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Taking a steadying breath that was too shaky to support her nerves, she watched Hannah depart, balancing linen compresses and empty teacups on the tray. Her eyes swam despite her resolve. Whatever had maddened him was disturbing his peace, but it would pale when held up against her discovery that her uncle Henry was the Mr. Bexley who had bankrupted Pemberley. His resentment of her and her family would be legendary—and then, there was the matter of Georgiana’s dowry. Did she have the liquid funds to provide the settlement? It was unfair of Darcy to keep Georgiana from marrying solely because the dowry was unavailable, although young Mr. Ashworth did not seek a fortune, believing God would provide.

With trembling fingers, she broke the seal.

Elizabeth—I must beg your forgiveness for my conduct. I spoke without thought, and my manner was unpardonable. I hope you will allow me to explain when you are feeling yourself again. I remain, as ever—F.D.

He knew, then, that he had wounded her—and the knowledge did not comfort as much as it ought. An apology that acknowledged the injury without explaining its cause was almost worse than silence, for it confirmed that something had broken between them while leaving her no closer to understanding what. She could not reconcile the man who kissed her temple at breakfast with the man who had said Not now as though she were a particularly determined farmyard goose hissing at his boots—unwelcome, noisy, and entirely beneath serious contemplation.

The note was not enough. But it was not nothing.

Charlotte arrived bearing a heavy earthenware crock—radiating a robust, earthy bouquet of crushed valerian root, roasted chicory, and bruised betony that smelled suspiciously like a stable floor after a rainstorm. Instead of offering her the cup, she unceremoniously thrust the crock into Elizabeth’s hands, then took the chair Hannah had drawn near the window.

“The whey downstairs is nominally nourishing, but it tastes precisely like penance, and you have already performed quite enough of that,” Charlotte declared, surveying the dim room with cool disapproval. “Now, Elizabeth, either drink this infusion or tell me why you have barricaded yourself in this chamber while the entire household teeters on the brink of catastrophe.”

“I refuse to swallow penance,” Elizabeth murmured, pushing the crock away as the steam rose to curdle what remained of her stomach’s composure.

“You are lying in a darkened room with drawn curtains and a compress on your head, which is the exact posture you mocked your mother for since you were old enough to hold an opinion. I tell you this with tremendous affection, Eliza—you may be miserable as long as you like, but you may not become Mrs. Bennet. Now drink your tea and attend to me, because I have a good deal to report and I do not intend to repeat myself.”

Elizabeth turned her head sharply against the bolster. “My stomach is scarcely robust enough for the combined reek of the apothecary and the sickroom.”

“Then rise out of your bed and take charge,” Charlotte advised. “Is the vaunted office of Mistress of Pemberley merely a fair-weather distinction, to be worn only when the barometer stands at brilliant, and the family ledger contains no blots? The Elizabeth Bennet I have known would never abandon her husband to flounder in his own dark humors while her sister-in-law is convinced she has brought about an irreparable calamity.”

Elizabeth’s blood rushed hot to her cheeks. “My advice was neither desired nor welcomed,” she defended, “as evidenced by my husband’s stern glare upon finding me near his study. Yes, I heard him and Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanging harsh words—undoubtedly about Georgiana’s predicament—but her troubles began long before I arrived at Pemberley. If Georgiana is troubled, I shall see her when my head does not swim, and my eyes do not water from the bright light.”

“Your eyes are not watering from light.” Charlotte firmly drew back the heavy damask curtains with a sharp, decisive rattle, letting a broad shaft of pale sunlight slash across the counterpane.

“You are simply nursing an injury because your husband, in a moment of emotional turmoil, failed to sweeten his address with a biscuit and a sprig of daisies.” Charlotte crossed her arms. “Do you truly doubt his regard for you, Eliza? Have we spent the last five years of our friendship discussing your discernment only for you to behave like a romantic milkmaid at the first hint of marital friction? Stop being absurd.”

“You speak entirely from the safety of a cold, rational exterior, Charlotte! He has a connecting door between our chambers, yet he sits behind it in brooding silence. He expects me to cross the threshold and humble myself when he dismissed me like an importunate beggar. And besides,” she added, her chin tilting with defiant pique, “I am scarcely responsible if his temper is inflamed by your poetic cousin’s pretty words, which I entirely disregarded as the romantic flatulence of a third-rate bard.”

“My cousin is gone,” Charlotte stated. “He tried to call again, the morning after the Colonel’s altercation with Mr. Darcy, and I received him in the small parlor alone.”

“Then I am indeed fortunate to have suffered this attack of nerves.” Elizabeth gathered her strength and spread marmalade on a piece of toast. “He need not have insinuated greater intimacy with me than a few dances and conversations, and I was surprised at his boldness.”

“He is a dreamer, but need I remind you, now that you are an heiress, that the rest of us do require prospects of good income or fortune. He is studying to become a solicitor, but has to borrow money from my father. Georgiana became interesting to him, and he expressed a wish to call on her. I explained that given the current circumstances, and that Georgiana’s portion was tied up entirely in overseas shipping ventures and would not be available for marriage settlements for some years, her guardians were disinclined to entertain suitors of any description in the present climate.”

“You told him she was effectively penniless and under armed guard.”

“He departed that very afternoon, wishing me good health while, no doubt, introducing himself to other acquaintances that his dear cousin Charlotte Lucas is a guest at Pemberley.” Charlotte offered Elizabeth her hand. “So you may set aside whatever portion of your distress is dedicated to my cousin and rise out of your bed. Miss Darcy’s distress is worthy of your attention, if not the black mood of your husband.”

Elizabeth allowed herself to be dragged from her bed. “Charlotte, you are terrifying.”

“Merely practical. I do not believe Darcy is angry with you. He was caught off guard by something that happened in that study—what, precisely, I cannot say, for the door was closed and they have not confided in me. What I can tell you is that the disagreement has continued. They are barely civil.”

“I can hardly believe they would fight so about Georgiana. They are both her guardians.”

“Yes, and they both try to enlist me to their side, but the gist is that the Colonel believes she should be removed to London immediately, where Lady Matlock can oversee her debut and provide the distractions of the season. Your husband wishes her to remain at Pemberley under your influence. They have not reached an agreement, and the household has been walking on eggshells.”

“Darcy wishes me to be his sister’s guide?”

“It would appear so. He has been your most ardent champion, and the colonel has said, not in so many words, but that a woman with such high-strung nerves is ill-equipped to handle a spirited and willful young lady, and for Darcy, those are fighting words.”

Elizabeth found those fighting words as well. Let no one say she shrank from a challenge. She cast aside her wrapper and rang for Hannah. “I am quite recovered, then. If the colonel imagines I am afraid of my own shadow…”

“Very well.” Charlotte did not press. “But I will tell you this. Miss Darcy has been in considerable distress. She believes your sudden illness is somehow her fault—that she said something offensive while you were unpacking together, or that your husband is angry with you because of some attention she feels you showed her. She has written you four notes, each more frantic than the last.”

“I know.” Elizabeth gestured toward the small pile of folded papers on her bedside table. “I have read them.”

“She needs to see you. Not because you owe her an explanation—you do not—but because she is sixteen years old and has convinced herself that she has destroyed her brother’s marriage before it properly began, and the guilt is eating her alive.”