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Elizabeth weighed the keys in her palm, their chill and heft a silent proclamation. Only days before, her husband had declared Pemberley none of her concern, its accounts and hothouse left to his own devices. Now, the evidence to the contrary pressed coldly into her skin.

“The large brass is the plate chest,” the housekeeper said, not noticing Elizabeth had been woolgathering. “The smaller brass is the wine cellar. The iron keys are the stillroom, the linen stores, the preserves cupboard, and the spice cabinet. The silver one opens the writing desk in the morning room where Lady Anne kept her correspondence.”

He had given her the keys to his kingdom. His stony silences had turned to quiet conversation, and his reserve—well, the granite had cracks, it seemed, and behind it was someone rather… dear.

“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds,” she said, her voice steady, an accomplishment, given that her throat had decided to do something inconvenient. “I shall endeavor to be worthy of your trust and Mr. Darcy’s.”

“Your husband values competence above everything except kindness. You have both, and he believes we shall get on very well here, despite our reduced circumstances.”

“What would my first order of business be?” Elizabeth turned the ledger pages, noting the everyday expenses.

“I believe we shall take a tour of the west wing,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “Would you care to inspect the progress? The plasterers finished yesterday, and the painters begin tomorrow.”

“Yes, I should love to.” Elizabeth tucked the keys into her pocket, and they left the housekeeper’s sitting room through a back corridor Elizabeth had not yet explored, one that connected the house’s working areas to the main halls without requiring passage through the public rooms.

“How many servants does Pemberley employ at present?” Elizabeth asked as they walked through the passageway.

“Fifteen in the house, ma’am, and eight in the stables and grounds. We had three times that number when the late Mr. Darcy was alive.”

“And the wages? Are they current?”

Mrs. Reynolds hesitated, and Elizabeth understood the pause. The housekeeper weighed how much to reveal to this new mistress, whose loyalties and discretion had not yet been tested.

“You may speak freely,” Elizabeth said. “I am not asking to make trouble. I am asking because I cannot help if I do not know.”

“The wages are current, ma’am. Mr. Darcy has been… most particular about that. The staff is paid before any other obligation.”

Elizabeth nodded, a flush of admiration rising unbidden. A man who paid his servants before his creditors understood the order of true honor. He would sooner let the hothouse languish than see a footman go unpaid.

The west wing revealed itself in stages: a long gallery that caught the afternoon light, a series of chambers whose doors stood open to air the fresh plaster, and, at the end, two rooms restored to something approaching habitability. The furniture was still sparse—a bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, a writing desk.

“We thought to ask your opinion on the color,” Mrs. Reynolds said, showing her dabs of paint on paper.

Elizabeth perused the shades, variously labeled celestial blue, Maria Louisa blue, and Clarence blue, but she had had enough blue, as delightful as it was. She considered the lilac and lavender shades, and found them too fussy, her nose itching as if on the verge of a sneeze. The green palette, however, appealed to her, and she wavered between the willow green and a pale green that reminded her of spring leaves, and settled on a soft green, mezereon, named for the shrub.

“This should do well,” Mrs. Reynolds agreed. “Calming and soothing. You have an excellent instinct.”

Unaccustomed to praise, Elizabeth crossed to the window and looked out over the park. From here, she could see the lake, the folly on the ridge, and the road winding down from the north. A carriage would be visible from this window long before it reached the house. “When do you expect Miss Darcy?”

“Mr. Darcy was not certain, ma’am. The roads are still heavy from the spring rains, and Miss Darcy’s letter did not specify a date.”

She turned from the window as footsteps sounded from the doorway. It was Thomas, the footman.

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Reynolds, Mrs. Darcy—there’s a carriage coming down from the village.”

“Can you see the livery?” she asked.

“No livery, ma’am. A red and black post-chaise with passengers on board.”

“Then it is unlikely to be Miss Darcy,” Mrs. Reynolds noted. “Shall I send for Mr. Darcy, ma’am?”

“Not yet.” Elizabeth returned to the window glass and watched a distant speck grow larger as it descended the hill. A hired chaise meant a traveler of moderate means, someone who did not keep their own carriage. It could be one of her sisters or Charlotte. “I shall go down and meet it myself.”

She did not run, because running would alarm the servants and suggest a crisis where none existed. But she walked with purpose, the keys jangling in her pocket, and by the time she reached the entrance hall the carriage had drawn up before the front steps, and a footman was lowering the step.

The door opened, and Charlotte Lucas stepped into the pale April sunlight. She surveyed the house, then Elizabeth in the doorway, and for once her composure deserted her altogether. She smiled, unguarded and bright.

“My dear Charlotte.” Elizabeth crossed the portico and seized her friend’s hands. The grip was tighter than she intended, and she did not care. “You came.”