21. Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

E lizabeth adjusted her cloak as she stepped down from the carriage, the chill air of the early winter breeze whipping the cloth about her legs. Mrs Reynolds followed close behind, advising Elizabeth on all the particulars of each family for this first outing as the mistress. Though she had encountered many at church, the prospect of truly getting to know them filled her with nervous anticipation.

"Mrs Darcy, these are good people," Mrs Reynolds said gently as they approached the first house. "I think you will find them most welcoming, but they are not without their struggles. The baskets will be well received."

Elizabeth nodded, holding her basket firmly. She had overseen their assembly herself, ensuring each family received provisions and small luxuries from Pemberley's stores. She hoped the gesture would make up for the missed harvest festival, a tradition here of some long standing. It was not the fault of these good people that the festival had not been held this year.

At the first cottage, a young couple greeted her with wide smiles and a toddler clinging to the mother's skirts. The house smelled of herbs and baking bread, and Elizabeth immediately felt at ease as the mother introduced herself as Mrs Hale. The little boy peeked shyly around his mother's legs before toddling forward, holding out a chubby hand. Elizabeth knelt to his level, smiling as he offered her a small wooden toy.

"This is little Peter," Mrs Hale said with a fond smile. "He's not yet three but already trying to help his father in the fields."

Elizabeth chuckled, handing the toy back to the boy. "A hard worker already, I see."

The family's gratitude for the gift basket was sweetly apparent, and as they shared a cup of tea, Elizabeth found herself exchanging easy conversation with the young mother. They spoke of the harvest, of how the estate's bounty helped the tenants, and how kind Mrs Reynolds had been in ensuring their needs were met.

At another cottage, an elderly woman named Mrs Blythe greeted them at the door. Her hands trembled as she welcomed Elizabeth and Mrs Reynolds inside, but her eyes were sharp with wit and experience. The interior was modest but immaculately clean, with simple, well-worn furniture that spoke of generations past.

"I thank you, Mrs Darcy, for the provisions," the older woman said. "I did not think I would see such kindness from the mistress of Pemberley herself."

Elizabeth smiled warmly. "It is my pleasure. I wanted to ensure everyone had something to see them through the winter."

Mrs Blythe eyed her with a shrewd glint. "You remind me of Mr Darcy's mother, Lady Anne. She used to visit, same as you're doing now. I see you've a good heart, like she did."

Elizabeth felt a warmth spread through her chest at the unexpected praise. It was a kind sentiment, one she wasn't sure she could live up to yet, but it was encouraging.

In another home, Elizabeth met Mrs Latham, who had five grown sons and one daughter still at home. The sons worked on various parts of the estate, and as Mrs Reynolds introduced them, Elizabeth noted how each family seemed to have their own unique role in the running of Pemberley's vast lands. Mrs Latham spoke proudly of her sons' contributions, though her face softened when she mentioned her daughter's prospects.

"A fine young lady like Miss Latham should have no trouble finding a good match," Elizabeth said kindly as the daughter stood by, her eyes downcast and cheeks flushed. "She's a great help to you here, I'm sure."

Mrs Latham nodded, but the younger girl gave no answer, only offering Elizabeth a shy smile as she helped her mother place the gift basket on the kitchen table.

The next few houses followed a similar pattern. Each family expressed first their welcome of the new Mrs Darcy, and then their grief over Harry's death in a way that felt almost ritualistic. But Elizabeth found comfort in the repetition. It made her feel, oddly, more connected to these people, even as she still struggled to comprehend the tragedy herself.

But it was at the last house that Elizabeth's world tilted ever so slightly.

The door opened to reveal a beautiful young woman, perhaps no older than Elizabeth herself, who greeted them with a shy, almost hesitant smile. Her hand rested gently on her abdomen, a protective gesture that highlighted the telltale sign of pregnancy, just barely visible beneath her modest gown. Elizabeth extended the basket, her expression warm and kind as always, but she could not ignore the flicker of anxiety in the girl's downcast eyes.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Henshaw," Elizabeth said softly, trying to put her at ease. "This is a small token of our appreciation for all that you do. I hope it will be of some use to your family."

