19. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

" D o you attend services here every week, sir?" Elizabeth asked as they approached the chapel, her breath visible in the crisp morning air.

Darcy gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. "When I am in residence, yes."

The churchyard was quiet, the soft murmur of the congregation gathering inside only just audible. Elizabeth glanced at the stone chapel ahead of them. It was small, humble compared to the grandeur of Pemberley, but somehow fitting for the peaceful village setting. As they reached the entrance, she could feel eyes upon them—villagers and tenants alike, all eager to catch sight of the new Mrs Darcy.

Darcy stepped forward, holding his arm out to her, and she entered the chapel. Inside, it was modest but well-kept. It rather reminded her of home, actually. The pews were polished to a shine, and the windows allowed in shafts of pale morning light. Elizabeth's gaze roamed over the congregation, expecting whispers or side glances, but to her surprise, none came. The people smiled at her warmly, nodding their heads in greeting, and she found herself easing just a little.

"Good morning, Mr Darcy," a man said, bowing slightly as Darcy led her to their seat.

"Good morning, Mr Fletcher," Darcy replied, his voice steady, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I trust your family is well?"

"Quite well, sir. Thank you."

They took their seats near the front, and Elizabeth watched as more parishioners entered. There was no sense of judgment, no hushed murmurs about her sudden arrival at Pemberley. She had braced herself for it, but instead found only curiosity and welcome.

Mr Smythe, the parson, stepped up to the pulpit. His manner was gentle, but there was an authority in the way he addressed the congregation. "Brothers and sisters, I have prepared some thoughts this week on the nature of kindness—true kindness, which comes not from obligation, but from the heart."

Elizabeth blinked in surprise. This was not the staid, formulaic sermon she had expected. His words felt personal, as if each sentence was crafted with care, and she could see that the congregation was listening—truly listening. Even Darcy, usually so composed, seemed to be paying closer attention to the sermon than to anything else she had ever witnessed.

Elizabeth leaned slightly closer to her husband. "Was it you or your father who appointed Mr Smythe to this living?" she whispered.

Darcy glanced at her briefly, before turning back to the pulpit. "It was my father's decision, but he consulted me on the matter. I have never had cause to regret it."

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. The sincerity of Mr Smythe's words seemed to reach every corner of the chapel, and she found herself drawn in, despite herself. For once, the sermon did not feel like a lecture, but rather a conversation—one that stirred reflection rather than mere obedience.

As the service concluded, Darcy rose and led her to the exit. Outside, the villagers gathered to greet them. One by one, they filed past, offering kind words and deferential greetings.

"Mr Darcy, how good it is to see you back in the village," an elderly woman said with a welcoming smile. "We have missed you."

"Thank you, Mrs Hardwick," Darcy replied. "I trust your granddaughter is well?"

"Yes, sir, very well. And she asked me to send her regards to you."

Elizabeth stood quietly by Darcy's side, listening as he spoke to each person by name, inquiring about their homes, their families, and their health. He knew them all—down to the smallest detail—and the way they responded showed a deep respect and appreciation for him.

"Good day, Mr Darcy, Mrs Darcy," Mr Smythe greeted them as they neared the church door. His wife, a slight woman with a kind face, curtsied beside him. "It is an honour to have you both with us."

Elizabeth curtsied in return. "Your sermon was most thoughtful, Mr Smythe. I found it refreshing."

The parson's face brightened. "Thank you, Mrs Darcy. It is always my aim to offer something of use, rather than mere words. I am glad it spoke to you."

As they exchanged pleasantries, Elizabeth noticed Darcy's attention drift. His gaze slid away from Mr Smythe, moving toward the churchyard in the distance. She followed his line of sight, her eyes settling on a large monument just beyond the chapel grounds. The name "Darcy" was engraved in bold letters across the stone. Iron fencing encircled the family plot, with carefully tended grass within—except for a rectangle of bare earth, where the grass had not yet regrown.

