Chapter 15
The sun was sinking low in the sky on the couple’s fifth day of travel. As the carriage grew dim, Darcy drew back the curtain. He leaned forward slightly toward the window upon noticing that they were cresting the final hill. His heart tightened at the first sight of Lambton.
It was nothing like the village he remembered.
As a child, he would run to Lambton from Pemberley nearly every day during the horse-chestnut season.
There were the occasional visits for a penny’s worth of barley sugar from the grocer’s wife, or to purchase a new pair of riding gloves.
Then, as a young man, he had accompanied his father on Thursdays to settle accounts with shopkeepers—his father always insisting they pay what was owed, even in the leanest seasons.
“A gentleman’s reputation,” the elder Mr. Darcy had said, “rests as much on his honesty in trade as in blood.”
But now…
The main street stretched ahead in weary silence.
Shutters hung crookedly on half the buildings, paint peeling from cracked window frames.
The milliner’s shop was boarded up, the butcher’s door ajar with no sign of trade within.
The bakery where he used to buy currant buns as a boy was closed, and even the church spire in the distance, once the loudest and warmest corner of the green, was cold and still.
A few townspeople shuffled past with downturned eyes, faces drawn tight with suspicion or fatigue. The village had not merely quieted—it had withered. As though prosperity had turned its back and taken the sun with it.
Darcy sat back, stunned.
How could so much damage and decay occur in just a year under Wickham’s control?
Beside him, Elizabeth said nothing, but he saw her glance out as well. Her hand tightened in her lap.
The coach pulled into the yard of the King’s Head Inn—a modest but well-kept establishment in his memory. But even here, signs of decline were evident: the sign was weather-faded, the cobbles were cracked, and the windows were fogged with soot and grime
A young man—not the innkeeper Darcy had known—emerged to greet them and help with their bags.
He was wiry, with tousled hair and sleeves rolled to the elbow, a linen cloth slung over his shoulder. He wore a smile, but it was tired, and his boots bore more cobbler’s patches than polish.
“Afternoon,” he said, reaching for the door as Darcy stepped down. “You have the look of travelers needing food and fire. Welcome to the King’s Head.”
Darcy inclined his head politely. “Thank you. We should like a room for the night—quiet, if you please. And a meal, if it is not too much trouble.”
“No trouble,” the man replied, glancing at Elizabeth with a flicker of curiosity before waving over a stable boy. “We have mutton stew this evening, and I will have a fire going in the front parlor. Cold day for travel.”
Darcy nodded once, then, after a pause, casually said, “I came here many years ago, as a boy. The innkeeper was a Mr.… Wilton, I believe was his name. He had a fondness for putting a bit of flour in the stew.”
The man chuckled. “That he did. Always said it kept his constitution firm.” He extended a hand. “He was my uncle. I am Samuel Whitlow.”
Darcy shook it. “Ah yes, that was it. A pleasure, Mr. Whitlow. Is your uncle well?”
“He is, thank God—retired now. Sold the place to me a few years back and moved down to Sheffield to live with my aunt.” Samuel’s smile dimmed slightly. “Did not have much choice, really. Once business started drying up…”
He trailed off, then cleared his throat and gestured toward the door. “Come in, sir. Ma’am. You will find the hearth warm while you wait for the maid to assure the room is in readiness.”
Elizabeth murmured her thanks as they stepped inside. The inn’s main room was clean but dim, the scent of smoke and stewed meat lingering in the air. Darcy brushed off the chill from his coat and looked around.
“It is… quieter than I remember,” he said after a moment.
Samuel nodded, busying himself with the registry. “It is that. Lambton is not what she was.”
He did not elaborate.
Darcy signed the book and passed it back. “We have come to see the area. My wife has never been this far north before. I grew up nearby.”
“Ah,” Samuel said, glancing up. “So, you are local?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Samuel hesitated. “You would not have family at… Pemberley, would you?”
Darcy’s heart beat once, hard. “I did.”
The man’s eyes flicked between him and Elizabeth. “Well,” he said carefully, “you will find things… changed. Since old Mr. Darcy passed, it has been different. Village too.”
Darcy waited, letting the silence stretch. Eventually, Samuel exhaled and leaned on the desk.
“Folk used to depend on that estate, you know. For trade. Employment. There was always a coach or cart in the street. Always coin changing hands. But after the funeral… nothing. The young lady—Miss Darcy—was sent off, and the house sat empty. Staff left one by one. Took goods on credit, promised payment once the will was settled.”
