When he stepped back, a footman took the paper and handed it off to a clerk. Another parchment was pushed into his hands. The next oath. The next lie.
Outside the chamber, the spring wind bit through his cloak. He did not care.
Whitehall's stone walls loomed behind him as he mounted his horse. The city was bustling with the sounds of triumph—bells ringing, carriages passing, the noise of Londoners congratulating themselves on their King’s latest act of divine defiance.
Thomas D’Arcy rode north, into silence. And his first night back at Pemberley, Thomas knelt alone at the side of his bed. The hearth in his chambers was cold, but the crucifix in his hand felt warm with memory. He whispered the old prayers—theCredo, theAve Maria, thePater Noster—and as the Latin slipped from his lips, he felt for a moment that he still belonged to something older than kings.
A fortnight later, a letter arrived.
To my good neighbor Thomas,it read,I hope this finds you in health. I write to ask whether your family will attend the Easter feast at Matlock this year. It is to be a grand affair. I shall be honored in my new capacity, and would see old friends in the audience…
It was signed, in a florid hand:
Baron Fitzwilliam of Matlock.
Thomas folded the paper and laid it in the fire.
∞∞∞
Winter 1584 — Pemberley, Derbyshire
The hearthstones were lifted by lamplight, not daylight.
Edward Darcy crouched in the half-finished recess behind the west library fireplace, his hands dusty, hisnails cracked, the weight of lineage and danger pressing on him from both sides.
The mason beside him said nothing—he had been paid well for his silence, more than enough to see his crippled son apprenticed in Matlock. The man’s tools whispered against the stone, each chisel tap deliberate, controlled, as though the sound itself might betray them.
Above them, the great manor of Pemberley slept on.
It had stood since the reign of Henry II, rebuilt and fortified during the Plantagenet wars, refined by generations of D’Arcys—now Darcys. The name had softened over time, but not the spine.
The true strength of the house now lay not in its stones but in its silences.
Edward rose slowly, brushing dust from his breeches as he inspected the niche. Narrow, but sufficient. A grown man could kneel upright within it. And with the false wall returned—hinged on a hidden pivot and plastered over—the hearth would show nothing.
“Good,” he murmured.
The mason nodded once and returned to smoothing the interior stone.
Edward crossed to the window and opened one of the tall casements, letting the sharp October air wash in. Outside, the hills were black with mist, and only the faint orange glow from the stable lanterns showed that any life remained awake. From far off, a dog barked. Somewhere near the ridge, an owl cried out.
No hoofbeats.
Not tonight.
He closed the window again and exhaled slowly. His breath fogged the cold glass.
Tomorrow, a man would come riding from London. A Jesuit. A priest.
The children would be told to stay upstairs. The servants had already been paid, and the youngest dismissed on some pretense. The old nursemaid—who still kept her rosary hidden beneath her skirts—had promised to sing hymns while the secret mass was held below.
Edward glanced at the far shelf, where his son’s primer lay open. The letters inside were printed in Latin and in English. Both languages had their place. Both had their danger.
He had taught William and Thomas to cross themselves silently. His daughter Anne whispered her Pater Noster in the dark before sleep.
No chanting. No bells. No kneeling in daylight.
And never—never—outside the house.
