Chapter Four
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
My dearest Lizzy,
Your news has left me nearly as astonished as you must have been. An estate—I can scarcely believe it, though I know you incapable of such deceit even in the service of a joke. Hollydale House—what a lovely name. And how wise of Mr. Ellis to choose you to be its mistress.
I am particularly overjoyed to hear how Mamma and Papa have been so positively affected by your good fortune.
Perhaps all they required was a fresh start in new surroundings and the peace of a shared burden lifted.
The thought of Mamma bustling about with her plans for refurbishment pleases me, and I have no doubt she has taken to the task with enthusiasm.
I am sure the house will be splendid by the time she has finished, and I need not fear for your fortune, for you are too prudent to allow her to overspend.
The woods sound enchanting, and I can imagine you there, walking through the trees, contemplating all manner of things, as is your way.
I am sorry that you will not have much time to enjoy the grounds just yet.
But knowing you, I am sure you will find a moment to steal away for a long ramble before too long.
We are all well here, though I confess your absence is felt most keenly, especially during our evenings, which are not so lively with you and Mamma both away.
I miss you, Lizzy, but we shall all be able to visit you at Hollydale one day soon.
Until then, I am eager to hear all about the improvements to the house and how you are settling in.
May this good fortune bring you all the happiness in the world, for you deserve it. Your loving sister,
Jane
Elizabeth read Jane’s letter slowly. Her elder sister’s warmth, her unwavering love and unshakable optimism were evident in her words, as always. But as she read, a pang of guilt struck a discordant note in her heart.
Elizabeth stood and wandered toward the window, gazing out over the gently sloping lawns of Hollydale, though her thoughts were far from the beauty outside.
Jane would be thrilled to know of Christmas House.
But then she imagined Jane’s face, alight with delight at the news, paling with anxiety over how to keep such a secret from their parents.
Jane had never been good at keeping things hidden from their mother or father, and the strain of concealing something so significant would weigh heavily on her.
It would be a kindness, Elizabeth realised, to keep this part of things from her sister.
Jane’s open heart and earnest nature would be tested by the need for secrecy, and if their mother—until recently so excitable and prone to suspicion—were to discover that Jane knew something she was not meant to, the situation could become unbearable. No, it was better this way.
Elizabeth was resolved. Other than the Milners, who already knew, she would shoulder the burden of Christmas House on her own.
At least until—unless—she married. She folded Jane's letter carefully, her fingertips touching the familiar handwriting before she placed the letter in a drawer of her writing desk.
She gazed around the room she had chosen for a study. The high ceilings and wide windows, at first daunting in their grandeur, allowed the soft light of autumn to illuminate it, and she was certain she would be happy here.
Hollydale House was vast and full of new responsibilities, but now that the surprise of it was past, she was growing increasingly attached to it.
Even the long gallery, where the portraits of so many former masters and mistresses hung, no longer intimidated her as they had at first. She smiled to herself.
Of course, nothing intimidated her for long, but this had been different.
Now, Elizabeth imagined the generations that had walked these halls and felt pride, for she was now also a part of Hollydale’s history.
And its legacy.
As she wandered through the house, her footsteps echoing against the polished wooden floors, she let herself admire the details she had not fully appreciated before.
The intricate woodwork, the delicate moulding along the ceilings, the sturdy elegance of the staircase that curved gracefully toward the upper floors—each small beauty drew her in, offering comfort and a sense of belonging.
Hollydale was no longer just an inheritance or a daunting responsibility. It was becoming a home. Her home.
Elizabeth found herself drifting toward the doors that led out to the garden, and after tossing her cloak over her shoulders, she stepped outside into the crisp air.
The garden, though overgrown in places, held the same quiet promise as the house.
The hedges might need trimming, and the flowerbeds would require attention come spring, but a beautiful garden was there waiting, just as the house had been, for someone to care for it in the way Mr. Ellis’s final illness had not allowed.
She walked slowly along the path, breathing in the fresh scent of the earth and the faint trace of roses that bloomed stubbornly despite the chill.
And though there was much to be done, Elizabeth felt herself growing more confident with every step she took.
