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Darcy returned from the sideboard and set the platter of ham before the ladies. “Private debt carries higher interest than the consols, commensurate with the risk.”

“The debtor missed Lady Day.” Elizabeth’s brow furrowed as she read the solicitor’s letter. “Mr. Sowerby wishes to know whether I should seek a late penalty. Should I?”

“If it is private debt, there is no guarantee the borrower can pay. Dragging him to debtor’s prison would put the entire sum at risk.”

“It would be indeed difficult for a debtor to pay while imprisoned.” Elizabeth’s lips twisted. “Since I do not know the identity of the borrower or his circumstances, I shall grant forbearance until Sowerby explains the payment history and terms.”

“You are wise,” Darcy said.

“And generous,” Charlotte observed. “Though I confess, it is vastly more comfortable to exhibit such Christian forbearance when the four thousand pounds is already safely lodged at Coutts rather than languishing in the pockets of an anonymous bankrupt. The question is what happens when the next quarterly payment is due?”

Elizabeth ran her finger down the page. “Mr. Sowerby notes that the borrower’s securities are sound, Charlotte. I only wonder how someone could have owed my uncle so much money.” Elizabeth unfolded a note from her pocket. “He describes property and other illiquid assets.”

“That amount of interest speaks to much more than eighty thousand pounds,” Charlotte still insisted.

“Perhaps eighty thousand is the marked-down value of what he believes the properties are worth,” Darcy said, casting a longing glance toward the hallway as he made a slow, deliberate movement toward the door.

“Before you abandon us to your ledgers, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, unfolding her second piece of correspondence with a wicked little flicker in her dark eyes, “you ought to know that my father has sent a dispatch from Longbourn.”

Darcy froze, his hand still reaching for the doorknob. “I trust your father is in good health.”

“Exceedingly robust, though entirely discontented with us. He writes to inform me that my mother has taken to her sofa with a nervous spasm upon discovering from Lady Lucas that Miss Lucas had been urged to attend to me while her own maternal bosom was entirely overlooked.” Elizabeth scanned the page, her lips twitching. “Furthermore, he warns that if I do not fulfill my solemn promise to bring you to Longbourn for my birthday on the twenty-eighth of April, he cannot possibly answer for the consequences, nor prevent a full-scale invasion of Derbyshire by May Day.”

Charlotte paused mid-sip, her teacup hovering an inch from her saucer. “A full-scale invasion? By Mrs. Bennet? Good heavens, Mr. Darcy, you had better review your fortifications immediately. The park gates will never withstand her.”

Darcy dropped his hand from the doorknob. “The twenty-eighth,” he repeated, as a man commits a date to memory. “I would be honored to visit Longbourn, though perhaps urge your father to temper your mother’s enthusiastic nerves?”

“I shall endeavor to bring one of Mrs. Reynolds’s concoctions from the still room,” Elizabeth said. “They have helped my dizzy spells tremendously.”

“Speaking of your health,” Darcy said. “We cannot continue to avoid church this Sunday now that news of your visitor has already been spread through the household.” Darcy watched Elizabeth’s expression shift toward resignation. “The parson will expect to see us, and too many absences will cause talk. Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley cannot spend her entire first month avoiding her neighbors.”

“I had rather hoped the dizzy spells might excuse me a while longer.”

“They excuse you from social calls. They do not excuse you from divine service, particularly when you have been observed taking long walks across the grounds with every appearance of excellent health.”

“You are a tyrant, Mr. Darcy.”

Smiling faintly, he finally turned the brass handle and grasped the doorknob. “A tyrant, Madam, who finds himself burdened with legitimate estate business and must therefore tear himself away. I wish Miss Lucas and Mrs. Darcy a most pleasant morning. Should you require occupation today, I understand Lambton boasts a remarkably well-stocked bookshop, a milliner of passable competence, and a circle of local gossips quite capable of keeping you both thoroughly diverted.”

Elizabeth arched a brow, but said nothing as he made his escape to his study, the letters burning hot in his pocket.

Alone in his study, Darcy read Aunt Catherine’s letter first. As expected, she was displeased that he had married a country nobody in haste, although the rumored eighty thousand pounds had induced his aunt to begrudgingly command that he present his wife at Rosings Park for inspection, as though Elizabeth were a carriage horse of doubtful pedigree.

His diplomatic evasion to his aunt’s fury took three drafts before he struck the right balance of respect and resolution. He could not apologize for his marriage, nor pretend to regret a choice that had brought him more happiness in a fortnight than he had experienced in the previous decade, but he also could not afford to sever the connection entirely. She was his dear mother’s elder sister and controlled access to family history, letters and documents, including his mother’s childhood diaries and drawings.

My dear Aunt,

I note your concerns regarding my recent marriage. While I regret that my choice does not meet with your approval, I must respectfully decline to share your assessment of its impropriety. Mrs. Darcy is everything I could wish for in a wife, and I trust that time will demonstrate her suitability to even the most skeptical observer.

Regarding your summons to Rosings: I must remind you, with the greatest respect, that I am a married man, and no longer at liberty to be summoned. Mrs. Darcy and I shall wait upon you when our own engagements permit. In the meantime, I trust Richard will bear the whole of your hospitality alone.

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and I remain, as always, your dutiful nephew.

The second letter was from the bookseller in Manchester who had purchased the 1611 King James and the Ben Jonson folio, confirming the bank draft—two hundred and forty pounds, deposited to his account at Hoare’s—and assuring him of his discretion. He also asked about two further volumes from the Pemberley archives: a pristine 1719 first edition of Robinson Crusoe in its original panel-calf binding, and a remarkably preserved leaf fragment from Caxton’s 1484 printing of The Canterbury Tales.

The banker’s note acknowledged that his Lady Day draft of £4,200 had at last cleared, and Darcy began the unenviable task of preparing for the Midsummer payment.

He spent the rest of the morning in the estate office with Mr. Miller, reviewing accounts and the hill farms’ lambing reports. The ewes had produced well this spring—forty-three lambs at the home farm, and the shepherds on the northern pastures reported similar numbers. The wool clip would be ready by June, and Miller had secured a buyer in Nottingham at a fair price, though not the price they would have fetched before the wartime tariffs.