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“Of course I came, you goose.” Charlotte squeezed her hands hard enough to make them tingle. “You asked me to, and I confess I am rather curious about the number of chimneys and your mysterious husband who is still the talk of Meryton. And with everyone envious that you had invited me—over your mother and sisters—I determined to come and see for myself.”

“Do you mean our menagerie or the state of our windows and fireplaces?” Elizabeth tugged her friend through the hallway where a footman relieved her of her traveling cloak.

“I mean to see if the intrepid Elizabeth Bennet has survived matrimony with her wits intact.” Charlotte’s gaze traveled past Elizabeth to the hall behind her—the marble, the staircase, the portraits—and returned to Elizabeth’s face with an expression too knowing for comfort. “The house is magnificent, Lizzy. You did not mention that in your letter.”

Elizabeth released Charlotte’s hands and stepped back to admire her friend’s fortitude. “You are looking well for bumping along on a post-chaise. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Reynolds, who manages Pemberley with more competence than anyone else in residence. Mrs. Reynolds, this is Miss Charlotte Lucas, of Lucas Lodge in Hertfordshire, my oldest and dearest friend.”

“Pray do not give my age,” Charlotte said.

Mrs. Reynolds curtsied. “Welcome to Pemberley, Miss Lucas. Shall I prepare a room in the family wing?”

“Please,” Elizabeth said, before Charlotte could demur. “The room next to mine, if it is available. Charlotte, you will want to wash and rest, and then we shall have tea, and you will tell me everything that has happened at home, and I will tell you nothing whatsoever about my husband, since you have already decided that my reticence on the subject is significant.”

“I have decided nothing,” Charlotte said mildly, following Elizabeth through the entrance hall. “And I am most eager to break your reticence. I have a great deal to tell you, and I suspect you have even more to tell me.”

Elizabeth called for tea in her sitting room while Charlotte went to wash and change. Lady Anne’s sitting room was the one space in Pemberley that felt cozy and like home, though it was far too quiet without Mary’s incessant scales, Lydia’s screeches, and Kitty’s coughs. She had moved a chair closer to the window and added a small table for her correspondence, and Hannah had arranged a vase of early bluebells on the writing desk without being asked.

Charlotte returned and surveyed her domain with appreciation. “This is charming.”

“It was his mother’s. The entire suite belonged to Lady Anne.” Elizabeth poured tea. “I am sleeping in her bed, sitting at her desk, and wearing her sapphire on my finger. I feel rather like a ghost occupying someone else’s life.”

“And how is Mr. Darcy adjusting to having a ghost for a wife?” Charlotte smirked.

Elizabeth handed Charlotte her cup and considered. How was Darcy adjusting? She thought of the silent waltz, the primrose, the way he had pressed his lips to her knuckles instead of her mouth and thanked her for the evening as though she had bestowed a favor rather than merely shared his table.

“He has been… quite a gentleman.”

“I do not believe that description is adequate.” Charlotte stirred sugar into her tea. “I was under the impression that the Mr. Darcy we knew in Hertfordshire regarded a poorly rendered curtsy as a personal insult. And you did not once consider him as anything remotely close to gentlemanly.”

“He has improved.” Elizabeth felt her cheeks heat and busied herself with the teapot.

“Faint praise indeed.” Charlotte set her teaspoon down with a clink and smiled enigmatically. “In your letter you mentioned a painful conversation, and that your husband was a more complicated man than you had supposed. Tell me, has he requested your wifely duties?”

“Charlotte!” Elizabeth’s jaw dropped, and she peered over at the connecting door which was just past her bedchamber. “Mr. Darcy has behaved in a most proper manner. He would never⁠—”

“He is your husband.” Charlotte’s raised eyebrow made Elizabeth feel naked. “You are residing in the mistress’s chambers, wearing his ring, and rattling about this great estate together.”

“Yes, but he has been very considerate,” Elizabeth countered, her voice tight. “We merely walk the grounds to assess repairs, and of course, we dine together, and I have enjoyed his library.”

“In such a way that is making you blush to the roots of your hair?” Charlotte took a delicate bite of her seedcake. “Lizzy, it doth seem you are protesting too much.”

“I am not blushing.” Elizabeth dropped the sugar tongs onto the carpet. “The fire is warm.”

“Yes, much warmer than the grate in my room.” Charlotte leaned forward, like a woman who had just discovered a secret passage in a familiar house. “What has he done? Tell me at once, or I shall be forced to imagine scenarios far more dramatic than the truth.”

“Your imagination has always been rather sedate, Charlotte. I doubt you could conjure anything truly dramatic.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Elizabeth rose and walked restlessly to the window, staring out at the distant expanse of the park to the pavilion at the side of the lake. What did she want with Mr. Darcy? The uncertainty, the possibilities, nay, the turmoil, created an ache she could not comprehend.

“He… is rather…” She kept her back to the room, her fingers curling around the wooden casement frame. How could she explain the dizziness, the shortness of breath, the press of his body against hers, waltzing without words, and that embrace in the library where…

“He has rendered your wit silent, I see. Come, sit.” Charlotte’s voice had returned to its sensible tone. “I shall listen without judgment as a devoted friend.”

“I cannot fight him anymore.” She whirled around, admitting her defeat. “I have fought him for months, since the assembly when he insulted me. I fought him through the reading of the will. The marriage vows. The journey to Pemberley. I fought him over the hothouse and the expenses and…”

She pressed her palm to her brow. “Charlotte, he has confounded me at every turn.”