She sincerely wished George would find a wife in India and never again darken Pemberley’s doorstep. Yet as she gazed at the inscrutable crack in the ceiling, she could not help but fear that the cards would, in time, fall down and claim this fragile and precious peace.
At least Longbourn lived another day, she told the crack in the ceiling. It only stared down at her, patient and incomprehensible, keeping its own counsel as cracks have done since the beginning of time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ELIZABETH’S ASTUTE OBSERVATION
Elizabeth had enduredthe efficacy of rest for three days, but by the fourth, the morning’s clarity and mildness conspired to lure her from her bed. Not even Mrs. Reynolds’s fussing, nor Darcy’s, could keep her imprisoned a moment longer.
She had been eyeing the sunshine for a full hour before Clarice appeared with the breakfast tray. By the time she had consumed her toast and tea, she had already composed three separate arguments for why she was entirely recovered and perfectly capable of a morning walk.
None of these arguments proved necessary. Georgiana arrived at half-past ten with Prue Duntze in tow, both of them pink-cheeked from the spring air and brimming with plans that apparently required Elizabeth’s immediate participation.
“We are walking to the Maitland farm,” Georgiana announced, settling herself on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed with the comfortable presumption of a sister. “Mrs. Maitland’s hound has had puppies, and Prue says they are the most ridiculous creatures she has ever seen.”
“Basset hounds,” Prue clarified, perching on the window seat with rather more decorum than Georgiana had managed. “All ears and melancholy. They look as though they arecontemplating the futility of existence, which I find enormously appealing in a dog.”
“I should think you would prefer something more spirited,” Elizabeth said. “A terrier, perhaps. Something that shares your… energetic temperament.”
Prue’s eyes glinted. “Terriers are all enthusiasm and no philosophy. I require a dog capable of brooding.”
“Then we are in the right county,” Elizabeth quipped, glancing in the direction of Darcy’s study. “Derbyshire specializes in brooding. Give me ten minutes to dress, and I shall join you.”
“Fitzwilliam will object,” Georgiana warned, though her tone suggested this was a feature rather than a concern. “He has been hovering outside your door like a particularly anxious ghost. I had to practically shove past him to reach you.”
“Your brother has perfected the art of hoveringly brooding, or is it broodingly hovering with excellent intentions?”
Georgiana giggled while Prue’s eyes widened at the spectacle of a wife speaking so freely about a husband who, in all manner of women’s deportment books, advised the utmost respect.
“His brooding and hovering are directly related to how besotted he is.” Georgiana stood and began examining the items on Elizabeth’s dressing table with the idle curiosity of a girl who had not yet learned that other people’s belongings were private. “Prue, don’t you agree?”
“I think no such thing.” Prue’s air reminded Elizabeth of her sister Mary. “Besotted is not a term from the Bible.”
“Ah, but you did,” Georgiana contradicted. “I quote, ‘Mrs. Darcy has achieved what no woman in Derbyshire believed possible—she has made Fitzwilliam Darcy smile before noon.’” Georgiana held up a hairbrush as though presenting evidence. “I consider this a significant accomplishment.”
“I have made no such untoward observation,” Prue resorted to her parson’s daughter demeanor. “Come now, far be it from me to note a gentleman’s countenance—although,” a smile peeked from behind Prue’s oversized bonnet, “I must admit the master of Pemberley seems less troubled since Mrs. Darcy arrived.”
“Yes, and he refuses to tell me the particulars of your great romance. Tell me, sister, did you pain him much during his stay in Hertfordshire? He spent an entirely miserable Yuletide, grimacing as if in the throes of unrequited love. We are so pleased that he has finally won you over. You are good for him. I knew you would be, the moment I saw you. He needs someone who will not let him retreat into his study and brood over ledgers until he forgets that joy exists.”
Elizabeth had never fancied herself a bringer of joy—certainly not to this household, nor to a marriage that began as a matter of convenience and only lately tripped over something resembling warmth. Yet Georgiana’s certainty was difficult to resist, and Prue nodded with the quiet triumph of a woman whose suspicions had at last been vindicated.
“I shall do my best not to let him brood,” Elizabeth said, aiming for lightness. “Though I cannot promise to eliminate brooding entirely. Some men require a baseline level of melancholy to function.”
“Fitzwilliam requires considerably more than baseline,” Georgiana agreed. “His spirits are lifted, even at breakfast, where he usually attends to his correspondence, and now that you are past the danger…”
“I was never in danger,” Elizabeth reminded. “A mere cold.”
“Oh, but Fitzwilliam blames himself for being caught in the rainstorm. Hannah says he was practically whistling after Clarice informed him of your recovery. Why, I do believe you’vemade him quite the cheerful man. I might miss the brooding, although the day is too sunny to ruin.”
A flush of pleasure threatened Elizabeth’s composure, which she attempted to suppress with limited success. Fitzwilliam Darcy, whistling—an image both absurd and oddly endearing. The man who had made reserve an art now expressing himself with such careless cheer. “Perhaps he has simply developed a fondness for morning exercise.”
“Or he has developed a fondness for his wife,” Prue said, with the dry precision of a woman who called things by their proper names. “But we shall pretend otherwise if it makes you more comfortable.”
It did not make her more comfortable. If anything, it made her acutely aware of how much she wished it were true—how she longed to believe she had brought something to this household beyond practicality, that her presence mattered to the reserved man who had once proposed out of duty and was now, it seemed, whistling in corridors.
But such thoughts were dangerous, and puppies were waiting.
Her husband intercepted the party in the entrance hall, emerging from his study at the precise moment her footsteps crossed the corridor, as though he had been listening for their footfalls. His gaze swept over Elizabeth with such intensity that her cheeks warmed under its scrutiny.
