Chapter Eighteen
A few days later
"Mrs Darcy, the housekeeper from the Desning manor has called regarding the charity baskets for the parish. Shall I tell her you will receive her in the morning room?"
Elizabeth looked up from the menu she had been reviewing with the cook, surprised at how naturally the title ‘Mrs Darcy’ now fell upon her ears.
In the few days that had passed since her arrival at Pemberley, she had settled into her role with an ease that astonished her.
"Yes, thank you. And please have tea brought in—Mrs Barnwall has travelled some distance. "
The footman bowed and withdrew, leaving her to complete the discussion about the week's meals.
This, too, had become routine—the morning conferences about household matters, the meticulous balancing of economy with the standards expected of a great estate.
The head cook, Mrs Cardogan, initially reserved with the new mistress, had warmed considerably when Elizabeth praised her excellent game pie and asked for the recipe.
"Will that be all, Mrs Darcy?" Mrs Cardogan asked now, her weathered face creased with satisfaction at having her suggestions approved.
"Yes, thank you. Everything sounds splendid."
After Mrs Cardogan departed, Elizabeth remained in the kitchen corridor for a moment, marvelling at the transformation in her life.
She had worried about managing such a grand household, about earning the respect of servants accustomed to the late Mrs Darcy's ways.
But Mrs Reynolds had proven an invaluable ally, guiding her through the intricacies of Pemberley's operations with patience and what seemed like a doting affection.
"You have a natural touch with the staff, ma'am," the housekeeper had told her just yesterday. "They respond to kindness tempered with clear expectations. The late Mrs Darcy was much the same—firm but fair, and always willing to listen."
The comparison to her husband’s mother had touched her deeply. She knew she could never replace that beloved figure, but perhaps she could honour her memory by caring for Pemberley and its people with the same dedication.
Her relationship with the villagers had also developed beyond her expectations.
The vicar's wife had called within days of Elizabeth's arrival, followed by a steady stream of local gentry eager to meet the new Mrs Darcy.
She had paid calls in return, visiting tenant families with Mrs Reynolds to guide her, learning names and circumstances, listening to concerns and celebrating small triumphs.
"The old Mrs Darcy always took a personal interest in the tenants," Mrs Reynolds had explained during one such visit. "She believed that a great estate was only as strong as the people who worked its land. Mr Darcy has always followed that principle, and I can see you share it as well."
Now, as she made her way towards the morning room to receive Mrs Barnwall, her thoughts turned to her husband, with whom she spent increasing amounts of time in easy companionship.
Their daily interactions had evolved into something comfortable, almost intimate in its familiarity.
They breakfasted together most mornings, discussing estate matters and sharing observations about the people and events around them.
He sought her opinion on various household decisions, treating her views with a respect that felt pleasant and flattering.
And there were the evenings in the library, where they read together in companionable silence, occasionally sharing passages that struck them as particularly insightful or amusing.
Or the walks through Pemberley's grounds, where Fitzwilliam pointed out landmarks and shared memories—or what fragments of memories remained to him.
It was the ideal life, one she hoped would remain forever. Her husband was yet to recover the memories he had lost, but he seemed content to take each day as it came without worrying about much else.
After her meeting with Mrs Barnwall—a pleasant woman who seemed delighted to find the new Mrs Darcy both sensible and generous in her charitable inclinations—Elizabeth returned to the sitting room to find a note from Fitzwilliam requesting her presence in his study.
She found him seated at his desk, surrounded by correspondence in various states of being read, replied to, or filed away. He looked up as she entered, his expression brightening in a way that never failed to affect her.
"Thank you for coming. I hope I am not interrupting anything pressing?"
"Not at all. I have just finished with Mrs Barnwall regarding the parish charity baskets.”
"Ah yes. Mrs Reynolds mentioned you had taken charge of that initiative.
The tenants will appreciate it—the late autumn can be difficult for families with limited means.
" He gestured to a chair positioned near his desk.
"Would you join me? I find I could use your perspective on some of these letters. "
Elizabeth settled into the offered chair, intrigued. "What sort of letters?"
"Correspondence from tenants, mostly. Requests for repairs, concerns about drainage in the lower fields, that sort of thing. I value your judgement. You seem to have developed a good understanding of the people here quite rapidly."
The compliment drew a smile from her. "Mrs Reynolds has been an excellent guide. And the tenants themselves have been welcoming."
"They like you." He said it simply, as a statement of fact rather than flattery. "Mrs Reynolds reports that you are spoken of with considerable approval throughout the estate. Apparently, you have a gift for remembering names and circumstances, which people appreciate."
"I merely pay attention. Everyone wishes to be seen and heard."
"A simple principle, yet one many in our position fail to observe." He handed her several letters. "These are from families in the north quarter. If you would read through them and share your thoughts, I would be grateful."
They worked in comfortable silence for a while, Elizabeth reading through the correspondence and offering observations.
He listened attentively, occasionally asking questions or nodding in agreement.
The ease between them felt natural, as though they had been partners in such endeavours for years rather than a few days.
