19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
The sharp scratch of Darcy’s pen against paper was the only sound in the otherwise silent study. The letter in front of him—another polite, veiled request for his stance on tenant rights and taxation—remained unfinished as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. He set the pen down with a quiet sigh and reached for the stack of correspondence Benedict had delivered that morning.
Most were the usual mix of political inquiries and letters from Derbyshire landowners, their neat script filled with cautious curiosity about his rumored candidacy. But one envelope stood out—a familiar, delicate hand that made him smile the instant he saw it.
Georgiana.
Darcy broke the seal hastily and unfold the letter as if the contents were precious manna.
Dearest Brother,
Ramsgate agrees with me more than I expected. The sea air is invigorating, and Mrs. Younge assures me the change has brightened my countenance considerably. I spend my mornings walking along the promenade and my afternoons with Mr. Harmon, my new music tutor. He is quite talented and patient, though he insists I have great potential to improve. I cannot say I agree with him, but I find myself enjoying the challenge.
The town is livelier than I imagined. I have met several interesting people during my walks, though I am careful to keep to Mrs. Younge’s watchful company. The views of the sea are most refreshing, and I find myself looking forward to each new day’s discoveries.
I hope London is not proving too tiresome. I imagine your obligations weigh heavily, but I trust you are handling them with your usual… efficiency. I look forward to seeing you soon, though I must admit, I find Ramsgate pleasantly distracting for now.
With all my love, Georgiana
Darcy read the letter twice, his brows knitting tighter with each pass. She sounded… content. The lines were free from the melancholy that had plagued her letters from London. Her words painted images of breezy seaside walks, lively conversations, and music lessons she did not seem to dread. There was even a spark of curiosity in her descriptions of Ramsgate’s bustling promenade and its ever-changing faces.
He exhaled slowly, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he had been right to send her away, after all. The decision had weighed on him heavily—too heavily, if he were honest—but this letter was proof that space and distance had been what she needed. Away from London’s scrutiny, she was finding her footing again.
For the first time in weeks, the gnawing worry at the back of his mind receded. Georgiana was safe. She was well. And that, more than anything, gave him the clarity to focus on what lay ahead. He folded the letter carefully and placed it in his desk drawer. There were more immediate matters at hand.
Darcy reached for the next letter in the pile, this one marked with the seal of Sir Frederick, the magistrate in Derbyshire. He broke it open, his eyes scanning quickly.
Mr. Darcy,
I write to inform you of recent developments that warrant your immediate attention. Stanton’s influence continues to grow more aggressive, though his methods remain carefully crafted to avoid outright legal scrutiny. His men have been visiting smaller freeholders—those with just enough land to qualify for the vote—offering unusually favorable lease terms and trade agreements in exchange for their political support. While no direct bribes have been reported, the intent behind these arrangements is clear enough to those of us familiar with his tactics.
Additionally, there have been signs of unrest among tenants, particularly near the lands Stanton recently acquired surrounding Lambton. Several customary grazing rights and access to common woodland have been quietly revoked, leading to disputes between tenants and land agents. While I have intervened in several cases to prevent escalation, my authority is limited where the law favors Stanton’s property rights. The discontent, however, is growing, and if left unchecked, it may spill beyond civil dispute into open resistance.
I have managed to maintain order for the time being, but the mood in the region is shifting. Stanton’s promises of reform appeal to some, while others grow wary of his rapid accumulation of land and power. But I had word yesterday that you have formally declared your intent to stand for Derbyshire. I applaud you sir, and I daresay, your victory would go a long way in steadying the community. You have supporters in the county, though perhaps not as many as necessary. I shall do what I can to speak on your behalf, sir, for we are in dire need of new leadership.
With respect, Sir Frederick Montague Magistrate
Darcy set the letter down, his fingers lingering on the page as his mind tumbled over the implications. Sir Frederick's support was not something to be taken lightly. He would have to reply back with his gratitude, but that was not the point that dominated his thoughts.
Stanton’s tactics were more insidious than he had anticipated—offering legal favors that skirted the edge of corruption without leaving enough evidence to challenge in court. It was a clever game, one Darcy could no longer afford to ignore.
