Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Darcy’s scheme for a visit to Warrington Castle met with Elizabeth’s approval, and they soon found themselves in the carriage once more, headed towards Lancashire.
The housekeeper was a woman named Mrs Inwood.
She was a cheerful, bustling soul who kept up a running monologue as she efficiently moved them through the reception hall and into their rooms all the while directing orders to the other servants who had gathered and the boys who were bringing the trunks.
She was delighted to see the young earl with them; she had not yet made his acquaintance.
They were quickly settled into their bedchamber. Darcy was surprised to see they had been given a guest suite—a lovely, large guest suite, but nevertheless a guest suite.
Elizabeth blushed at his look. “This is where I resided when I came before, and as we stay together, I supposed you would not mind.”
“Why did you never use the mistress’s bedchamber?”
“Henry had never moved into the master’s chambers,” she explained. “He was still in the rooms he inhabited as a young man before his father’s death. It seemed silly to have rooms opened for me that had been closed for so long. This room was recently redone, and in any case, I am told it is warmer.”
Darcy soon learnt that far more of the house was closed than was open. After settling in, they went on a tour, with Elizabeth telling him as much as she knew given her limited tenure as Lady Courtenay.
As they strolled down one long, dark hall, Elizabeth remarked, “As any proper castle should, Warrington has its own mystery—a supposed buried treasure.”
“Oh?” Darcy smiled. “Shall we find it while we are here?”
Elizabeth laughed. “It is not as easy as that! There is an excessively complicated cipher that leads the way. My father and I spent many long nights trying to break the code, which was something along the lines of the Babington cipher.”
“And did you?”
She nodded. “Aye, but alas, when I searched for the fortune, there was nothing to show for it. I fear the whole thing is simply some old wives’ tale or else grossly exaggerated. If someone were to bury a great fortune in a castle, they would certainly return for it later.”
“You are correct, I am sure,” he agreed. “Or possibly someone found it before you. It has been two centuries after all.”
Darcy was pleased to see that nothing had been left to decay or disrepair.
The open rooms were clean and well appointed.
There were many fine works of art, paintings, and sculptures, and as at Pemberley, there was a Great Hall containing portraits of the Courtenay ancestors going back to the fifteen hundreds.
Darcy studied Elizabeth as they came to a portrait of Henry and Francis painted shortly before they left for university.
While a more recent portrait of the new earl had been spoken of after his ascension to his title, it had never been commissioned.
Elizabeth looked at the portrait, her expression unreadable.
At last, she sighed and turned to Darcy, giving him a small smile.
Darcy did not know what to say and offered a benign observation.
“I was not aware they were identical. I had heard they were twins, of course, but they were each the exact likeness of the other, were they not?”
“When I first met Francis, it was easy to see the differences.”
“Oh?”
“Henry was smaller and Francis was more athletic—he boxed, fenced, and rode so he had a larger, more muscular shape. Although he seemed taller, I do not think he was. Francis was also vain about his hair and wore it in long curls. Henry’s hair was clipped tightly to his head.
Their manner of dressing was also quite different.
Francis was exceedingly fashionable—almost a coxcomb—but Henry was conservative. ”
“I see.”
“Were you ever acquainted with them?”
“I knew of them, but I believe they were at different schools than I attended.”
“Henry and Francis went to Eton and Oxford.”
“Ah, well, I did go to Eton, but I attended Cambridge for university so our paths did not cross. Were they older as well?”
“Henry would be three and thirty now,” Elizabeth confirmed. “Five years older than you.”
“I might have come to know them if not for my father’s death. I was seldom in society for several years after university. I was far too occupied with Georgiana and Pemberley.”
She offered him an abstracted smile, clearly lost in thought as she turned her attention back to the portrait. When she wandered away minutes later, he quietly followed. They left the hall soon after, going into the nearest gardens, which were rather spare but well tended.
By the time dinner was called, Elizabeth had recovered her usual spirits and said no more of the portraits or Henry. Darcy wished to know what she was thinking, but she did not say, and he did not think he should ask.
For Elizabeth, the time spent at Warrington was odd.
She could not name the sensation, but her lack of ease at Warrington was striking, especially following the effortless comfort of Pemberley.
After Henry’s death, she had spent hours labouring over the care of Warrington, involving herself in everything she could, shirking no duty when she easily could have done so.
She had managed the books, concerned herself with servants’ cares, and reviewed planting plans.
Yet, she felt no connexion to the place.
It was simply her son’s legacy but nothing to her heart or soul.
In contrast, from the first time she looked at Pemberley, she felt she was home.
She knew scarcely anything of it—she got hopelessly lost on her way to the pinery just the day before their departure—nevertheless, she felt a comfort and a sense of belonging.
The position of mistress of Pemberley was her own in a manner that mistress of Warrington had never been.
They remained just a couple of days after that, seeing all was in order as Elizabeth had expected it to be.
As the carriage left the castle grounds, Elizabeth looked out the window thinking of her prior visit.
That had been a painful reminder of what would never be and led to a worsening of her loneliness and her anxiety.
She vividly recalled how it had then felt to stand beneath the portrait of her husband and his killer.
She had visited daily, sometimes a few times a day, weeping tears of sorrow and anger mixed with sobs of longing and despair.
This time was different. When she looked at his image, she felt regret and sorrow but without the sense of futility and hopelessness that had marked her before. I am moving on. I am ready to enjoy another life, one that is not dominated by this tragedy.
She looked over at her husband and son. Having been awoken and pulled from his bed far earlier than he wished, Henry had cried and fussed a bit.
Neither Elizabeth nor Nurse Jenny could console him, but Darcy, it would seem, had his measure.
Now Henry was asleep on his back using Darcy’s lap as a pillow, one hand curled into Darcy’s waistcoat and the other flung into space.
Darcy too had drifted off, his handsome face softened and made younger by the early morning light.
He had been busy viewing the estate with her and riding out for hours with the steward to ensure things were in order, and he was no doubt exhausted.
You, Elizabeth Darcy, are the most fortunate of women.
A sweet warmth stole into her chest as she gazed upon her little family.
They were passing through the village, and Elizabeth turned to the window to watch the people beginning their day with industry.
I am happy, truly happy. No guilt, no regret—only joy.
She was sorry that Henry had died, but she did not regret the opportunity to become Darcy’s wife. I cannot feel guilt or shame in this. The old life is gone, and the new life is begun. I would not wish otherwise than to be mistress of Pemberley and wife of Fitzwilliam Darcy.