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“A dunnock.”

“It looks like a sparrow.”

“Most people think so. The bill is the difference—thin and sharp for insects, whereas a sparrow’s is thick for seeds. And watch how it moves. A sparrow hops. A dunnock creeps.”

Elizabeth watched the bird make its deliberate way along the branch, pausing to probe beneath the bark with its narrow beak. “You are right. It does creep. Like a very small, very determined burglar.”

“I have never considered dunnocks in quite that light.”

“That is because you lack imagination. Every garden has its criminal element. The dunnocks are clearly the burglars, the magpies are the confidence tricksters, and the robins are the thugs.” She turned a page in the Bewick. “Do not be fooled by their cheerful appearance. I have read that they are viciously territorial.”

“I shall alert the groundskeeper to the avian crime wave.”

“See that you do. Pemberley’s reputation depends upon it.”

They reached the rise overlooking the lake, and Elizabeth saw the pavilion ahead, where she had sat with her then-new husband, demanding answers from a man she had called penniless. She hesitated, and Darcy must have felt her grip on his arm falter, because he stopped.

“We need not go nearer,” he said. “There are other paths.”

“No, I—” She steadied herself. The headache was merely a dull presence behind her left eye. “I should like to sit, if you do not mind. There is something I wish to discuss, and I would rather do it overlooking the lake before all the water birds return.”

The pavilion was lovely in the morning light—a miniature classical temple perched on a rise overlooking the water. White columns, a domed roof, stone benches inside. The kind of ornamental structure wealthy families built to give their guests a picturesque place to rest during walks.

She and Darcy crossed over the steps, and she sat on the bench, looking out at the view: the lake stretching silver below them, the house rising beyond it, the grounds rolling away in every direction. She was well aware of Darcy’s presence as he stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder.

“I understand why you come here,” she said. “When you need to think.”

“Yes.” He crossed the bench and sat beside her.

“Sowerby’s letter mentioned six hundred pounds in ready cash,” she said. “I should like to use some of it to repair the west wing. The guest chambers. Charlotte Lucas will be arriving within the fortnight, and I cannot ask her to sleep in rooms that have been shut up and stripped of their furnishings.”

“The west wing requires more than six hundred pounds to restore properly.”

“Then I shall restore it improperly. Fires lit, linens aired, furniture uncovered from wherever it has been stored. I am not proposing to rehang the silk wallpaper or install new chandeliers. I am proposing to make the house functional for guests.”

“Mrs. Darcy⁠—”

“Elizabeth,” she corrected tenderly, placing her hand on his arm. “What I have available is a mere pittance, but I shall not have Charlotte without the comforts of a toasty fire in the grate, a soft bed, and colorful paintings on the wall.”

He looked away toward the lake, and she saw the struggle in his shoulders. “You should not have to spend your inheritance on my failures.”

“Not your doing, Fitzwilliam, and even if they were your misjudgments.” She pressed her lips tight but refrained from biting them. “I am a Darcy now, and you are… important to me.”

She felt his body stiffen, and for a breath she thought she had overstepped—that he would retreat into formality and pride. But when he turned to face her, she saw him not defeated or resigned, but relaxed, as if a part of him that had remained guarded had put down its arms.

“Important,” he repeated, and his voice had roughened at the edges. His gaze dropped to where her hand rested on his arm, and he did not pull away.

“Do not let it go to your head,” Elizabeth said, though she found herself unwilling to remove her hand. “I am merely acknowledging that your continued existence serves my interests. You are the only person in Derbyshire who knows how to identify a dunnock, and I cannot be expected to memorize an entire ornithological guide without assistance.”

His mouth curved—gentler than the wry twist she had grown accustomed to. “I see. My value lies in my expertise regarding small grey birds.”

“Among other things. You are also reasonably tolerable at checkers.”

“High praise indeed.”

“I thought so.”

He was silent, studying her face with such intensity she was torn between fleeing and remaining perfectly still. When he spoke, his voice had softened. “Two chambers, then. But promise me you will let Mrs. Reynolds advise you on what is truly needed, not merely what sentiment prescribes.”