“Forgive me, ma’am. This is your domain now.” She stepped aside, gesturing toward Elizabeth’s pocket. “The large iron key with the Darcy crest.”
Elizabeth found the key—old, cold, substantial in her palm—and fitted it to the lock. The mechanism turned smoothly, as though it had been waiting for her, and the door swung open to reveal a room she had not known existed.
The strongroom.
It was smaller than she had expected, perhaps fifteen feet square, with walls of dressed stone and no windows. Iron sconces held candles that Mrs. Reynolds lit one by one, their flames revealing shelf upon shelf of ledgers, document boxes, and velvet cases of various sizes. A heavy desk occupied the center of the room, its surface bare except for an inkstand and a leather blotter.
“The estate accounts,” Mrs. Reynolds said, gesturing toward one wall of ledgers. “Quarterly reports from the farms, the mines, and the timber operations. Mr. Clarke, the steward, maintains them, but Lady Anne reviewed them monthly, and Mr. Darcy has continued the practice.”
Elizabeth approached the shelves, trailing her fingers along the spines of ledgers dated back to the previous century. The weight of history pressed upon her—generations of Darcysrecording profits and losses, managing lands and tenants, building the fortune that now rested, improbably, in her unqualified hands.
“I know nothing of estate management,” she admitted, surprising herself with the honesty. “My father’s estate is entailed away, and my mother considered account books beneath her notice.”
“You will learn.” Mrs. Reynolds’s voice held neither judgment nor false encouragement—merely a statement of fact. “Lady Anne knew nothing when she came to Pemberley as a bride. She learned because she wished to be a true partner to Mr. Darcy’s father, not merely an ornament in his house.”
A true partner. The phrase settled beneath Elizabeth’s ribs, both uncomfortable and illuminating. Was this what Darcy sought? Not merely a mother for Thomas, but a companion in all of it: the accounts, the decisions, and the countless small choices that kept a great estate alive?
Or was this merely another calculation, another piece of the elaborate machinery he had constructed to secure her attachment?
She did not know, but she was beginning to suspect she had never known anything about Fitzwilliam Darcy at all.
“You will need to budget the amount to be spent and record it in the ledgers. Each category has its own entries, and you will be in charge of replenishing the budget by allocating the income appropriately.”
“This is quite a responsibility,” Elizabeth murmured, but lest Mrs. Reynolds accuse her of shirking, she quickly added. “I am surely up to the task, as arithmetic was one of my strongest subjects.”
“That is assuring,” Mrs. Reynolds continued, crossing to a cabinet against the far wall. “The iron key with the rose motifunlocks Lady Anne’s jewelry collection, now yours by right of marriage.”
Elizabeth’s fingers fumbled as she found the indicated key. She slipped it into the lock, finding it smooth and well-oiled.
She could not suppress a gasp as the case revealed a queen’s ransom in gems: pearls strung in graduated strands, rubies nestled in gold filigree, sapphires as blue as a January sky, and a diamond necklace that caught the candlelight and scattered it across the stone walls like captured stars.
Elizabeth gazed at the jewels and felt, quite absurdly, the urge to laugh. Two months prior, she had been Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, her mother counting every shilling, her father barricaded in his library to avoid the spectacle of five dowryless daughters. Now she stood in a stone vault beneath Pemberley, contemplating a trove that could purchase Longbourn tenfold.
“For the dinner party,” Mrs. Reynolds said, “you will wish to select something appropriate. Nothing too grand for a neighborhood gathering—the pearls, perhaps, or the small sapphire set Lady Anne favored for informal occasions.”
She lifted a delicate necklace from its velvet bed—three sapphires suspended on a gold chain, elegant without ostentation—and held it toward the candlelight. “This was a particular favorite of hers. She wore it to her first dinner party as mistress of Pemberley.”
Elizabeth took the necklace, feeling a crushing weight of undeserved honor. Darcy’s mother had worn this at her first marital dinner, and now, she, Elizabeth Bennet Darcy, was being invited to…
“Of course, if it doesn’t suit you,” Mrs. Reynolds continued. “You have the freedom to choose any other piece. Perhaps the emerald might complement the green silk or…”
“These suit me very well. I should be honored to wear it,” Elizabeth said, and found that she meant it.
Mrs. Reynolds’s expression softened—the first unguarded response Elizabeth had seen from her since the morning began. “Lady Anne would have been pleased to know it was being worn again. She believed jewels ought to be used, not hoarded. ‘What is the purpose of beauty,’ she used to say, ‘if it is locked away where no one can see it?’”
Elizabeth thought of Darcy, locked away in his own reserve, his capacity for love hidden behind walls of disappointment and duty. She thought of herself, her wit deployed as armor rather than ornament, her cleverness a fortress against the hopes she refused to acknowledge.
Perhaps they were not so different, she and her husband. They had both spent too long locked away, where no one could see them.
“The dinner party,” she said, shaking off the thought. “When should it be held?”
“Saturday, a week from next, would be appropriate, ma’am. Your husband should have returned by then. Sufficient time for invitations to be delivered and accepted, and for Cook to plan the menu. I will draft the invitation list for your approval, unless you wish to make changes.”
“The list you described will do admirably.” Elizabeth closed the jewel case, leaving the sapphire necklace atop the velvet. “I shall trust your judgment on the menu as well, though I should like to review it before it is finalized.”
“Assuredly, ma’am.” Mrs. Reynolds gathered the necklace and returned it to its case with practiced care. “There is one other matter—the household accounts for the month require your signature. Mr. Darcy ordinarily reviews them, but in his absence…”
“I will review them.” Elizabeth heard the steel in her own voice and did not soften it. “Show me what requires signing.”