"The Galpin family needs new thatch for their roof," she said, setting aside one letter. "Mr Galpin writes that the current state is adequate for now but will not survive another hard winter."
"Then we shall see it repaired before the weather turns." He made a note. "Anything else in that letter?"
"Nothing. But I believe there is more to their situation. When I called there last week with Mrs Reynolds, I noticed Mrs Galpin looked unwell. The children were thin. I wonder if they might benefit from additional support beyond just the roof repair."
"You are observant. I shall have Mrs Reynolds send some provisions and enquire discreetly about Mrs Galpin’s health. Perhaps the physician should call."
"That would be kind."
They continued in this manner for another quarter hour, discussing repairs needed, disputes to be mediated, and improvements to be considered. She found herself relaxing into the work, appreciating both the practical nature of it and the easy collaboration between them.
A short while later, Fitzwilliam rose and moved to a cabinet against the wall. He produced a key from his waistcoat and unlocked a drawer she had not previously noticed.
"There is something else I wanted to show you. Something I have been wrestling with these past weeks."
He withdrew a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon and returned to his desk, setting them down between them. Her heart began to pound even before she recognised the handwriting on the topmost letter—her own, disguised as Cassandra's.
"After my accident," Fitzwilliam began, his gaze on the letters rather than on her, "I was told I had been corresponding with Miss Rochford.
That we had developed an attachment through these exchanges.
I read them over and over, hoping they might trigger some memory, some recognition of the feelings I supposedly held. "
"I travelled to Hertfordshire largely because of these letters," he continued. "As you know, I thought that meeting Miss Rochford might stir something in me, might help restore what I had lost." He finally looked up, meeting her eyes. "But meeting her confirmed something I had begun to suspect."
"What was that?" She managed, although her voice came out barely above a whisper.
"That she did not write these letters." He picked up one of them and unfolded it. "Listen to this passage: My father once told me something I have never forgotten: ’'When a man shows you his wounds, you have two choices—to turn away, or to help bind them. The former is easier, but the latter is what separates us from savages.’ I think of those words often, particularly in situations where compassion conflicts with convenience.”
He set that letter aside and picked up another. "Or this one: 'Your discomfort does you credit. It means you understand the weight of what has been lost. But do not let that weight prevent you from honouring their memory as you ought.’”
Elizabeth sat stiffly as she listened. Hearing her own words—her secret—being read back to her in Fitzwilliam's voice was almost unbearable.
"These letters are filled with intelligence and depth," he said quietly.
"With a way of thinking that challenges and provokes and comforts all at once.
When I met Miss Rochford and attempted a conversation with her, I saw immediately that she was not capable of such correspondence.
She is lovely, certainly, but she lacks the particular quality that permeates every line of these letters. "
He paused, and Elizabeth braced herself for the next question. Do you know who wrote them?
But instead, he retied the ribbon around the bundle and returned them to the drawer, locking it once more.
"Do you..." She forced herself to continue despite the light tremor in her voice. "Do you wish to discover who actually wrote them?"
He turned back to face her, his expression contemplative. "No. I do not think I do."
"But surely you want to know the truth?"
"The truth?" He smiled at that. "The truth is that these letters served their purpose. They brought me back to Hertfordshire at precisely the moment I needed to be there. Had I not made that journey, had I not attended that ball at Netherfield, I would never have been in the position to marry you."
Elizabeth's breath halted momentarily.
"I do not believe in random acts of fate," he continued, moving to stand beside her chair. "But I do believe that not all questions are meant to be answered. Whoever wrote these letters—whether it was Miss Rochford with assistance, or someone else entirely—they led me to you. That is what matters."
"But the deception—"
"What deception?" His voice was gentle as he reached over and took her hand, his touch encompassing and steady.
"I received letters that aided me during a difficult time. Those letters eventually led me to my wife. I’m content to live as a married man, and I see no reason to complicate that simple sequence of events by demanding to know every detail of how it came to pass. "
Elizabeth looked up at him, her vision blurred with unshed tears. He was unknowingly providing her with an escape, a way to keep the secret buried. Part of her wanted to seize that offer, to let the deception remain hidden and simply move forward.
But another part—the part that valued honesty, that had been raised to believe truth mattered—recoiled at the idea of building their marriage on such a foundation.
“Now, shall we continue with these letters?” he said, releasing her hand as he turned his attention back to the tenant correspondence.
“The Dunns are requesting financial help to expand their barn, and I value your thoughts on whether the location they propose might interfere with the drainage improvements that have been made. "
Elizabeth tried to focus on the matter at hand and tried to engage with the question of barn placement and water management. But her mind kept returning to those letters locked in the drawer.
The truth of the matter was, she wasn’t ready to potentially shake the bond they had built thus far. He had chosen contentment over the pursuit of an unknown question. She couldn’t violate that in the name of honesty.
Moreover, she wasn’t prepared to face the fallout that might emerge from her answering that question. And so she remained quiet, talking about everything else but the subject that stirred a persistent ache in her heart.