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“Do not fret, Mr Darcy,” she said with a teasing spark in her eyes. “My relatives and I are well used to family mayhem and outrageous relations. Between their three boisterous children, my youngest sisters, and my own mother, we have a great deal of experience with public spectacles. We feel entirely at home.”

Darcy stared at her, the relief of her words washing over him like a cool rain. She was not offended. She was not plotting her escape. She understood the burden of difficult family members, and she did not judge him for his aunt’s behaviour.

“I am in your debt for your understanding,” Darcy murmured, his tone thick with emotion.

“Good night, Mr Darcy.” She offered a small curtsy.

“Good night, Miss Elizabeth.”

He watched her turn and walk from the room. He realised, with startling clarity, that the brief exchange regarding the gloves was the very first private conversation they had shared since the horrific afternoon at the Hunsford parsonage. They had spoken without anger, without accusation, and without the burden of his pride or her prejudices standing between them.

A familiar scratching came from the passage, followed by the soft thump of a hound settling outside the door.

Well, Darcy thought, listening to the muffled sounds of his hounds settling for the night, it certainly did not go badly.

Chapter Five: Revelations in the Rose Garden

The blue guest chamber at Pemberley was a triumph of azure silk and elegant furnishing, but to Elizabeth, it was a monument to her own foolishness.

She lay still under the quilt, staring at the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling. She did not require the morning sun to wake her; she had been awake for hours.

Maggie bustled into the chamber, her happy disposition unaffected by the early hour. The maid drew back the curtains, allowing the sunlight to flood the room.

“Good morning, miss. Shall I fetch your hot water?”

Elizabeth sat up, pushing the cover aside. “Good morning, Maggie. Has Lady Catherine ordered the dismissal of any more servants before breakfast?”

“Not yet, miss.” Maggie moved to the washstand. “Though Bates is hiding in the pantry and refuses to emerge until the dogs are locked in the stables. I brought you the yellow muslin. It seems nice for a sunny sort of day.”

“Yellow will do.” Elizabeth swung her legs over the edge of the mattress.

She rose and moved to the table by the window. Two folded pieces of paper were mocking her superior discernment. She picked them up. The first was Mr Darcy’s letter from Kent, its edges familiar and worn, a document she had read countless times, each one dismantling one prejudice at a time.

The second was Jane’s, received just yesterday at Lambton, detailing Mr Bingley’s return to Hertfordshire, repentant and eager to court her. Also, it conveyed George Wickham’s arrest for debt and his impending imprisonment in the Marshalsea.

She tapped the letters against the table. The written proof of Mr Darcy’s honour was there. Yet, it was the spectacle in the dining room that provided the final blow to her stubborn pride. He had risked his aunt’s displeasure to protect a clumsy footman.

He was a good man, and she had insulted him dreadfully.

“Are you unwell, miss?” Maggie paused, holding the yellow gown. “You are staring at that paper very fiercely.”

“I am quite well, Maggie.” Elizabeth set the letters down and moved to the washstand. “I am merely contemplating the effort required to eat a very thick slice of humble pie.”

Maggie blinked, bewildered. “Mrs Reynolds did not order pie for breakfast, miss. There is porridge and cold meats.”

“A figure of speech, Maggie. Do not trouble yourself about hot water; the cold will do.” Elizabeth washed her face, welcoming the cold shock of the water. “I require a brisk walk before I face the inhabitants of this house. If my aunt or uncle inquires, tell them I have gone to the gardens.”

Maggie required only a few minutes to assist her into the gown and arrange her curls into a simple, unadorned style. Elizabeth hastily tied the ribbons of her bonnet, drew on her gloves, and slipped the letters into her pocket, wanting to read them once more.

She stepped out of the bedchamber, navigating the hushed, carpeted passages of the upper wing with determination. The house was silent, the carpets absorbing the sound of her kid leather half-boots. She descended the staircase, tracing her fingers over the smooth banister, marvelling anew at the elegance of her surroundings. There was no ostentatious display of wealth here, only enduring beauty.

A young footman—not the unfortunate Bates, but a different, more coordinated lad—opened the side door leading to the gardens, bowing as she passed.

The moment she was outside, the scent of earth and blooming flowers enveloped her. The gardens were a marvel of natural design, the lawns manicured, and the gravel paths sweeping in graceful arcs to the distant edge of the woods.

She chose a path leading to the elaborate rose gardens, her skirts swishing softly over the fine pebbles. The morning dew still clung to the bright petals, sparkling like scattered diamonds under the rising sun. She paused beside a bush of red roses, inhaling the sweet fragrance, allowing the tranquillity to soothe her nerves.

A rustle in the foliage disrupted her solitude. Elizabeth turned, expecting to discover a gardener tending to the beds. Instead, she saw Mr Darcy.