The young woman glanced up briefly, her lips parting as if to speak, but she seemed to lose her courage and looked down again. Before the silence could stretch too far, her mother stepped forward, her hands outstretched to accept the basket. "Mrs Darcy, thank you for this kindness," she said, her voice steady but with a note of weariness. She glanced at her daughter, who stood silently at her side, staring down at her feet as if avoiding more than just the conversation. "We were all so saddened by Captain Darcy's passing. He... he was well loved."

The words hung in the air—strangely heavier, this time, than in other households. She offered a sympathetic nod, her gaze moving to the daughter again, noting how tightly the girl's hands were clasped in front of her. Elizabeth's throat clenched, but she kept her tone gentle as she replied, "I am sure he was very fond of this place and its people. It is difficult for us all to bear the loss."

The young woman's hand trembled slightly where it rested against her belly, and her mother's eyes flitted nervously between her daughter and Elizabeth, as if gauging how much more could be said.

The girl bit her lip, her eyes glistening as she tried to keep herself composed. Elizabeth felt a pang of sympathy. She knew the grief of loss, but this was different. The girl's reaction was raw, immediate.

"I am so sorry for upsetting you," Elizabeth said softly, reaching out to her. "Please, you needn't—"

But the young woman could no longer contain her tears. She choked out a sob and turned, rushing from the room with her hand clapped over her mouth. The sound of her faint crying echoed in the small house.

Elizabeth stood, stunned and distressed, watching the girl's retreating figure. "I am terribly sorry," she said to the mother, unsure of what had just transpired. "I did not mean to upset her."

The woman shook her head, more resigned than surprised. "It is no fault of yours, Mrs Darcy," she said, her tone almost matter-of-fact. "Clara's been this way since… well, since last summer."

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Mrs Reynolds, but the housekeeper said nothing. They offered a few more words of comfort, but the atmosphere had shifted, and it was soon clear that the visit needed to end.

As they climbed back into the carriage, Elizabeth could not shake the unease that had settled in her chest. She turned to Mrs Reynolds, hoping for some clarity. "What... what happened to her? Why was she so upset?"

Mrs Reynolds hesitated, her normally composed expression faltering for a moment. "I ought to have warned you before we visited, Mrs Darcy," she began slowly, "but I thought the girl had been sent away by now."

Elizabeth frowned. "Sent away?"

"Clara Henshaw is unmarried, ma'am." Mrs Reynolds' voice dropped lower, and her eyes flicked up to meet Elizabeth's briefly. "She was found last summer, her gown torn, but she refused to name the man responsible. No one knows if she was attacked or if it was... something else. ‘Tis a pity—she was always such a good girl, and so terribly fond of the young master."

"Captain Darcy?" Elizabeth asked.

"Aye." Mrs Reynolds clicked her tongue and shook her head. "She was often in his company at tenant gatherings, and..." Mrs Reynolds trailed off, her grimace deepening. "She took his death very hard."

Elizabeth sat in silence, her brow puckering in thought. Could Harry have been involved with this girl? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but she quickly dismissed it. Harry had been in London most of the summer... hadn't he?

Except... she recalled something from when they first met at that party in July. He had told her he was being sent to Leicester for a week. Just a week, but perhaps... perhaps he had been in the country after all. That was the only time when no one she knew could vouch for his whereabouts.

Her thoughts grew darker. Could Harry have been the one? Had she misjudged him so completely? Oh, but that was preposterous! He had been on assignment, and surely his commander would have expected a swift return from his errand or whatever it was. To think of someone like Captain Darcy detouring to Derbyshire just to seduce a girl!

But he could have come further north to surprise his brother. Harry had even joked about doing just that, had he not? And if this… incident… happened before Harry made it to Pemberley, why, he might have turned round before anyone could place him in the county at that time.

