met Mary Wilkins at the harvest fair two years ago. You plan to marry her next spring—though your father still doesn’t know.”
Jameson’s mouth fell open. “I—how could you possibly—?”
Mrs. Reynolds stepped forward at last, expression tight. “Miss, the family is not receiving callers.”
Elizabeth didn’t flinch. “I understand. But I am not here as a gossip or a guest. I ask only that you inform Mr. Darcy that Elizabeth Bennet is here.”
Mrs. Reynolds’s brow tightened. “The master is unwell. I cannot disturb him.”
“I do not ask for an audience,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Only that he know I am near. If he cannot speak, let him hear my name.”
A pause. The housekeeper’s eyes flickered.
“If you have a card—”
“I do not,” Elizabeth said. “Only a name. If that is not enough, I will go.”
Mrs. Reynolds hesitated—but before she could answer, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice rang out in a sharp curse.
