Something was amiss. Something deeper than the Apethorpes, deeper than guardianship disputes or family manuscripts. He loved her, and yet had not come, because in his mind, it would not be noble or honorable. Yet his manner of proposing, of offering money to her parents, of appointing her mother to Little Tom, and expecting her to perform the dutiful wife before the servants?—
Did treating her like property, as Lady Amelia believed a husband considered a wife, qualify as honorable and noble?
Taking his brother’s orphan. Yes.
Buying a wife. No.
Courting a wife. Yes.
Keeping secrets from a wife. No.
Elizabeth tucked the note into her writing desk—beside the journal where she had noted her observations, measured his smiles, listed the wildflowers and the books he’d left for her, and the word “essential”—and locked it.
The morning room was bright with unseasonable sunshine, and Hannah was brighter still. Georgiana, however, appeared subdued, a crease furrowing her brow. Perhaps it was that time of the month for her. Elizabeth gave her a sympathetic squeeze and took her seat.
“Oh, Mrs. Darcy!” The maid bobbed a curtsy, her face luminous with barely contained delight. “Such a morning we’ve had! Sidney’s produced another three babies overnight. Thomas found them at dawn and has been counting them ever since. He’s determined to name them all, though I’ve tried to explain that snails do not generally answer to their names.”
Elizabeth managed a smile. “I have every confidence in Thomas’s pedagogical abilities. If anyone can teach snails to recognize their appellations, it will be him.”
“He’s named the new ones ‘Spotty,’ ‘Speedy,’ and ‘King.’ I’ve no notion why ‘King’—perhaps because His Majesty also moves rather slowly these days?” Hannah clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I ought not to have said that. Please don’t tell Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Your secret is safe.” Elizabeth poured herself tea, though her appetite had vanished somewhere between her chamber and the breakfast table. “Has Mr. Darcy breakfasted?”
“The master took a tray into his study, madam. Very early. He said he was not to be disturbed.” Hannah’s expression flickered—a trace of puzzlement, perhaps, that the master should hide himself on the morning after such a romantic dinner. “Except when Mr. Blythewood arrives. The solicitor, that is. He’s expected before noon.”
Blythewood. The name explained Darcy’s avoidance, if not the precise reason he had not crossed that threshold. It had to be the Apethorpe threat or something lurking in Lady Amelia’s papers.
“Thank you, Hannah.” Elizabeth set down her teacup, the liquid untasted. “I find I have a slight headache this morning. I believe I shall rest in the library rather than walking in the gardens.”
“Shall I send for a powder, madam? Or perhaps some willow bark tea?”
“No, thank you. Quiet will suffice.”
She escaped before Georgiana could question her—or before Hannah’s radiant assumptions about romantic dinners and their natural conclusions could become any more painfully apparent.
The library was dim and cool, curtains half-drawn against the morning sun. Elizabeth wandered the stacks without purpose, trailing her fingers along leather spines, breathing in the scent of old books, beeswax, and something faintly floral. The locked cabinet drew her, as she had known it would.
Oak, solid, with brass fittings that gleamed. She stood before it, studying keyhole and hinges, the careful construction that guarded its contents from curious eyes. Not for the first time did she wonder why Lady Amelia had entrusted her papers to Darcy. But then, she had also entrusted her son, and Darcy was both honorable and noble enough to keep her wishes.
Secrets lay inside that cabinet. Papers and correspondence. Essays and unfinished manuscripts. And Darcy would guard them without reading them—that much she knew. Lady Amelia’s family did not know that and wished to review or destroy them.
Elizabeth was mistress of Pemberley, and she had a right to ask Mrs. Reynolds for the key. It would be such a simple request, and Mrs. Reynolds would grant it, and then… Elizabeth would know.
Her hand rose toward the cabinet door, then stilled.
No.
She lowered her hand.
Thomas had taught her this, quite unintentionally. In his first days at Pemberley, when he would not speak, would not be held, and would accept comfort only from Hartley, Elizabeth had discovered that pressing the matter only deepened his retreat. She had learned to wait—to remain present, patient, and available until he chose to come to her in his own time.
Lizba,he had called her, and then finally.Mine.
Darcy was not a two-year-old, but he bore burdens she could not yet see. He had promised to tell her everything, and demanding entry to his secrets would only send him further behind his walls. So she turned to the shelves and found a well-worn volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets—not the one Darcy had read from, but one marked with his notes in the margin.
The book fell open easily to a marked page titled “Sonnet 29”.
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
