The word escaped sharper than Elizabeth intended, but she let it stand. Whatever Amelia’s papers contained, they belonged to Darcy, not to her, and certainly not to Prue Duntze, however noble her literary ambitions.
“The manuscripts are my husband’s,” Elizabeth said more gently. “Whatever decisions are made about their future must be made by him.”
Prue’s face fell, but she accepted the refusal with better grace than Elizabeth had expected. “I understand. It seemed worth asking.”
They had reached the morning room, where their cold tea sat abandoned on the table. Elizabeth was about to suggest fresh cups when footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Jamison appeared in the doorway, his face flushed. “Mrs. Darcy, ma’am. An express has arrived.”
He held out a letter—thick paper with a heavy wax seal—blood red. Elizabeth took it, her heart quickening, wondering what troubles had landed in her lap.
“To Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy or Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley.”
The sender did not distinguish them as husband and wife, and so she broke the seal and read it.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Darcy,
We find ourselves traveling through Derbyshire en route to the Lake District, and our path takes us within a few miles of Pemberley. We have long wished to pay our respects to our grandson, Thomas, and to make the acquaintance of his new mother. Might we call upon you tomorrow afternoon?
We hope most sincerely that you will receive us.
The Earl and Countess of Apethorpe
Elizabeth’s mouth went dry, and she stared at a landscape on the wall. The Earl and Countess of Apethorpe wished to pay her a call—to meet Thomas’s new mother. And Darcy was in London and unavailable to make this decision.
“Elizabeth?” Prue’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “What is it? You have gone white as chalk.”
“The Apethorpes. Lord and Lady Apethorpe wish to call tomorrow to see Thomas.”
Prue’s sharp intake of breath confirmed that she understood the implications. “But will you take their call? What if they have come to take him?” Prue’s voice trembled. “What if they have orders from a magistrate?”
“They would not dare.”
The words came with a certainty Elizabeth had not known she possessed. She was Thomas’s mother. Not by blood, not by law, but by choice—the same choice Lady Anne had made when she gathered a squalling infant into her arms and loved him as her own.
“But…” Prue’s face had gone pale. “They are the Earl and Countess, and you are…”
“Mrs. Darcy, Thomas’s mother.” She folded the letter with steady hands. “They would not dare,” she repeated. “And if they try, they will discover the mistress of Pemberley is not so easily moved.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE MEASURE OF A MOTHER
Countess Apethorpe’slady’s maid arrived forty minutes before her mistress, sweeping into the entry hall with her nose elevated as though she detected something offensive in the very air of Pemberley. Her eyes were narrowed, her expression pinched—the sort of face that suggested she had been sucking lemons since infancy. She introduced herself as Miss Pargeter and proceeded to inspect the blue drawing room with the thoroughness of a woman expecting to discover an infestation of moths lurking beneath the cushions.
“The Countess cannot abide feathers,” she announced, lifting a pillow and peering at its seams with distaste. “If there are feathers in these cushions, they must be removed immediately, lest she endure a dreadful bout of sneezing and coughing.”
“The cushions are stuffed with horsehair,” Mrs. Reynolds replied, her tone admirably neutral. “As they have been for three generations.”
Miss Pargeter sniffed, unconvinced, and lifted each cushion in turn, examining the seams and running her fingers along the upholstery as though testing for hidden flaws.
“The Countess is excessively sensitive to biting insects.” She peered beneath the settee with the air of a general surveyingenemy territory. “Fleas, bedbugs, any manner of vermin. She comes out in hives that last for weeks. If there are dogs in this household, they must be kept well away from any room the Countess might enter.”
“We have one dog,” Elizabeth said. “A basset hound puppy, but he is confined to the boot room.”
“See that he remains there.” Miss Pargeter straightened, brushing imaginary contamination from her gloves. “The Countess was once forced to leave a house party at Lord Evershot’s because his hounds were permitted indoors. She did not speak to Lady Evershot for three seasons afterward.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Mrs. Reynolds. Harley, who had already escaped his confinement once that week, was being guarded by the hall boy with strict instructions—though Elizabeth had little faith in the boy’s ability to contain that particular force of nature.
“The dog will not be a problem,” she said, with rather more confidence than she felt.
