Chapter 13 Breakfast at Rose Cottage
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
brEAKFAST AT ROSE COTTAGE
Elizabeth held her breath as Martha led her over the threshold of Rose Cottage.
This was her first home, and she wanted to take in her entire surroundings.
The interior was modest but comfortable—a small sitting room with simple furnishings, walls lined with faded botanical prints, and a fire crackling in the hearth that dispelled the morning chill.
She glanced at the carpets, the landscape painting on the wall, the arm chairs, hoping for a sign of remembrance.
“Come to the morning room,” Martha said. “We shall have a small breakfast before we go into town.”
Elizabeth followed Martha through a narrow doorway into a cheerful space where morning light streamed through lace curtains.
A small oak sideboard held a plate of freshly baked scones, a pot of preserves, and a steaming teapot wrapped in a knitted cozy.
Her gaze lingered on a delicate porcelain figurine of a shepherdess placed at the center of the table—something about its gentle curves and faded colors stirred a strange familiarity that Elizabeth quickly dismissed as fancy.
“I hope you don’t mind simple fare,” Martha said, gesturing toward the table. “I wasn’t certain when you would arrive.”
“It looks wonderful,” Elizabeth replied. “You’re very kind to receive me with such hospitality, especially on such short notice.”
They settled at the small table, Martha pouring tea into mismatched cups while Elizabeth helped herself to a scone still warm from the oven.
“Please, eat,” Martha encouraged, placing a bowl of thick cream and strawberry preserves beside the plate. “The journey must have left you famished.”
“Thank you for receiving me, Mrs. Wickham,” Elizabeth said, spreading preserves on the scone. “I cannot express how much this opportunity means to me.”
“You have her eyes, you know. Your mother’s eyes. The same shade of brown, the same liveliness.”
A lump formed in Elizabeth’s throat, making it difficult to swallow her bite of scone. All her life, she had wondered about her resemblance to the mother she had never known. “Did I… did I look like her in other ways?”
“The chin,” Martha said, reaching out to tip Elizabeth’s face toward the light. “That way of tilting your chin when your mind is made up—pure Rose Bennet.”
“Rose Darcy,” Elizabeth corrected quietly, accepting the cup of tea Martha offered. “She was Rose Darcy when she lived here.”
“Indeed, she was.” Martha sliced a piece of ham and placed it on Elizabeth’s plate alongside a fresh egg. “And happy as I have ever seen anyone be. Your father adored her completely, and she him. Their love was something rare and precious.”
Elizabeth leaned forward eagerly, momentarily forgetting the breakfast before her. “Tell me about my father. What was he like?”
Martha settled herself in the opposite chair, buttering a piece of bread as she gathered her memories.
“He was everything a gentleman should be—kind, principled, devoted to his tenants and his family. He had a laugh that could fill a room and a way of making everyone feel valued, from the highest lord to the humblest servant.”
“Was my mother the same?” Elizabeth asked.
“Oh yes. She was spirited beyond anything considered proper for a lady of her station. She insisted on teaching reading to the servants’ children, scandalized the neighborhood by walking unescorted in all weather, and had opinions on everything from estate management to political reform.
” Martha’s smile grew fond. “The older ladies declared her quite impossible, but she charmed them all in the end through sheer force of personality.”
Tears pricked Elizabeth’s eyes. These people—her parents—sounded exactly like the sort of family she would have chosen to be born into. She sipped her tea, finding comfort in its warmth.
“They lived here at Rose Cottage?”
“Old Mr. Darcy thought it prudent initially, given the difference in their stations. But by the time you were born, all such concerns had evaporated. George and Sarah Darcy doted on Rose as if she were their own daughter, and they were absolutely besotted with you.”
“Me?” Elizabeth’s voice caught slightly.
“Oh, my dear child, you were the light of their lives. Such a beautiful baby—dark-eyed and alert, with a head full of curls that proclaimed your Darcy heritage. Your grandmother sang to you and your grandfather taught you to say ‘Grandpapa’ before you could manage any other words.”
The image of loving grandparents Elizabeth had never known brought fresh tears. “They created the settlement that names me as heir?”
Martha nodded gravely. “George Darcy was a man of strong convictions. When he saw how deeply John and Rose loved each other and how perfectly Rose fit into the family, he amended his will to ensure their children would inherit regardless of gender. A fee tail female, the legal men called it. Most unusual, but your grandfather was determined that love and worth should triumph over mere convention.”
“And when my parents died?”
Martha’s expression darkened. “The will remained unchanged. George and Sarah refused to believe you had perished with your parents. They maintained until their own deaths that if you lived, Pemberley was yours by right.”
Elizabeth took a moment to compose herself. Hearing about her parents and grandparents and their happy life before the tragedy… How she had been loved brought tears to her eyes. But she had to know what had happened to them, no matter how painful.