A shiver ran through her. Harry. The wound of his loss, though muted in recent days, seemed to stir again as she looked at the fresh grave.

Darcy's arm stiffened under her hand, his posture rigid, though his face betrayed nothing of his emotions. He inclined his head toward Mr Smythe, murmuring a polite farewell. Then, without another word, he gently guided Elizabeth away from the church, his hand firm on hers as they walked toward the waiting carriage.

Elizabeth wanted to ask, to say something that might offer him comfort, but the set of his jaw told her that this was not the moment. The grief was there, just beneath the surface, but he was not ready to share it—not yet.

As they climbed into the carriage, Darcy remained silent, his eyes fixed ahead as the driver clicked the horses into motion. The village and church slipped away behind them, but the image of that grave lingered in Elizabeth's mind. It was not just the loss of a brother—it was the loss of everything Darcy had once known, the last link to the family he had cherished. And she, an outsider, had stepped into that void, unsure if she could ever fill the space left behind.

E lizabeth sat at the polished desk in the mistress's morning room, her pen hovering above the paper as she glanced over the household expenditures for the week. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a soft glow on the elegant furnishings. She had been at this task for some time, pausing every few moments to rub her temples. The numbers were familiar now, but managing an estate like Pemberley was a new responsibility for her. She had called for Mrs Reynolds to help clarify certain details, and the housekeeper was due to arrive shortly.

The door creaked open, and Mrs Reynolds entered with her usual quiet efficiency. Elizabeth greeted her with a nod and motioned for her to take a seat.

"Thank you for coming, Mrs Reynolds," Elizabeth began, gesturing to the ledgers spread out before her. "I've been reviewing the accounts, and I have a few questions. First, I see certain sums set aside here for gifts to the tenants. Could you clarify how those gifts are usually distributed?"

Mrs Reynolds folded her hands in her lap. "Yes, ma'am. Traditionally, we send out small gifts each quarter—usually produce from Pemberley's own stores, along with items from the store in the village. It is something the tenants look forward to."

Elizabeth frowned slightly, tapping the edge of her pen against the paper. "And what of the harvest party? I've noticed a budget set aside for that, as well, yet I do not believe it was held this year."

Mrs Reynolds hesitated for a moment before answering. "That is correct, ma'am. The harvest festival is a longstanding tradition here at Pemberley. But given the household is in mourning this year, we did not think it appropriate to hold such festivities."

Elizabeth nodded. "No, it would not have been," she agreed softly, but her brow furrowed in thought. "However, I cannot help but feel that something should have been done. The tenants likely anticipated some kindness, even if not the party itself."

Mrs Reynolds looked down at her hands. "No, madam. Nothing has been done in place of the usual celebration."

"Well, we must set that right." Elizabeth sat back in her chair, considering for a moment. "Perhaps, instead of a party, we might assemble somewhat larger gift baskets for each tenant this quarter," she said slowly, as the idea formed. "Something generous—from Pemberley's winter provisions, along with dress goods and useful supplies from the village, and do not stint. It could see each family through the winter more comfortably."

A beaming smile spread across Mrs Reynolds' face. "That is a wonderful idea, ma'am. I can certainly arrange it."

Elizabeth smiled in return, handing back the accounts. "Then let us do that, please. And I hope, when the time becomes more appropriate, that you will be so good as to introduce me to the families."

Mrs Reynolds curtsied. "It will be my pleasure, Mrs Darcy. I shall set about it at once."

Elizabeth nodded and returned her focus to her writing, satisfied with the decision. But just as Mrs Reynolds was about to leave the room, she stopped and turned back, as if something had slipped her mind.

Elizabeth lowered her pen, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, Mrs Reynolds?"

The housekeeper hesitated. "There is another matter, ma'am. In the course of things, I had scheduled a thorough cleaning of Captain Darcy's private chambers." She paused, watching Elizabeth carefully. "The dust must be attended to, the linens freshened, but I thought it best to inquire if the master would wish the room to remain undisturbed, or if he has any other instructions."