He stood and began pacing the length of his study. The battle lines were being drawn in Derbyshire, but the real war—the one that would decide public opinion—was happening in London’s drawing rooms and political clubs. He needed to write to every man currently in Derbyshire to assure them of his intentions, his reliability, his integrity. And he must secure the support of those influential Derbyshire landowners who were currently in Town, the ones whose voices could sway others.
Then, there was Elizabeth. Whether he liked it or not, her presence at his side was becoming more than just a strategy. Her sharp wit and appearance of simple honesty had already won over people who might otherwise dismiss him as another distant aristocrat. She made him approachable, human, in a way he could not achieve alone. She had, indeed, been… useful. More than once.
But it was not merely the political advantage she offered that occupied his thoughts. He had come to rely on her presence more than he cared to admit. Her quick intelligence challenged him, her unflinching gaze unsettled him, and the curve of her smile—when it was genuine, when it was for him —had a way of lingering in his mind far longer than it should.
Yet even as he acknowledged this, Darcy forced himself to retreat behind the familiar walls of reason. This was a charade for public consumption, nothing more. A performance carefully orchestrated to sway voters and solidify alliances. He was a Darcy of Pemberley, heir to a legacy that demanded prudence and propriety. Marriage to someone so far beneath his station, however captivating she might be, was unthinkable.
And yet, the lines between truth and pretense had already begun to blur. When he stood beside her, when their eyes met across a crowded room or in the quiet corners of a garden, he sometimes forgot where the performance ended and something far more dangerous began.
Darcy exhaled sharply and raked a hand through his hair, as though the simple act might clear the lingering thoughts from his mind. He could not afford distractions—not now, when every move he made would be scrutinized, every word weighed for meaning beyond its intent. Yet thoughts of Elizabeth clung to him like the autumn mist outside his windows, impossible to shake.
It was absurd. She was merely part of the strategy, a convenient ally in an inconvenient situation. And still…
Darcy shook his head, willing himself to focus. There was work to be done, and daydreaming over an impossible woman would not drive Stanton out of Derbyshire.
He returned to his desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. Letters needed to be written—to Sir Frederick, to trusted landowners in Derbyshire, to allies who could help him solidify his position in London. He would draft a response to the magistrate, offering assurances of his commitment to Derbyshire’s welfare while quietly requesting more details about Stanton’s land acquisitions.
This was no longer about reluctance or obligation. Stanton posed a real threat, not just to Derbyshire, but to the very principles Darcy held dear. It was time to act.
Elizabeth sat by the window of the Gardiners’ modest London townhouse, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her teacup as the sounds of the city filtered through the glass—carriage wheels clattering over cobblestones, the occasional call of a street vendor hawking his wares. The rhythm of London life had once seemed invigorating, but now it seemed to press in and steal her breath, tight and suffocating.
The letter and key rested in her reticule on the table beside her, their presence as heavy as if they had been made of stone rather than paper and metal. She had taken them out more times than she could count in the last few days, studying them by candlelight, by sunlight, even under the dim glow of the hallway sconce when she thought no one would notice. But they remained stubbornly mute, revealing nothing.
What am I to do with you? she thought bitterly, glancing at the reticule as though it might suddenly offer an answer.
She had not told her aunt and uncle. The guilt of it gnawed at her, especially when Mr. Gardiner’s laughter echoed from his study downstairs or when Mrs. Gardiner’s gentle voice called to the children. They were good, sensible people—surely they could help. But what if involving them only drew them deeper into whatever dangerous web she had stumbled into? She could not bear the thought of dragging them further into this mess, especially when it was her own foolish curiosity that had set everything in motion.
Still, it felt wrong to keep secrets from them. Elizabeth sighed, resting her chin on her hand and staring out at the street below. The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the cobblestones, and for the first time in days, she felt no prickling sensation of eyes on her back. She had been careful—taking different routes when she left the house, glancing over her shoulder, lingering in shop windows to see if anyone loitered behind her. Nothing. No strange faces, no lingering glances.
Perhaps whoever sent the letter realized their mistake and moved on. But the key in her reticule suggested otherwise. Someone knew where she lived. Someone expected her to act. And someone was waiting for that key.
