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“It is your home as well, Mrs. Darcy.” His voice was soft, and when she turned to look at him, his expression was not pride but fragile, at odds with the grandeur spread before them. “I very much want you to love it.”

“And if I do not?” she asked, because she was Elizabeth Bennet—Elizabeth Darcy now—and she had never learned to let weighted words pass without examination.

“Then I shall have to discover what improvements might alter your opinion.” His mouth curved. “Though I warn you, the fish remain intractable, and I cannot promise to have better success than my grandfather.”

Daffodils. Hundreds of them crowded the lakeshore in loose, exuberant drifts, blazing against the grey-green landscape.

“Your mother’s?” she asked.

Darcy followed her gaze, his expression softening. “She planted the first hundred bulbs the autumn before Georgiana was born. They have been multiplying without supervision ever since.” A pause. “Rather like the sheep.”

“This is the most beautiful sight I’ve seen on this trip.” Her awe brought a smile to Darcy’s face.

And then, the carriage rounded the final curve, and the forecourt of Pemberley opened before them. The gravel showed patches where winter ice had rutted the surface, and the ornamental beds near the entrance held bare earth awaiting spring planting.

Two lines of servants awaited on the steps, perhaps fifteen in all—fewer than Bingley boasted at Netherfield, but six more than Longbourn could muster. Elizabeth wondered how so modest a force managed Pemberley’s thirty chimneys, but the carriage halted, and she was obliged to greet them as their new mistress.

Darcy’s hand found hers. “Mrs. Darcy, I am glad to bring you home. It is not much, but my household welcomes you too.”

The footman opened the door, and Darcy descended first, then turned to hand her down with the same careful attention he had shown at every inn. But this time, when her feet touched Pemberley’s gravel, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and kept it there.

She welcomed his gesture, even if he were merely performing for the servants.

“Mrs. Reynolds,” he said, guiding Elizabeth toward the grey-haired woman at the head of the assembled servants, “has been housekeeper here for more than thirty years. She knew me when I was a boy making mischief in the kitchens and has somehow forgiven me for growing into a man who makes different sorts of mischief. Mrs. Darcy, may I present Mrs. Reynolds.”

“Welcome to Pemberley, madam.” The housekeeper’s curtsey was graceful despite the keys jingling at her waist. “We have been anticipating your arrival with great pleasure. The whole household has been in a state of happy preparation.”

Elizabeth felt the last lingering knot of travel-weary anxiety loosen in her chest. She stepped forward, offering her hand—a breach of strict protocol that Mrs. Reynolds met with visible, touching gratitude as she accepted it with a gentle clasp.

“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds,” Elizabeth replied, her voice ringing clear and warm through the lofty foyer. “I suspect I shall rely upon your wisdom in everything, and I am very glad to be here.”

Then he introduced her down the line—names and faces she would have to learn: Hodges the butler; a cook whose hands were floury with evident haste; a footman named Thomas, no older than fifteen.

The entrance hall soared two stories, its plasterwork ceiling intricate, marble columns supporting a gallery above. A grand staircase of polished oak swept upward. The proportions were beautiful, and the air held a chill that Elizabeth suspected came more from the marble than the wooden floors lining Longbourn’s humbler corridor.

Darcy walked beside her across the hall. His valet met him at the foot of the staircase.

“Mr. Darcy, sir—I beg your pardon, I know you’ve only just arrived, but Mr. Miller says it cannot wait. There’s been an express from London concerning the annuity payment.”

Darcy’s arm tensed beneath Elizabeth’s hand. He turned to her, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Darcy, but I must see to this matter. I had hoped to show you the house myself, but I must ask Mrs. Reynolds to do the honors in my stead.”

“Assuredly, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth kept her voice light. Her husband had sojourned too long in Hertfordshire and had neglected his business. “Go. I shall manage perfectly well with Mrs. Reynolds as my guide.”

“I will join you as soon as I am able. Mrs. Reynolds, if you would be so kind as to show Mrs. Darcy the principal rooms, and then perhaps she would like to rest before dinner?”

“It would be my pleasure, sir.” Mrs. Reynolds beamed. “Come, Mrs. Darcy. We shall begin with the entrance hall—the plasterwork is considered quite fine, though I am biased, having spent thirty years admiring it.”

Elizabeth looked up. The ceiling was indeed extraordinary—cherubs, garlands, and classical figures cavorting across creamy plaster with the confident exuberance of another century’s taste. It was magnificent, and it made her feel very small, and she was not accustomed to feeling small.

“The family portraits are in the gallery above,” Mrs. Reynolds continued, “but perhaps you would prefer to see the principal rooms first? The drawing room is through here—we have had fires laid in all the rooms today, in your honor.”

The drawing room was handsome, high-ceilinged, and half-furnished. Holland covers shrouded what appeared to be a settee and two chairs.

“We have been preparing the rooms for your arrival,” Mrs. Reynolds explained, following Elizabeth’s gaze. “The covers are coming off this week—Sarah and Agnes have been working through systematically. The master did not use these rooms often when he was alone, you understand. A gentleman does not require so much space for himself.”

“Very sensible,” Elizabeth said.

“The master has always been prudent.” Mrs. Reynolds fairly glowed with proprietary pride. “Even as a boy. None of the wild spending of some young gentlemen—no gambling, no expensive horses eating their heads off in the stables. He understands the value of careful management.”