Elizabeth let out a slow breath. This was delicate territory, and she felt unsure how to navigate it. "And what were Mr Darcy's previous instructions regarding the room?"

Mrs Reynolds' face softened with a hint of sorrow. "There were none, madam. Only the master's grief kept us from entering the room. He… he has not spoken of it since Captain Darcy's passing. But it has been a month, and I thought it right to bring it to your attention."

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully, her fingers drumming lightly on the desk. She understood the housekeeper's concern, but she also knew how sensitive her husband was on this subject. "You are right. The room should be cleaned," she said slowly. "But I think it best if we delay by a day or so. I will speak to Mr Darcy and prepare him for the task."

Mrs Reynolds curtsied once more, clearly relieved. "As you wish, madam. I shall await your instructions."

Elizabeth watched her leave, then set down her pen and sighed. This conversation with her husband would be anything but easy.

T he soft scratching of ink on paper was the only sound this morning in Darcy's quiet study. His mind was absorbed in the day's work—letters from his steward regarding Pemberley's tenants, matters of trade, and a reply still waiting to be written to a friend in London. But just as his focus sharpened, a firm knock came at the door.

His brow furrowed. He had given instructions not to be disturbed.

"Enter," Darcy called, setting the quill down and leaning back in his chair.

The door creaked open, and a footman stepped into the room, bowing slightly. "Mr Darcy, your uncle, the Earl of Matlock, has arrived and wishes to see you."

Darcy straightened in his chair, surprise flickering across his features. "My uncle?" He had received a letter from the earl only yesterday, and there had been no mention of an impending visit. For him to appear so suddenly… Something must be amiss. "Very well. Show him in at once."

The footman bowed again and disappeared through the doorway. Darcy rose from his desk to receive him but was at a loss as to what manner he should affect. Why had his uncle come unannounced? There had been no surprises in their correspondence. Darcy had informed him of everything—everything pertinent, at least. His marriage, the affairs at Pemberley, even his inquiries about Harry. No, this was unexpected, and Darcy found his pulse quickening as he moved toward the hearth to greet him.

The Earl of Matlock entered the room seconds later, his presence as commanding as ever, though today there was a weariness to his countenance that Darcy did not miss. His uncle's usually brisk step was slower, his face shadowed with something akin to strain.

"Uncle," Darcy greeted him with a nod, coming forward. "This is an unexpected visit. I trust all is well?"

The Earl gave a brief nod, his eyes scanning the room, though they were clouded with something Darcy could not quite place. "Nephew," he said. "You will forgive my distraction. I arrived at Matlock only yesterday—I left London in some haste. Matters… have arisen that I felt could not wait."

Darcy's unease deepened. "I see," he said slowly. "Please, have a seat."

His uncle hesitated, glancing toward the leather armchair near the hearth, as though torn between his urgency to speak and the polite formality of sitting. After a moment, he relented and took the offered seat.

Darcy offered his uncle a drink, gesturing toward the decanter on the side table, but the Earl shook his head with a brusque wave of his hand. "No, no, I need my wits about me, Nephew. This is not a conversation for muddled minds."

Darcy raised an eyebrow but said nothing, taking a seat opposite his uncle and settling himself. He waited, observing the way his uncle's usually composed features twitched with agitation, his fingers tapping a restless beat on the arm of the chair. It was clear the earl was trying to find his words, but Darcy knew better than to press him. Whatever it was, it would come out soon enough.

Finally, the earl let out a heavy breath, his eyes flashing with frustration. "You cannot begin to imagine the scandal that is bursting out everywhere in London."

Darcy sighed, shifting slightly in his seat. "I am certainly aware of it, Uncle. I assure you, there is nothing you can say that would surprise me."