Darcy’s stomach turned as Samuel looked down at his hands.
“But many of the stewards and housemaids all disappeared. Left their tabs unpaid and no answers to be had. Then came word that Pemberley would close up altogether. Mr. Darcy had no son, you know, and folk said he never recovered from the loss of his wife.”
Darcy’s throat constricted.
“But what about his daughter?” he managed.
The innkeeper gave a sad shake of his head. “Too young to manage such a house. And when she went to live with her mother’s kin—the Matlocks.” His mouth twisted slightly. “Poor girl. Never looked happy. Then… well, they tried to marry her to some doddering old duke, if gossip is true.”
Elizabeth stiffened beside him.
“She ran off instead. Eloped to Gretna with the steward’s son.
Whole thing caused a scandal.” He paused, eyes scanning the room as though to ensure they were not overheard.
“Now the house is open again, but not many dare go near it. The young master drinks too much, and they say the young miss is often seen weeping in the garden. Wearing the same gown every day. A bad business, that.”
Elizabeth gasped softly, and Darcy swallowed hard, his hand clenched behind his back. “Thank you, Mr. Whitlow. You have been very helpful.”
The man looked at him curiously, then softened. “I did not mean to cast gloom over your visit, sir. We do not see many travelers these days. But if you knew the old master… I daresay he would be glad to know someone remembered Pemberley in its glory days.”
Darcy nodded once, then took Elizabeth’s arm as the man said, “I reckon that the room is fit now. If you will follow me.”
The couple followed the innkeeper upstairs in silence. Darcy could feel Elizabeth giving him glances beneath her eyes, but he kept his gaze focused on the steps.
“Here you go, sir, madam,” he said, opening the door and gesturing into the room. “I will send a maid up when supper is ready.”
“Thank you, Mr. Whitlow,” Elizabeth said when Darcy did not speak. “We are grateful for your hospitality… and for the information.”
Darcy wordlessly pressed a coin into the man’s hand. Mr. Whitlow bowed in gratitude, then left the room, closing the door behind him.
Looking around, Darcy was relieved to discover that the room was clean, albeit modest and worn at the edges.
The fire had been laid but not lit, so he wordlessly set about striking the flint.
Once his task was complete, he crossed the room to the narrow bed in the corner.
It creaked under his weight as Darcy sat down heavily upon it, staring at the bare, plank floor.
Elizabeth hung her cloak neatly over the chair near the hearth. When she turned and saw him still sitting there, his back bowed, his eyes cast low, she came to stand beside him.
Darcy had not yet removed his gloves. He was not entirely certain he could even move his fingers.
Sitting carefully down beside him, Elizabeth softly said, “It is worse than you imagined.”
He nodded, unable to lift his head. “Much worse.”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she reached over and placed her hand over his. “I am so sorry.”
He shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I meant—for what you saw. For what has become of the place you love.”
That struck something deep within him, and he closed his eyes.
“I knew it might be changed,” he said. “But I thought… I thought it would be smaller, perhaps. Or unfamiliar. Not this.” His voice grew ragged. “Not hollow. Not broken.”
She gave his hand a small squeeze. “Would you like to go back out into the village? Speak to some of the shopkeepers as we did in Meryton? Perhaps they can tell us more.”
He drew a shaky breath. “I am not certain I wish to know anything more. I think I have heard enough for now.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth nodded, her brow furrowed in sympathy. “Do you have an idea of what we shall do tomorrow?”
He lifted his eyes at last and met hers.
“Pemberley once offered tours,” he said slowly.
“It is a grand estate, and my father—our father—believed it wise to permit public days, like Chatsworth or Blenheim. We charged nothing for entry, but donations to the tenant charities were welcome. I had thought… I had hoped… we might gain admittance that way.”
“And now?”
“Now I do not know. With Wickham in possession…” His voice trailed off.
Elizabeth sat back on her heels. “Then perhaps we find another way.”
He offered her a tired smile. “What other way is there?”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “We could try to obtain positions in the household. A maid and a steward’s assistant, perhaps. Or I might serve in the stillroom.”
Darcy blinked. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am perfectly serious.”
“You would work at Pemberley? In service?” His eyes widened, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Elizabeth, that is not— I could not ask that of you.”
“You did not,” she said simply. “I offered.”
“But—”