As she stood beneath a canopy of trees that marked the entrance to the park, Elizabeth realized something unexpected: after only a few weeks here, she was falling in love with Hollydale.
This house, this land, could be hers in a way that Longbourn, because of the entail, could not.
This was a safe place, somewhere she could grow and flourish, just as she knew it would grow and flourish under her care.
For the first time since her arrival, Elizabeth truly felt at home.
It took another fortnight of working on the field to correct the drainage issue so that they would be able to run sheep on it. But then Darcy’s mind turned to Hollydale and its newest tenants.
Good manners compelled him to introduce himself to Mr. Bennet, of course. Their estates were only a few miles apart. But he could not deny he hoped to see the man’s daughter again while he was there.
Darcy rode up to the estate, noting the activity around the house—there were a handful of men examining the roof and chimneys, and others cleaning out the cast-iron guttering.
More still were testing the windows for drafts.
Clearly the new family was settling in and preparing the home for winter. He could only approve.
The door was opened by a lean man of middle years.
“Good day, Mr. Riggs,” he said to the butler. He was pleased the man and his excellent wife had been retained by the new family in residence.
“Good day, Mr. Darcy. Do come in but watch your step. The house is a bit disordered at present.”
Three maids were dusting the entry hall from top to bottom. He coughed a little at the dust in the air.
“Through here,” Mr. Riggs said, and they stepped farther into the house.
Everything was still as he recalled it being over the summer when he and a few other gentlemen from the area had gathered for the funeral.
As he passed the drawing room, he noted the old dark blue velvet curtains had been removed, and light was streaming in through the large windows.
Miss Bennet had been emerging from the draper’s when she had been knocked over by the boys. The ladies were planning to redecorate, then. He had not thought there was anything wrong with the room the way it was, but he had to admit the light made a world of difference to the feel of the place.
They walked down the hall to a room Darcy did not believe he had been in before—Ellis’s study had been in the other wing. Mr. Riggs stopped to knock on the door.
“Come,” he heard from inside.
Mr. Riggs opened the door and stepped inside to announce him. “Mr. Darcy of Pemberley to see you, Mr. Bennet.”
“Thank you, Mr. Riggs, show him in.”
Darcy stepped inside to see a man on the higher side of forty going through a stack of books, wiping each one down, reading its title, and setting it on one of several other piles that were scattered over the desk and chairs.
Seeing the state of the room, Darcy began to think he had called too early. He bowed slightly. “Forgive me for intruding. As one of your neighbours, I simply wished to welcome you.”
Mr. Bennet glanced around and took out a handkerchief to wipe his hands clean.
“I am afraid you find us topsy-turvy, Mr. Darcy. We discovered a leak in the roof on the other side of the house late in the day yesterday. I had the contents of Mr. Ellis’s book room moved here immediately and am inspecting each one for damage. ”
“I would not wish to presume . . .”
“Not at all, not at all. I am due a moment of ease, I think.” Mr. Bennet waved him inside, clearing the books from a chair.
“I am glad you thought to rescue the books so promptly,” Darcy said, “for Mr. Ellis was in possession of many rare volumes. He had a fondness for Defoe, Haywood, Locke, Pope, Sterne, Swift, Johnson, and many others. We often discussed them when I came to call.”
Mr. Bennet tipped his head to one side. “So you knew him?”
“As well as anyone did, I suppose. He was a widower of many years, and by the time I took over visiting from my father, he was already elderly. But he had a sharp mind and a good heart.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. “I am grateful to him for all of this.” He motioned to the room. “But I admit it came as something of a surprise.”
There was a light knock on the door, and Miss Bennet walked inside without pause. “Papa, Mamma would like to know if you prefer . . . Oh!” she exclaimed when she entered. “Forgive me. I did not realise you had company.”
Darcy stood, and her eyes lifted to his.
“Good day, Mr. Darcy.”
He bowed. “Miss Bennet.”
Mr. Bennet glanced between them, bushy eyebrows lifting in question. “You are acquainted with my daughter, Mr. Darcy?”