The Earl grunted in a mixture of disbelief and irritation. "Oh, I have no pity for you, Nephew, if that is what you are expecting—for whatever personal reproach you have brought upon yourself by marrying Harry's chit." He spat the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "I still cannot credit your foolishness there, but that is not what I am referring to."

Darcy's eyes narrowed. His voice was low, firm, as he interrupted, "You speak of Mrs Darcy , Uncle, and you will remember that the lady is under my protection. You will speak of her with respect."

The Earl's expression darkened further, but he rolled his eyes with a muttered, "Undeserving of the Darcy name, if you ask me." He waved a dismissive hand. "Do you even know the sort of family you've bound yourself to, Nephew? The scandal they've been embroiled in?"

Darcy's gaze didn't waver. "I know of them. But when I discovered the oath my brother was unable to keep, I could do nothing less than ensure it was fulfilled."

"She was not even carrying his bastard! An artful ruse, though not an original one. How the devil did she hoodwink you , Darcy? I always thought you had more sense than that."

Darcy jerked to his feet and gestured towards the hall. "There is the door, Uncle, if you should feel inclined to use it. What is done is done, and I am satisfied with the outcome."

"‘Satisfied,' you say? A few rolls in the sheets will clear the stars from your eyes—I should have thought they would have done, already. You are fortunate that you find me at your door today, and not Lady Catherine."

Darcy did not move, but crossed his arms. "Lady Catherine would have the same answer from me. You can have nothing more to say on the subject that I will hear with equanimity. Now, state your business or have a drink to Harry's name. I care not, but you will cease insulting Mrs Darcy."

For a moment, they stared at each other in tense silence. The earl subsided, though the sourness on his face remained. Clearly, he was far from pleased with Darcy's choice, but the topic had been deflected for the time being.

"Very well," the earl muttered, though his voice still carried a faint edge of displeasure. "But I am not here to speak of the woman." He fixed Darcy with a sharp look, his lips thinning. "I am talking about Harry."

Darcy studied him, feeling a cold knot forming in his stomach. He turned away without a word, crossing the room to the decanter, after all. Whatever this was, it sounded like a conversation that required more than just words. Darcy poured a generous portion into two glasses, his hand steady, though his heart was beginning to race. He returned to his seat, offering one of the glasses to his uncle.

The Earl hesitated for a moment, then accepted it with a curt nod.

Darcy sat back down, the glass in his hand warming between his fingers. "I am aware that Harry had found himself in some sort of strife before his death," he said carefully. "But I have not been able to uncover the full nature of it."

The Earl let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Strife? Is that what you're calling it? It would be very well if you never had to hear the truth of it, but that is no longer possible."

Darcy's jaw tightened. He took a measured sip of his drink before setting the glass down on the small table beside him, his voice cool and steady. "Then it seems we have much to discuss."

The Earl stared into his glass for a long moment before he spoke again. "The day before I left London, I was speaking with Colonel Halton—he served with Harry in Spain."

"I am familiar with Halton. It was he to whom I gave the news of Harry's death."

"A good man, well-connected. He had some... knowledge of what had happened in Spain."

Darcy's heart stuttered, and he leaned forward in his chair, his brows knitting together. "And what did he say?" His voice was low, quiet—too quiet, perhaps—but the tension in his words betrayed his growing unease. He set his glass down, his hands resting on his knees, ready for whatever bombshell his uncle was about to drop.

The earl thinned his lips, as if tasting something sour, and his eyes narrowed. Darcy had never seen his uncle this way—uncertain, even hesitant.

"It's not something I want to believe, and God knows it's not something I ever wanted to hear confirmed," the Earl muttered. "But Halton... he knew Harry well. And what he told me lines up with whispers I'd already been hearing in certain circles."

Darcy straightened, his body tense as he braced himself. "Out with it, Uncle."

The Earl scowled, his jaw tightening as if the words themselves caused him pain. "Captain Darcy—Harry—is said to have committed treason."