She set down her fork and looked at Martha. “I did live. You saved me.”
“I was your nursemaid,” Martha replied. “From the day you were born until the night of the fire.”
“Tell me what happened,” Elizabeth said softly. “Tell me everything you remember.”
Martha was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the fire in the hearth. “It was a clear autumn night. Your parents had retired early—your father had been working on estate matters all day. I had just put you down in the nursery and was preparing for bed myself when I heard them.”
“Who?” Elizabeth whispered.
“They entered through the rear door—I heard the latch, though they tried to be quiet. I thought perhaps it was your father, returned from checking something at the stables. But then I heard voices I didn’t recognize.
I crept to the top of the stairs and saw them—dark figures moving through the downstairs rooms.”
Elizabeth shuddered with a chill. “What did you do?”
“I ran to the nursery. Whatever their purpose, I knew I must protect you.” Martha’s eyes focused on something only she could see. “I had just reached your crib when I heard your mother scream. Then your father shouting. There was a crash, the sound of struggle—”
She broke off, her lined face tight with remembered horror. Elizabeth reached across and touched the older woman’s hand gently, even as her stomach clenched at her parents’ remembered pain.
“You don’t have to continue if it’s too painful.”
Martha shook her head. “No. You deserve to know.” She took a steadying breath. “One of them said, ‘Finish it,’ and then another terrible sound—a thud, like something heavy falling. I knew then that they had killed your parents. And that they would come for you next.”
“So you took me,” Elizabeth said.
“I wrapped you in a blanket and fled through the servants’ staircase to the rear garden. I hid behind the hedgerow as they set the fire.”
“Did you see their faces?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, they tied cloth around their faces, but I got the impression that your uncle William, Fitzwilliam’s father, was the man who gave the orders. The other man seemed to falter, but he nevertheless helped set the fire to cover up the crime.”
Elizabeth felt the bottom drop from her stomach. She set the teacup on the table as nausea overtook her. “Darcy’s father killed his own brother?”
“I have no proof. I was too frightened to stick around. He was so angry about your grandparents changing the settlement, I knew I had to protect you. While the fire was raging, I took my husband’s coach and fled with you to Longbourn. I knew Thomas Bennet would protect his sister’s child.”
“But why didn’t you tell anyone about the murders? Why not seek justice?”
Martha’s laugh held no humor. “A servant’s word against the master of Pemberley?
With no proof but my testimony? I would have been called mad—or worse, accused of the crime myself.
” She shook her head. “No, I did what I could. I saved you. And I’ve waited all these years, watching and waiting for the right moment. ”
Elizabeth absorbed this, her mind reeling with the implications. “And now? What proof can you offer of my identity?”
“We must start with the official records,” Martha said, her practical tone returning.
“The parish registry will have both your parents’ marriage certificate and your baptismal record.
Mr. Blythewood, the Darcy family solicitor, should have access to the original settlement that established the fee tail female. ”
“And you? What testimony can you provide?”
Martha’s expression grew guarded. “In time, child. First, we must gather the documents. My word alone would not be enough—we need the papers to establish your claim legally.”
Elizabeth decided not to press further. Martha had clearly experienced tremendous trauma that night; perhaps she needed time to prepare herself for the role of witness.
“When can we begin?” Elizabeth asked instead.
“Today,” Martha replied, seeming relieved at the change in focus. “I have ordered the carriage to be brought to the cottage. One of the advantages of being the late steward’s widow. Ralph served the family faithfully for over thirty years.”
“That is very generous of Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, unable to help her good opinion of him. That he’d provide for a steward’s widow with both a cottage and a carriage spoke well of his character.
“Generosity runs in the family,” Martha agreed, rising from the breakfast table. “Young George often remarks on Mr. Darcy’s kindness during their childhood together. Two years difference in age, but they were raised as brothers growing up.”
“I’ve heard George mention it.” Elizabeth also rose, making her way to the doorway after Martha.
“Oh yes, those were happy times,” Martha said, getting her spencer and reticule.
“The late Mr. Darcy treated George as his own son—saw to his education at Cambridge, intended him for the law, though George chose military service instead. Such a patriotic young man, determined to serve his country despite every advantage being offered to him.”
This painted a very different picture of Wickham than Elizabeth had formed during their brief acquaintance. “He seemed… charming when we met in Hertfordshire.”
“Charming indeed, and so accomplished! Handsome, well-educated, possessed of considerable address when he chooses to employ it. Any young lady would be fortunate to secure his regard.” Martha’s meaningful glance made Elizabeth pause.
“I am sure he will make some lucky woman very happy,” Elizabeth replied carefully, recognizing maternal matchmaking due to her familiarity with her mother’s tactics.
“Indeed, he will,” Martha agreed with satisfaction. “But come, we must not keep the horses waiting. Lambton awaits, and we have much to accomplish today.”