The carriage rounded the final bend leading to Pemberley, and Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat.
Darcy stood at the entrance. Waiting for her.
He had changed his coat; his posture was rigid, hands clasped behind his back, his stormy countenance carved in stone. He had been watching for her, counting the minutes.
What did you think I would discover?she wondered.What are you so afraid of?
The footman opened the carriage door. Prue and Miss Entwhistle descended first, murmuring hasty farewells and retreating toward the drawing room. Georgiana followed, pausing to press her brother’s hand before disappearing into the house.
And then it was only Elizabeth, standing on the gravel drive, meeting her husband’s eyes across ten feet of carefully maintained silence.
“Mrs. Darcy.” His voice was too formal. Controlled.
“Mr. Darcy.” She matched his tone, though her heart was pounding. “I trust your meeting with the Viscount was productive?”
His eyebrows raised fractionally, perhaps surprised that she had the wherewithal to ask him questions.
“We should speak privately.” He did not offer his arm, and she did not move toward him.
“I imagine we should.” She moved past him, and they entered the house in silence.
He selected the library and shut the door before moving to the window, his back to her.
Elizabeth was no longer sure what comfort, if any, he wanted from her—whether he was angry she had gone to Kympton or fearful of her discoveries. That he cared deeply for Amelia Apethorpe was not up for questioning—whether as a devoted friend or thwarted lover, and so she waited.
She had composed gentle speeches that morning—words of understanding for his grief, acceptance of his devotion to Lady Amelia’s memory, assurances that she would not judge him for loving a woman who had chosen another. Yet those sentiments rang hollow now. The cracks in her theory had widened, and she was no longer certain what, precisely, she was prepared to forgive.
“You examined the registry,” he stated finally, his voice flat and devoid of any inflection.
“Yes.”
“And what did you conclude?”
Elizabeth hesitated. An hour ago, she would have told him everything. Would have offered her theory about bribing Wickham, her understanding of his noble sacrifice, and her willingness to accept that he had loved another woman before her.
But doubt had taken root, and Elizabeth Bennet was not in the habit of offering conclusions in which she no longer believed.
She fixed her gaze upon his back. “A parish registry is a poor supplier of answers to questions that, if I am to understand them, must be answered by the one who knows the truth.”
Darcy turned, his face pale and eyes stricken. “I cannot?—”
“Forgive me, I should not have ventured.” She did not release his gaze, even though those eyes spoke to her heart. “I can only conclude the business involves the Apethorpes, who have been questioning the registry signatures. Mrs. Duntze hinted as much, so I need to know. What did the Viscount want? I assume he did not ride all the way from London to discuss the vagaries of the weather.”
“No.” Darcy’s hand went to his cravat, loosening it further. She had never seen him display this level of nervousness. “He came to discuss Thomas.”
“And?”
“We reached an understanding.” He turned to the window again, averting his gaze. His shoulders were rigid beneath his coat, his reflection in the glass pale and drawn. “The Apethorpes will support my claim to Thomas. They only wish to assure him a future place in society.”
“Are they asking for your name to replace Wickham’s, the surname I found in the registry?” She scrutinized his reflection. “I find it rather strange, Fitzwilliam, that you never told me Thomas’s full name. I arrived believing he was Thomas Darcy, that George was a Darcy, not a Wickham, as Prue informed me, and the registry entry confirmed it. Thomas William Wickham, was it not?”
Darcy’s lips pressed together, his features wincing. He said nothing, so she made the leap for him.
“I find it curious that they would compel you to make Thomas your heir over your own natural-born sons, not that I have had the pleasure of such a prospect. A strange distinction, shall we say?” She took a step close enough to feel the heat through his coat, to touch him should she choose, her voice dropping. “Almost as peculiar as the note you sent me this morning—that you had not yet earned…”
His reflection flinched, stricken as she hit her mark, and her heart sank at the implications.
“Or the locked cabinet in this very room.” She gestured at the imposing piece. “The one you guard as though it contained state secrets.”