Elizabeth hissed under her breath and shook her head, trying to put at bay such hideous thoughts. Her imagination was accusing and convicting a man who was not there to defend himself, whose very life and character would contradict the accusations decisively. The only smear on Harry's legacy was that bothersome accusation of some sort of treason, which… well, when put plainly, could be true but, in her estimation, was probably a product of battlefield confusion.

That, and the letter her husband had shown her. The one written by an outraged father over his compromised daughter.

Elizabeth swallowed and turned her gaze purposely out the window before Mrs Reynolds could see the darkness crossing her features. The remainder of the ride back to Pemberley passed in silence, Elizabeth's mind spinning with questions she had no idea how to answer.

D arcy tossed the letter onto his desk, rising abruptly to pace the length of his study. Richard's latest update was no better than the last—no progress, no answers. It was as though the truth about Harry's final battle had been swallowed up by the shadows of war, leaving nothing but suspicion and bitterness in its wake. The accusations, the rumours—it all churned in Darcy's chest, filling him with a restless energy that he could not dispel.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. His thoughts wandered to London, as they so often did now. Perhaps if he went, if he confronted those spreading these lies, he could silence them. But what would that accomplish? Harry was gone. No amount of defending him would bring him back. And London—London was already a quagmire of gossip. If he took Elizabeth there, it would only be worse. They could not attend social functions while in mourning, and he certainly did not wish to parade his wife in front of the very people who would revel in their misfortune. Perhaps… if he let things settle, the rumours would fade. That seemed a rational approach, though it filled him with no satisfaction.

He glanced at Richard's letter again. Wickham. The very name set Darcy's blood boiling. Richard had discovered that Wickham had been reassigned to Birmingham, ostensibly to deal with the Luddites. What a farce. Wickham, of all people, tasked with maintaining order?

And Birmingham was no distant outpost—just a day's ride from Pemberley. The idea of Wickham being so close unsettled Darcy more than he cared to admit. He considered doubling the watch on the property, perhaps taking extra precautions, but what good would that do? He would only seem paranoid, and Wickham would not dare come near Pemberley. Would he?

Darcy sighed, shoving his chair back from the desk with more force than intended. The letters scattered across the surface—too many unanswered questions, too many burdens. He could no longer concentrate. With a frustrated breath, he rose to his feet, glancing out the window. A walk. Perhaps fresh air would do what sitting in that stifling room could not.

As he moved toward the door, he reached for his coat, but something caught his attention—a flash of movement in the hallway. Elizabeth. He saw her just as she disappeared through the front door, her steps hurried, her skirts catching on the hem as she fled.

"Elizabeth!" he called after her, his voice echoing through the now-empty foyer, but she was already gone, moving too quickly to hear him.

Darcy hesitated for a moment, his hand on the doorframe. Where was she going in such haste? It almost looked as if something had ruffled her feathers, but the only thing at Pemberley capable of doing that was him. And while things between them seemed to have actually taken a step backwards since the night he kissed her at the piano—his own hesitancy, surely, was to blame—he had no reason to suppose he might be the cause of this. Shrugging into his coat, he followed her.

His gaze followed the path that led down to the lake, where he had often seen her walking in solitude. She was already far ahead, her form growing smaller as she hurried toward the water. Darcy watched her for a moment, feeling the distance between them more keenly than ever. She looked... distressed. And that bothered him in ways he could not ignore.

He sighed and pulled his collar tighter against the wind. His thoughts shifted, circling back to the same nagging question that had haunted him for weeks now. Elizabeth . What was he to do about her?

The more time they spent together, the more he found himself drawn to her—not just as a woman, but as his wife—his partner. He wanted her in ways he struggled to put into words, and the desire gnawed at him, refusing to be ignored. Yet, with every step closer, guilt threatened to swallow him whole. Harry's memory, still looming large between them, felt like a barrier he could not cross.

It was foolish, and he knew it. Richard had said as much—Harry was gone, and Darcy had his own life to live. But the guilt persisted, irrational as it was. And then there was Elizabeth herself. What did she feel? She had been so guarded, so measured in her interactions with him. Always polite, sensible of her duties as the mistress, and a bright spot in any room she entered, but there was a veneer over all their interactions. Was it even possible she felt something for him, as he did for her? Or had Harry's shadow stretched so long that it still stood between them?

