For George Wickham would never have signed the registry had Darcy not compelled him. Darcy had done it for Little Tom and for Amelia, knowing that a blank entry—an unnamed father—was a sentence of social death for both mother and child. So Darcy had ensured the boy would not bear that shame, and he had bribed a scoundrel to acknowledge his own son.
And when Amelia died, he had taken Thomas in, guarded him, protected him, and loved him as though he were?—
As though he were his own child.
“Mrs. Darcy?” Mrs. Duntze was watching her with barely concealed curiosity. “Are you quite well? You have gone rather pale.”
“I am well.” Elizabeth straightened, forcing composure into her features. “Thank you, Mrs. Duntze. This has been most illuminating.”
She closed the registry, her hand lingering on the leather cover. She understood now—the weight of what Darcy had carried, the nobility of what he had done, and the grief he must still feel for a woman who could not love him as he deserved.
“We should return to Pemberley,” she said. “Mr. Darcy will wonder where we have gone.”
“Must we?” Miss Entwhistle had drifted toward the stained glass window, her face rapt. “The light falls exactly as Lady Renwick described—in bars, like a prison of illumination. If I could just sketch the angle?—”
“Another time, perhaps.” Elizabeth moved toward the vestry door. “Thank you again, Mrs. Duntze. You have been most helpful.”
“Any time, Mrs. Darcy.” The rector’s wife’s pale eyes gleamed with satisfaction; she had dispensed entertainment, gathered gossip, and would dine out on this visit for weeks. “Do give my regards to Mr. Darcy. And if you discover anything further about the Apethorpe inquiry, I should be most interested to hear…”
Elizabeth offered a noncommittal smile and gathered her companions toward the waiting carriage.
The footman had just handed Georgiana up when the thunder of hoofbeats shattered the afternoon quiet.
“Elizabeth!”
She turned. Darcy was riding toward them at a pace that bordered on reckless, his horse’s flanks lathered, his coat flying behind him. He pulled up sharply at the churchyard gate, the mare dancing beneath him, and swung down before the animal had fully stopped.
He stood before her, breathless, his cravat askew and hair tousled by the wind. His eyes found hers, and in them Elizabeth saw everything: fear, desperation, and that raw, terrible hope that she would not misunderstand what she had discovered.
I understand,she wanted to say.I know you loved her. I know what you sacrificed, and I do not judge you.
“Mr. Darcy!” Prue’s voice was breathless with barely suppressed excitement. “We were just—that is, we were examining the parish records, and?—”
Darcy did not look at her, nor at Miss Entwhistle, who clutched her Lady Renwick novel as if the story had come to life before her eyes. Not even at Georgiana, whose face had blanched, gazing out the carriage window with a mixture of dread and confusion.
His gaze was locked on Elizabeth, and she in turn held his gaze, unable to look away. Whatever he feared she had discovered, she would not condemn him for it. Whatever grief he carried, she would help him bear it.
“Pemberley,” she voiced.
“Pemberley,” he agreed, handing her into the carriage, his grip lingering, not letting her go. When he finally released her, his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist—accident or intention, she could not tell. And then he was gone, remounting hishorse and racing toward home, as if pursued by a vengeful and relentless fate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE CONCEALED CONCLUSION
Elizabeth flexed her hand,the one Darcy had gripped, and brought it to her lips. What had compelled her husband to chase her to the parsonage? Had Apethorpe presented him with papers demanding action? Or was he worried about the question of Wickham’s signature on the registry?
But Mrs. Duntze had witnessed the signing, and Elizabeth had recognized Wickham’s handwriting from the notes he had sent her—secret ones concealed within the pages of the books they borrowed from the circulating libraries.
A blush heated Elizabeth’s cheeks at how charmed she had been, how she had read those notes by candlelight, imagining a future that sparkled with romance and possibility. She noticed Prue’s narrowed eyes, assessing her composure, and she pulled out her fan, flicking it and blinking innocently.
“Why, Prue, I do believe Derbyshire springtime weather resembles my sister, Lydia—weeping rain one hour, blazing fury the next, and entirely indifferent to the comfort of those caught in its path.”
“How like the heroine inThe Whispering Gallery,” Miss Entwhistle observed. “She fans herself constantly in moments ofemotional distress, though Lady Renwick makes clear the heat is entirely internal?—”
“Speaking of distressing heat,” Prue interrupted. “I have been thinking about that registry. Mr. Darcy must have paid that dreadful Wickham to sign. What other explanation could there possibly be?”
Beside her, Georgiana stiffened; Miss Entwhistle’s eyes, by contrast, gleamed with the prospect of fresh scandal.