What if it was all a mistake? Perhaps the letter and key were meant for someone else entirely, and they had simply been delivered to the wrong address. But that seemed unlikely. The note wrapped around the outside of the letter had been addressed to her , and the instructions were clear. No, it was not a mistake.
What if someone wanted to frame her? The idea sent a chill down her spine. She had been caught in a compromising position once already at Lord Matlock’s party. What if this was another trap, designed to paint her as a conspirator, to ruin her name and, by extension, her uncle’s ?
Or perhaps… Perhaps the key was a test. A way for someone to gauge whether she could be trusted, whether she would play along with whatever scheme was unfolding beneath London’s polished surface. But what kind of test? And who was behind it?
Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Mr. Darcy.
If only she could see him again without the pretense of political appearances and social expectations, she might simply ask him what he thought. There was a part of her—an increasingly stubborn part—that trusted his judgment, even if he was insufferably proud and rigid. He had a sharp mind, and more importantly, he knew things—things she could not hope to understand from the safety of her drawing room.
But she could not just march over to his townhouse whenever the mood struck her. She had already done so once, had she not? And the move had been ill-judged, at best. Doing so again would not only raise eyebrows, but it would also invite precisely the kind of scrutiny she was trying to avoid.
Still, the memory of his earnest gaze and the way his presence seemed to anchor her in moments of uncertainty lingered at the edges of her thoughts. She had not seen any of the French dignitaries or their aides at the garden party, which had been a relief. But the lingering fear remained, a quiet whisper in the back of her mind.
Someone is watching. Someone knows.
Elizabeth rose from her chair and began to pace the room, her reticule swinging from her wrist. She could not sit idle any longer. The letter and the key were demands for action, and action was something she could manage—even if it terrified her.
What if I … She hesitated, chewing her lip as a dangerous idea began to form.
What if she simply read the letter?
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked toward the reticule, where the folded slip of paper rested alongside the key. The idea seemed obvious now, embarrassingly so. She was the only one of her sisters who could read French, after all—her father’s one indulgence in her education had been securing lessons from the local vicar’s wife, who had spent time abroad in her youth.
Of course, Lydia had taught her something just as useful: how to sneak into their father’s correspondence without leaving a trace. Elizabeth could still remember Lydia’s mischievous grin as she demonstrated how to steam open a wax seal and reseal it without arousing suspicion. At the time, Elizabeth had scolded her sister for such antics, but now… well, she supposed it was a skill worth having.
Her heart quickened as she retrieved the letter from her reticule. The paper almost felt as if would burn her fingers now, as though it knew she was about to cross a line. But she pressed on, lighting a candle and holding the envelope carefully over the flame, just enough to soften the wax without scorching the paper. When the seal loosened, she slipped the letter out, her fingers trembling slightly as she unfolded the crisp sheet.
The handwriting was elegant, the ink dark and precise. But as Elizabeth’s eyes scanned the lines, her brow furrowed.
It was French, yes—but none of it made any sense.
Le corbeau chante à minuit. Les fenêtres sont fermées mais le vent est fort. La clé ouvre la porte qui ne doit pas être vue.
The raven sings at midnight. The windows are closed, but the wind is strong. The key opens the door that must not be seen.
Elizabeth read the lines again, then a third time, hoping they might suddenly rearrange themselves into something logical. But it was nonsense.
Code. It had to be a code. But why? And for whom?
Her stomach twisted. This was far worse than she had imagined. She had expected instructions—some clear indication of what she was meant to do with the key. But instead, she was left with riddles in a language not even her proficiency could unravel.
She refolded the letter with care, resealing it as Lydia had taught her. But the knowledge that it had offered no clarity gnawed at her, leaving her more unsettled than before.
For the first time, she admitted it freely to herself: I need Mr. Darcy’s help.
The thought was as galling as it was comforting. He would know what to make of this. Or, at the very least, he would have the resources to find out. But she could not simply call on him unannounced, nor could she risk sending a letter that might be intercepted.
She pondered the possibilities, but none seemed safe—or sensible.
Finally, she slumped back into her chair, pressing her hands to her temples.
Think, Elizabeth. You are cleverer than this. There must be a way.
But even as she tried to devise a plan, that familiar sense of dread crept over her again. She was in far deeper than she had ever intended, and the walls were closing in fast.