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She was a mistress without a functional estate. A wife without her husband’s bed, and a sister unmoored from her flock. Here, in Lady Anne’s blue chamber, she would simply be an invalid on fluffy pillows, her hair loose and tangled, a warming stone against her back. Her room was now sweltering, having the fire built up more than any other chamber at Pemberley.

Hannah had brought breakfast on a tray—toast, preserves, a pot of tea strong enough to qualify as a restorative—and had tiptoed out again with the exaggerated delicacy of a girl who had been told her new mistress was indisposed and took the commission with a solemnity better suited to attending a deathbed than delivering marmalade.

The toast was still warm. Elizabeth ate it without tasting it, her gaze fixed on the pale blue ceiling where a plaster rosette held the remains of a chandelier hook. The chandelier itself had presumably been sold, or removed, or spirited away to some corner of Pemberley where beautiful objects went to gather dust when there was no money for candles to put in them.

And then, there was the silence. True, the fire crackled, and the wind blew across the window. But the corridors were ghostly, and with Hannah told, quite sternly by Mrs. Reynolds, to leave the mistress undisturbed, Elizabeth had absolutely nothing to face save for the soft-boiled egg that she had not requested but which Cook had apparently deemed essential for a mistress who had been carried upstairs in her husband’s arms and put to bed like a child with a fever.

The man himself had been all gentleness, as though the bitter words of yesterday had never been spoken. He had not summoned a servant, nor suggested the library sofa, but gathered her to his chest and borne her up the staircase while she struggled to steady her breath, her face pressed into his cravat—scented with sandalwood and that wild amalgam of leather and wool, the very essence of Darcy. There was a strength in him that made her long to burrow deeper, to disappear entirely. Then there was that almost furtive kiss he laid on the top of her head.

And that deep voice vibrating through his throat, pitched low for her only. Because, Elizabeth, we are Darcys. We, not him only or him and Georgiana. But we, including Elizabeth, who, to her mortification, had called him by his Christian name. She had been faint, and she was so exhausted. Depleted and tired from worrying about her uncle’s fortune and her family’s future. So she lay back on the goose-feather pillow and stared at the rosette plastered to the ceiling and the elegant cornicework Lady Anne enjoyed, vines curling around the corners.

A knock at the connecting door startled her.

“Mrs. Darcy, may I enter?” Her husband’s voice, polite and proper.

“Yes, please.” She sat up against the pillows and tried to gather her hair into a twist, but it promptly fell, cascading over her shoulders.

He entered, carrying a leather-bound book under one arm and a wooden box under the other.

“Mrs. Darcy.” He bowed. “Are you well this morning?”

“Much better, thank you.” She wondered at his return to formality. “Am I to call you Mr. Darcy again?”

His expression shifted, something almost rueful flickering across his features before he schooled them into their usual composure. “I would not hold your lightheadedness against you, Mrs. Darcy. You were unwell, and I took liberties in addressing you informally. If you found it presumptuous, I hope you will forgive the trespass.”

“You carried me up a flight of stairs and kissed my forehead,” Elizabeth observed, gesturing at her loose hair and dressing gown. “And you are currently standing in my bedchamber while I am in a state of considerable undress. I believe we have moved somewhat beyond the boundaries of strict propriety.”

“Shall I retreat?” He stepped back, though his eyes—those dark, watchful eyes that had followed her across every room in Hertfordshire—held something that looked almost like hope. “I would not wish to compromise your comfort.”

“That depends entirely on what is in that box.”

“Checkers.” He held it up, and the corner of his mouth curved in what might, with charity, be called a smile. “I thought you might welcome a distraction.”

“An excellent choice.” Elizabeth pulled herself upright against the pillows, wincing as the movement sent a fresh throb through her temples. “My head aches too violently for chess, and I have never had the patience for cribbage—all that counting and pegging makes me feel as though I am doing arithmetic for sport, which rather defeats the purpose of a game.”

“I vehemently agree, Mrs. Darcy.”

“Elizabeth,” she said, her eyes darting to the leather-bound book he held against his chest. “And the book?”

He set the checkers box on the small table beside her bed and held up the leather-bound volume, its cover worn soft with age and handling. “Thomas Bewick’s History of British Birds. The engravings are quite fine—my mother was fond of them. She used to sit at this very window with the volume open on her lap, watching the park and trying to match the illustrations to the creatures she saw.”

Elizabeth took the book from his hands and opened it carefully, turning past the title page to the first engraving—a sharp-eyed eagle rendered in lines so delicate they seemed almost to breathe. “This is beautiful work. The detail in the feathers alone must have taken…” She looked up sharply. “Do not tell me you were pricing this one as well.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, and he glanced away toward the window. “The Bewick volumes are popular with collectors. A complete set in good condition might fetch⁠—”

“No.” Elizabeth closed the book and held it against her chest. “You are not selling your mother’s bird book to pay quarterly interest. I forbid it.”

“You forbid it.” His eyebrow arched, though it held no real challenge—more surprise than offense. “I was not aware that forbidding fell within a wife’s purview.”

“Consider it an expansion of my conditions.” She ran her fingers across the embossed cover, feeling the leather Lady Anne’s hands had touched, resting on her lap as she watched the very park Elizabeth could see through the window. “If you must sell books, sell the ones that do not carry memories. This one stays.”

He was silent for a long moment, and when Elizabeth looked up, she found him watching her with an expression she could not quite read—something between gratitude and bewilderment, as if he had not expected her to care about his mother’s possessions when she had so recently called him penniless.

“Then keep it,” he said finally. “Put it on your desk, if you like. Spring is coming, and the park will be full of warblers and thrushes by April. You can match the illustrations to the birds you see, as she did.”

Elizabeth set the book carefully on the bedside table, beside the cold tea and the untouched egg. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam.”

The name slipped out before she could consider it, and she saw him go very still—saw the slight catch in his breath, the way his hands tightened at his sides. But he did not correct her, nor did he retreat into formality.