As Darcy rounded a corner, the frozen lawns of Pemberley spread out before him. The gardens, once so vibrant, were now stark and white with frost. His breath fogged the air as he walked, but it was the sight in the distance that brought him to a halt. Elizabeth, as always, was sitting on her rock by the frigid lake. Even from afar, she looked so small, a figure dwarfed by the vastness of the landscape around her. But something struck him about the way she sat, the way her shoulders hunched just slightly, as if the cold were not the only thing pressing down on her.

Loneliness.

That was it! That was the missing piece. It had nothing to do with Harry—well, it was not only to do with Harry. She had lost far more than his brother, had she not? No, what weighed on her now wasn't grief over Harry—it was isolation. She was lonely.

She missed her family.

Darcy cursed himself under his breath. How had he not seen it sooner? Whenever he spoke with her, whenever they shared even the briefest of conversations, she brightened. She was a more social person than he—craving companionship in a way he could probably never comprehend. She came alive when she received letters from home, her face illuminated with a pleasure that was unmistakable. But when she was alone, when she thought no one was watching… there was a sadness in her, a deep, unspoken longing.

He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on her distant figure. This, at least, was something he could fix. He might not be able to protect Harry's name, but he could do something for his wife. For Elizabeth.

With renewed purpose, Darcy turned on his heel and strode back toward the house. He might not have all the answers, but he had at least part of one of them.

E lizabeth unfolded Jane's letter with a sigh, her fingers tracing the familiar handwriting as the rain pattered steadily against the windows. The crackling fire warmed the room, but her mind drifted far from the cozy library to the familiar comfort of Longbourn. She had hoped Darcy might be there—stormy afternoons often drew him to the fire with a book in hand—but today, the room was empty but for herself.

She read over Jane's words, smiling faintly as she imagined her sister's dearly beloved voice while writing.

P apa wants to meet him, you know—this mysterious Mr Darcy who carried you away to "the far north of England," as he so dramatically puts it. Mr Bingley has assured him that your Mr Darcy is a man of good character, but you know that is not sufficient for Papa. I hope you might visit soon.

E lizabeth folded the letter with a soft sigh and slipped it back into her pocket.

Could she persuade her husband to visit Longbourn if they went to London? The thought filled her with both hope and apprehension. Her father's wit might amuse him, and Jane—oh, he would certainly approve of Jane. And it might be a chance for him to know Mr Bingley better, too.

Not that Mr Bingley could step into the hole left by his brother or even his cousin—Richard had been able to draw him out in ways that she fancied other gentlemen could not. But Mr Bingley was an open, cheerful sort who shared some measure of her husband's grief. Yes, he might be a very valuable friend, indeed.

But her mother... Lydia... Kitty... no, perhaps not yet. Perhaps not ever, unless Jane could give her some assurance that her own marriage to Mr Darcy, and Mr Bingley's interest in Jane had subdued Mama somewhat, and given her cause to rein in her younger daughters. And that was not likely. She reached for her book.

Only moments later, the door creaked open, and Darcy strode in, rain still dripping from his overcoat. He looked freshly in from the storm, his damp hair tousled, and there was an unusual gleam in his eye, a mysterious smile hovering on his lips. One hand remained tucked beneath his coat as if concealing some secret.

"Elizabeth," he said, his voice carrying a warmth she had not heard in some time. A rare grin spread across his face.

Elizabeth set her book aside and stood, her curiosity piqued by both his tone and appearance. She wandered over to him, brows lifted in mock surprise. "Fitzwilliam Darcy, what are you doing?" she asked, as her gaze swept over him. Rainwater trickled from his broad shoulders, the wild scent of the storm still clinging to him. She felt a strange pull, as though leaning closer might reveal more of that intoxicating scent—fresh air and untamed energy.

