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Elizabeth’s throat tightened. She knew the word. She had been circling it for days, approaching it from every angle, examining it with the wary fascination of a naturalist studying a species she had only read about in books.
“Do not say it, Charlotte.”
“I would not dream of it. You will say it yourself, when you are ready.” Charlotte picked up her cold tea and drank it anyway. “But I will observe, as your oldest friend and a woman of seven-and-twenty who has had ample opportunity to study the behavior of men, that Mr. Darcy of Pemberley is in love with you, Elizabeth. Whatever else may be uncertain in this house—and I suspect a great deal is—that is not.”
“I know,” Elizabeth whispered.
“And you?”
She looked down at the sapphire on her finger, the ring she had taken off during walks and put back on for dinner, the ring that was beginning to feel less like a costume and more like a fact.
“I am afraid that one morning, I will wake up from this dream and discover it all a house of cards.”
Charlotte looked at her for a long, quiet moment, her sharp gaze softening with profound affection. “You speak of him as though he matters to you. Hold onto that.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CORRESPONDENCE AND CONSEQUENCES
Darcy had his coffee halfway to his lips when the morning room door opened, and Elizabeth’s laugh carried in. Miss Lucas accompanied her, and he rose at once, executing a formal bow.
“Miss Lucas. Mrs. Darcy.”
Both ladies curtsied—barely—amused by what they took to be his reserved manner. He was aware of his stiffness, but with Charlotte as Elizabeth’s constant companion, the unease of being remarked on returned—much like when he first arrived in Hertfordshire. Charlotte Lucas missed nothing. Her sharp grey eyes and practical, advising manner made him feel like a specimen pinned to a board.
“I trust the accommodations are to your liking, Miss Lucas,” he said, avoiding Elizabeth’s knowing eye.
“The room is remarkably comfortable, Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte replied, smoothing her napkin with maddening efficiency. “Indeed, I was remarking to Lizzy upon the surprising warmth of the hearth. One scarcely expects such comforts in a bachelor establishment.”
“Pemberley is no longer strictly a bachelor establishment,” he countered.
“Quite so,” Charlotte murmured, reaching for a square of toast. “An oversight upon my part.”
He sensed Elizabeth’s giggle trapped in her throat as he retreated behind the morning gazette, scrambling for a safe, unassailable distance.
“It is truly remarkable,” Elizabeth observed, peering over the rim of her teacup with sparkling eyes, “how my husband has developed such an ardent, sudden devotion to the art of divining newsprint.”
“Pray do not mock him, Lizzy,” Charlotte remarked, deadpan. “My father combs the notices of addresses presented at St. James, as though the King’s court would collapse if he missed a single knight’s platitude.”
“True,” Elizabeth chuckled, “though I suspect Mr. Darcy is far more likely to be scouring the fashionable intelligence for bankruptcies or elopements rather than royal addresses.”
Darcy lowered the gazette by an inch, fixing his wife with a look of severe, feigned injury. “I assure you, Mrs. Darcy, my interest is strictly necessary for business, checking the price of barley, for example. A master of a great house must keep abreast of the market.”
“Indeed.” Elizabeth’s smile was teasing as she tapped the shell of a boiled egg. “Such a proper pursuit, wouldn’t you say, Charlotte?”
“Naturally.” Charlotte buttered her toast with strict efficiency. “One must always stay fully informed of the latest London gossip under the guise of estate management.”
He was rescued from a retort when the morning room door clicked open, and Thomas the footman entered with the silver salver heavily laden with the morning post. Elizabeth’s eyes widened as he sorted it. Three letters for him, and two for Elizabeth, one displaying the cramped, hurried scrawl of a London solicitor.
Nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, he slipped his letters into his pocket. He noted one from the bookseller, another from his Aunt Catherine, and a third from his banker—none of which he wished to read or discuss at the breakfast table.
“Fitzwilliam.” Elizabeth’s breathless voice drew his attention from the sideboard where he was cutting slices of ham. “My Lady Day payment has arrived. Four thousand pounds, deposited to my account at Coutts.”
“Four thousand pounds?” Charlotte repeated. “That is rather more than I would have expected.”
Elizabeth looked up from Sowerby’s letter, the paper still creased where she had torn the seal. “More than expected how?”
“Eighty thousand at five percent—the government consol rate—would yield four thousand per annum. You have received four thousand in a single quarter.” Charlotte reached for the marmalade pot.
