But Elizabeth would speculate, and did so now with a fervor that surprised even herself, drawing together threads she had never before considered related.
Lady Renwick’s novels were set in places that resembled Pemberley. Her heroes brooded like Darcy, suffered like Darcy, and loved hopelessly. And Lady Amelia had been a writer. A scandalous one. The sort of woman who might very well have published under a pseudonym.
The manuscripts in Darcy’s locked cabinet, the ones he guarded so fiercely—they were Lady Renwick’s. They were evidence of Amelia’s secret identity, and Darcy was protecting them because?—
Because he had loved her. She had left them to him, and Darcy would not allow anyone to destroy them.
“Elizabeth?” Georgiana’s voice was gentle and inquiring. “You have gone quite distant.”
Elizabeth blinked, returning herself to the present. Three faces regarded her: Prue’s alight with open curiosity, Georgiana’s shaded with gentle concern, and Miss Entwhistle’s lost in the labyrinth of her own literary reverie.
“Forgive me. I was merely thinking about…” She paused. “Actually, I was thinking about Kympton.”
“The parsonage?” Prue brightened. “Would you come to visit?”
“Yes, Lady Renwick uses it as a setting,” Elizabeth said, glancing at Miss Entwhistle. “The hero is christened in an old Norman church surrounded by mud, is he not? There is a scene at the old bridge that is quite devastating, if I recall correctly.”
Miss Entwhistle’s eyes widened with something approaching religious fervor. “Youhaveread her! Oh, Mrs. Darcy, I knew you must be a woman of discernment. Yes, the christening scene is exquisite—the hero standing at the font while his futurestretches before him, the godfather’s hand upon his shoulder, the shadow of destiny?—”
“I should like to see it,” Elizabeth interrupted, before Miss Entwhistle could recite the entire passage from memory. “The church, I mean, and the registry. Since Thomas was christened there, I ought to familiarize myself with the parish records.”
“Thomas?” Prue’s brow furrowed. “But whatever does he have to do with Lady Renwick’s settings?”
“The Apethorpes have been making inquiries,” Elizabeth confided, her tone light and conspiratorial. “Mr. Darcy is closeted with his solicitor at this very moment, preparing for their demands. I confess myself curious as to what, precisely, they find so absorbing in a christening registry.”
Prue’s eyes went wide. “Inquiries? What sort of inquiries?”
“I cannot say. Only that Viscount Drake is expected this afternoon, and my husband has requested not to be disturbed.” Elizabeth paused, letting the suspense ripen. “I thought perhaps, if we visited the church, we might discover what all the fuss is about.”
“Like an investigation,” Georgiana said slowly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Like the heroine of a novel.”
“Like Miss Belwood inThe Ruined Chapel,” Miss Entwhistle breathed. “She examined the parish records to discover the hero’s true parentage, and what she found?—”
“Spoiled the ending for everyone,” Prue finished, but she was grinning. “Oh, this is brilliant, Mrs. Darcy. An adventure! A genuine adventure! And my father is away visiting his sister, so Mamma will have no reason to refuse us access to the vestry. She simply adores visitors.”
“Your mother keeps the registry?” Elizabeth asked.
“When Papa is away, yes. She considers herself the guardian of parish history.” Prue was already rising from her seat. “I shall send word that we are coming. She will be thrilled. Nothingexciting has happened at the parsonage since Little Tom’s christening, and that was more than two years ago.”
“We should bring Miss Entwhistle,” Georgiana suggested. “She can compare the actual setting to Lady Renwick’s descriptions.”
Miss Entwhistle clutched her book with renewed intensity. “To walk where Lady Renwick walked! To see the font she described, the registry she must have examined, the very stones her heroine touched?—”
“Then it is settled.” Elizabeth rose, smoothing her skirts. “We shall make an expedition. If Mr. Darcy does not wish to be disturbed, we shall simply… not disturb him.”
Prue’s grin widened. “I do like you, Mrs. Darcy.”
The carriage set them down at Kympton Parsonage within fifteen minutes—a modest, well-tended house nestled companionably beside the ancient church. Mrs. Duntze appeared at the door before they had properly alighted, her plump face radiant with the joy of a woman long deprived of society, having, according to Prue, run afoul of Lady Cathcart when she had supported her daughter’s marriage to that unfortunate curate.
“Mrs. Darcy! Miss Darcy! And Miss Entwhistle, what a pleasure to meet friends of Prue. Do come in. How can I help you?”
“We’ve come to examine the registry,” Prue announced, sweeping past her mother with cheerful disregard for social niceties. “Mrs. Darcy wishes to see Thomas Wickham’s christening entry. For investigative purposes.”
“Investigative purposes?” Mrs. Duntze’s pale eyes sharpened with interest. “How fascinating. The registry is in the vestry, of course. I can take you there directly.”
“If it would not be too much trouble,” Elizabeth said.
“Trouble? Nonsense. I have waited two years for anyone to show the least interest in that christening.” Mrs. Duntze was already reaching for her shawl. “It was the most unusual affair. Such drama.”