Oh, if he came to her like that more often, full of himself and smiling and fresh from the outdoors, she doubted very much that he would still think of her as a lady. She would have thrown over her dignity long ago, and would probably have more than one of his kisses to savour in her memories. Elizabeth forced herself to clear her throat and focus on his eyes rather than all the rest of him.

His grin widened as he pulled something from inside his coat. A small, wiggling form emerged—a terrier puppy, squirming and wriggling with boundless energy. Elizabeth gasped in delight, her hands flying up instinctively to catch the little creature as it tried eagerly to lick her face.

"Why in the world have you brought me a puppy?" she laughed, the sound bubbling up from her chest as she cradled the squirming ball of fur. The puppy's bright eyes sparkled, its tiny tongue licking furiously at her cheek.

Darcy stepped closer, resting a gentle hand on the puppy's back, feeling its excited little body wiggle beneath his palm. It was a small terrier, its coat a mix of soft brown and white, with bright, alert eyes that seemed to take in everything around it. The pup's ears twitched at every sound, its tiny paws tapping impatiently as if eager for adventure.

"I had begun to think you were lonely," Darcy said softly, his tone more serious than his grin implied. "I know you miss your family, and I am... perhaps... inadequate company." His gaze held hers, the warmth there unmistakable. "I hoped this little dog might cheer you up."

Elizabeth blinked, her smile faltering for a moment as his words struck her more deeply than she had expected. The puppy, unaware of the feelings her husband had just stirred in her, licked at her fingers, its tiny tail wagging furiously. "Where did you find him?" she asked, her voice quiet as she stroked the soft fur.

Darcy's smile widened, pleased by her curiosity. "One of my tenants raises terriers," he explained, watching the puppy with affection. "They are known to be bold little creatures, though small enough to accompany you anywhere—on your walks, even to London, should we travel there. And they are good company—energetic, brave. I thought..." He trailed off, then added, more gently, "I thought you might appreciate a companion, one who is always happy to see you."

She laughed. "Be careful, Mr Darcy. That statement sounds very much as if you are not always happy to see your wife, and I daresay, that is an impolitic confession."

His expression blanched. "I assure you, that is not at all…" His cheek flinched. "I do find pleasure in your company, madam. What I meant to say was that my… reception of your presence is too often tempered by my moods. That will not be the case here." His gaze lingered on hers with a strange heat for a moment, but then he cleared his throat and gestured to the puppy. "Look, he is already quite taken with you. Do you…" His brow furrowed. "Does he please you?"

Elizabeth's laugh was softer this time, more touched than amused, as she buried her face in the puppy's fur. She had been feeling a quiet loneliness, one she had hardly acknowledged, even to herself. Yet here he was, acknowledging it for her, seeing her more clearly than she realised.

"I know no one with such a hard heart they could not be pleased by such a winsome little creature," she replied. "But you may regret the gift when he soils the carpets, as puppies often do."

Darcy smiled and tugged at one soft ear. "I employ an excellent housekeeper for a reason, Mrs Darcy."

The puppy wriggled in her arms, its tiny paws pressing against her chest as it tried to reach her face for more kisses, and for the first time in a long while, she felt a warmth she hadn't expected—both from the lively little creature in her arms and from the man standing beside her.

"I do not know what to say," she murmured, the little dog's warm body wriggling in her arms. The absurdity and sweetness of the moment overwhelmed her. Unable to resist, she rose up on her toes and kissed Darcy lightly on the cheek. It was a brief, instinctive gesture, one that surprised her as much as it did him.

Darcy stilled, his eyes widening slightly at the touch of her lips. For a heartbeat, the air between them shifted, something unspoken passing between them. But before either could make sense of it, the puppy wriggled between them, nudging its head against Darcy's chest and breaking the spell.

Darcy blinked, his face briefly unreadable, then smiled faintly as the tension dissolved. "I see I've been replaced already," he teased, his hand brushing against hers as she held the puppy close.

"Not replaced, merely... supplemented," Elizabeth replied with a laugh, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before they both turned their attention back to the lively creature between them.