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Charlotte looked up over the rim of her teacup, giving a brief but thorough assessment.
“Good morning, Lizzy. And from that blush on your face, I believe it must be a very good morning indeed.”
“I slept quite soundly, thank you.”
“I did not ask how you slept.” Charlotte’s lips quirked.
Darcy appeared at the doorway, rescuing Elizabeth from Charlotte’s inquisition. Her gaze, quite without her permission, fixed on his fine figure. He was dressed for church in his best coat, but now that Elizabeth knew the strength beneath the superfine broadcloth, her cheeks grew warmer as he bowed in greeting.
“Ladies, I trust you both slept well.” His eye caught Elizabeth and lingered. Elizabeth hoped she bore no marks on her neck and pulled her shawl tighter.
“The tisane Hannah prepared proved most effective,” she said, averting her gaze from those eyes that seemed to know exactly what she was contemplating. “I slept far better than I expected.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Charlotte’s gaze moved from Elizabeth to Darcy and back again. “Mr. Darcy appears similarly refreshed. The Derbyshire air must agree with you both.”
Darcy cleared his throat. “I have had word from Colonel Fitzwilliam. Georgiana’s party is delayed at the Peacock Inn near Derby while repairs are made to their carriage, but they should arrive tomorrow afternoon, weather permitting.”
“That is welcome news.” Elizabeth reached for the teapot, grateful for something to occupy her hands. “You must be greatly relieved to know she is safe and in good company.”
She must appear, at least before Charlotte, as though this information had not been whispered to her in the small hours, deep within the shelter of his bed.
“I am.” His voice softened, and when Elizabeth glanced up, she found him watching her. “Richard writes that Mrs. Annesley has been most attentive, and that the Ashworths left them shortly after they left London. I confess I may have been hasty in my concerns.”
“You were not hasty. You were protective of your sister, which is precisely what a devoted brother ought to be.” Elizabeth set down the teapot and met his gaze directly. “Georgiana is fortunate to have you.”
“Indeed, very commendable,” Charlotte said. “I look forward to meeting your sister. Elizabeth has told me a great deal about her.”
Darcy’s gaze pierced through her. “Elizabeth has never met my sister.”
“Oh, but that has never prevented her from forming opinions,” Charlotte said. “It is our Elizabeth’s particular talent.”
Elizabeth gave Charlotte a look that would have curdled the marmalade, and Charlotte received it with the imperturbable calm of a woman who had weathered Elizabeth’s looks for years and considered herself entirely immune to them.
“How is Achilles?” Elizabeth asked, turning to Darcy. “The farrier has been tending to him?”
“The crack is shallow, thank God. A fortnight’s rest, and he will be fit.” Darcy set down his cup.
Charlotte paused mid-reach for the butter knife, her grey eyes darting with speculative interest. “How well informed you are, Lizzy, about the horse’s misfortune. Your sleep must have been quite sound.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, formulated three distinct and entirely unconvincing falsehoods, and promptly shut it again, her color rising to a brilliant scarlet.
Darcy cleared his throat, suddenly finding inspiration in his empty teacup, when the church bells rescued Mr. and Mrs. Darcy from Charlotte’s further investigation. At half past ten, the carriage was announced, and the newly reconciled master and mistress of Pemberley—flanked by an altogether too observant Miss Lucas—set out to brave the parish’s critical eyes.
Elizabeth sat beside Darcy, with Charlotte across, and his hand rested beside hers on the seat, not touching, but close enough that she felt the warmth of his fingers acutely. Charlotte studied the passing landscape, pointedly avoiding the space between their hands. The distance was less than a mile, and Elizabeth was relieved when Charlotte failed to notice any other impropriety, although her face was likely pink from the early April breeze.
The parish church at Kympton was smaller than Elizabeth expected: a modest stone building with a square Norman tower and plain glass windows that admitted pale spring light without pretension. The village itself was tidy and prosperous, with well-maintained cottages and a neatly trimmed green.
Elizabeth saw the curious eyes of the local gentry as soon as Darcy handed Elizabeth down from the carriage, then Charlotte. He offered an arm to each lady and nodded to acquaintances as they processed to the Darcy box pew at the front of the nave. It was elevated above the common benches and paneled in dark oak that gleamed with decades of careful polish. Elizabeth had half-expected a coat of arms carved into the wood, but the only ornamentation was a small brass plate bearing the date 1743 and the initials G.D., which Darcy told her his grandfather had installed.
“The family has worshipped here since the church was built,” he said quietly as he handed her into the pew. “The living at Kympton has always been in Pemberley’s gift.”
“And Mr. Duntze is your choice of parson?”
“My father’s choice. I have seen no reason to revisit the appointment.”
Charlotte settled beside Elizabeth, and Darcy took his place at her other side, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. The arrangement felt oddly intimate: the three of them enclosed within the wooden walls of the pew like passengers in a very slow carriage, and Elizabeth was acutely conscious of every breath Darcy took and every slight shift of his weight against the bench.
The service ended without major mishap—only that Elizabeth was so distracted by Darcy’s deep voice singing the hymns that she forgot to turn the page, and Charlotte had to rescue her twice.
