“Of course, we shall receive you.” Elizabeth rose too, grateful for the motion and the excuse to move toward the door, away from the morning room and its scattered revelations. “You have been most… informative.”
“That is one word for it.” Prue’s laugh was rueful. “Georgiana, dearest, forgive me. Mrs. Darcy, Elizabeth, I am a terrible gossip and a worse friend, but I mean well, truly I do.”
“I know you do.” Elizabeth took her hand briefly and released it. “Come again… whenever you can escape your dear mother.”
Prue departed in a clatter of pattens and trailing apologies, her voice carrying back promises of future visits and better behavior. Elizabeth stood in the hall until the sounds faded, until the front door closed, until silence settled over Pemberley like a held breath.
When she returned to the morning room, Georgiana had not moved.
“Elizabeth, Mrs. Darcy…” The girl’s face crumpled. “I am so sorry. Prue does not mean harm; she simply…”
“Talks.” Elizabeth lowered herself into her chair, though her legs had begun to feel unreliable. “Yes, I noticed.”
“She should not have mentioned George.” Georgiana stopped, her hands twisting in her lap. “My brother will be displeased. He guards certain histories rather closely, George especially. There are… reasons I cannot…”
“I can imagine, and we need not discuss them.” Elizabeth rose, pressing her palms flat against her skirts to still whatever tremor might be waiting there. “If you will excuse me, I find I have a headache coming on. The excitement of callers, no doubt.”
There was no headache but a name lodged beneath her ribs, a ring concealed in her writing desk, and a husband unawarethat the father of the child she had promised to raise had once pressed his wife against a wall and made her believe in fairy tales.
“I shall rest before dinner,” she said, and left before Georgiana could see the lie written on her face.
She climbed the stairs to her chamber with deliberate steps, each one carrying her further from the morning room and its scattered revelations. Her writing desk waited by the window where she had placed it, its brass lock catching the afternoon light.
Sitting before it, she opened it, drew out her journal, and wrote the date:Miss Prudentia Duntze called this morning. She is warm and exceedingly talkative and will, I think, be a friend.
She did not write:George Wickham.
She did not need to. The name already lived within the desk, pressed into a handkerchief, wound around a signet ring hidden beneath the false bottom where no prying eye would find it. She closed the journal, locked the desk, and rested her hands flat on the polished wood.
The connecting door to Darcy’s chamber stood closed as it had been every night since her arrival. How long could two people live under the same roof, each guarding secrets, before the guarding became the marriage itself?
CHAPTER TEN
A HUSBAND’S DUTY
The mare,a sweet-tempered chestnut named Penny, stood waiting for Elizabeth, chosen by the head groom specifically for her placid nature. Darcy observed his wife carefully, noting the green riding habit and how it fitted her figure. He saw the exact moment when she turned and spotted him on the pathway, her cheeks pinking as she glanced between him and the mare.
“Mrs. Darcy.” He stopped himself from bowing, searching her face for evidence of yesterday’s distress. She had retired early after Prue Duntze’s visit, claiming a headache, and Georgiana had been worried about the injudicious mention of Lady Amelia’s name and her goings-on with the literary crowd. But Elizabeth seemed recovered, with a sweet smile as she gently laid a hand on the mare’s velvety neck and murmured a soft reassurance he was too far away to hear. In return, Penny’s ears flicked forward, a silent mark of her attention.
“I hope you have recovered from your headache.”
“Entirely, thank you. It was nothing—merely the excitement of callers.” Her smile was pleasant and told him nothing. “Georgiana mentioned you wished to show me the estate today. The mare seems sweet-natured.”
“She is. Hobson would not have chosen her otherwise.” He came forward to help her mount, cupping his hands for her boot, and felt the brief press of her weight against his palms before she was up and settling herself. “Though I confess I did not think to ask how well you ride.”
“I am rather tolerable, I’m told.” She gathered her skirts with a practiced hand, settling into the side-saddle. “Not brilliantly, and not often on horses this fine, but I manage well enough. You need not hover.”
“I am not hovering.”
“You are standing there with an expression that suggests you expect me to tumble off at any moment.” Her eyes glinted with something between amusement and defiance. “I assure you, Mr. Darcy, I have managed to stay seated on a horse for more than twenty minutes without serious incident.”
“Truly a reassuring phrasing.”
“I must admit, however, that I fell off a pony once when Kitty startled it by screaming at a toad, but I do not anticipate your estate is similarly infested.”
He mounted his own horse, suppressing a smile that tugged at him with unexpected persistence. “The toads are well-behaved this time of year. I cannot, however, offer the same assurance for the pheasants.”
They set out across the park, the morning cool and bright, the sky a pale wash of blue streaked with clouds that might or might not mean rain. Darcy kept his horse to a measured walk, matching Elizabeth’s pace without appearing to do so. She sat very straight in her saddle, her hands perhaps a touch too careful on the reins, her focus fixed on the winding path before them. He offered no comment, for he did not wish to unsettle her.
