Chapter 12
TWELVE
“Two hundred and fifty pounds for repairs to the north tenant cottages?” Darcy frowned at the estate ledger, tapping his pen against the inkwell. “The estimate last quarter was one hundred seventy-five.”
Mr Harrison, his steward of fifteen years, cleared his throat. “Timber prices have risen sharply since summer, sir. And I took the liberty of adding reinforcement for the foundations, given the problems we encountered last winter.”
”Very well,” Darcy muttered, signing his approval with an abrupt flourish. The candles on his desk had burned low, casting long shadows across the study despite the early evening hour. Outside, September rain lashed against the windows, matching his restless mood.
They had been at this for hours, reviewing Michaelmas accounts, tenant arrangements, harvest projections and his patience had worn dangerously thin. In previous years, he had approached such sessions with methodical satisfaction; tonight, each figure seemed designed to aggravate him.
”That concludes the urgent matters, sir,” Harrison said, carefully gathering the approved documents. “The rest can wait until your return from London, if you prefer.”
”I do prefer,” Darcy replied, more curtly than he intended. Seeing the steward’s carefully neutral expression, he added, “You have done excellent work, Harrison. The estate prospers under your management.”
The steward’s surprise at the unexpected praise was evident. “Thank you, sir. Though Pemberley has always thrived under Darcys’ guidance.”
Darcy waved away the compliment, rising to stretch his cramped muscles. “When does Barnett expect to complete the new herb garden and greenhouse?”
”The foundations are already laid, sir. If the weather holds, the structure should be enclosed before the first frost. The specialized glass from London arrived yesterday.”
”Good.” Darcy poured two glasses of port, offering one to his surprised steward. “And the botanical specimens I ordered from Kew?”
”Scheduled for delivery next week. I’ve arranged for them to be housed temporarily in the orangery until the greenhouse is completed.” Harrison hesitated before adding, “It’s an unusual project, if I may say so, sir. Medicinal herbs have never been Pemberley’s focus.”
”Times change, Harrison. So must we.” Darcy drained his port in a single swallow, setting down the glass with finality. “Have my correspondence forwarded to Darcy House after Tuesday. I may remain in London longer than originally planned.”
”Very good, sir.” Harrison gathered his papers, recognizing the dismissal. At the door, he paused. “Will you be attending the harvest festival before your departure? The tenants were hoping for a word from you. It’s become something of a tradition.”
Darcy suppressed a grimace. The thought of forced conviviality with people who would inevitably comment on his withdrawn demeanor held no appeal. “Of course I will, but I do plan to travel south the morning after.”
Once alone, Darcy slumped into his chair, the mask of the efficient master momentarily abandoned.
He moved to his desk and unlocked the bottom drawer.
From within, he withdrew not the legal portfolio, but a small paper-wrapped package that had arrived three days after Elizabeth departed.
He unwrapped it carefully to reveal a glass vial of amber liquid bearing a simple hand-written label: “For sleepless nights and troubled minds. Three drops in warm milk before retiring.”
No signature accompanied it, but the handwriting was unmistakably Elizabeth’s. The package had been delivered by Jacob who, when questioned, said only that Mrs Morley had paid him to bring it to Pemberley’s master.
Darcy had not used the tincture, he could not bring himself to dull the edge of feelings that, however painful, represented his connection to her. But he carried it with him always, a tangible reminder that she had thought of him after their parting.
He then moved to the drawer again and withdrew a leather portfolio from the bottom drawer. Inside lay several documents he had commissioned from his solicitor, speculative inquiries into various legal arrangements that might accommodate a most unusual marriage settlement.
The first outlined a trust that would secure Elizabeth’s business interests as her separate property, protected from the usual laws that would transfer all ownership to her husband upon marriage.
The second proposed the establishment of a commercial enterprise under the management of a trustee, perhaps Mr Gardiner, that would shield her apothecary business from direct association with the Darcy name.
Darcy spread the papers before him, eyes tracing the careful legal language that attempted to bridge the seemingly unbridgeable gap between their worlds.
He had initiated these inquiries weeks ago, unable to accept that no solution existed to their impasse.
There must be some arrangement, some compromise that would allow her the independence she valued while not forcing them to live in sin.
“She could have trusted me,” he murmured, frustration rising once more. “She could have believed me capable of protecting her interests.”
Even as the words left his lips, he recognised their unfairness.
Elizabeth had shown remarkable perception regarding the practical challenges their union would present.
Her reluctance had been based not on lack of attraction, he had ample proof to the contrary, but on a clear-eyed assessment of how society would constrain her as his wife.
What troubled him most, perhaps, was her apparent conviction that the passion they shared could not evolve into deeper understanding and mutual respect outside the bedchamber.
She had seemed so guarded during their daytime interactions, as though determined to maintain emotional distance even as their physical intimacy deepened.
Had he imagined the moments of genuine connection?
The spirited debates over breakfast, the shared appreciation for Pemberley’s gardens, the unexpected discovery of common ground regarding the education of tenant children?
Surely those interactions had revealed something beyond mere physical compatibility.
* * *
The tea had grown cold in Elizabeth’s cup, untouched since Mrs Gardiner had poured it nearly half an hour ago. Outside the parlour windows, London’s grey afternoon cast muted shadows across the elegant carpet, matching the somber mood that had settled between the two women.
”You are with child.” Mrs Gardiner’s voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes fixed on Elizabeth’s face. “With Mr Darcy’s child.”
Elizabeth nodded, her hands unconsciously moving to rest upon her abdomen, which had only recently begun to show the subtle changes of her condition. “I felt the quickening three days ago,” she said softly. “A flutter, like butterfly wings. There can be no more doubt.”
Mrs Gardiner set down her own teacup with careful precision. The silence stretched between them, weighted with unspoken questions.
”And Mr Darcy knows nothing of this?” she finally asked.
”No.” Elizabeth rose and moved to the window, unable to bear her aunt’s penetrating gaze. “Nor can he ever know.”
”Lizzy… ”
”I have made my decision, Aunt.” Elizabeth’s tone was firm despite the slight tremor in her hands. “That is why I have come to you today. I need your and Uncle’s help in securing certain documents that will ensure my child’s future.”
Mrs Gardiner frowned. “What sort of documents?”
Elizabeth turned back to face her aunt, her chin lifted in a familiar gesture of determination.
“I need to obtain a death certificate for Thomas Morley showing his death as recent, within the past six months. In France, no one will question the timing of the child’s birth if I am believed to be newly widowed. ”
The shock on Mrs Gardiner’s face gave way to something akin to horror. “You wish us to help you forge official documents? To perpetrate a fraud?”
”To protect an innocent child,” Elizabeth countered. “To give it a name and a respectable history.”
”To deny it its father!” Mrs Gardiner rose abruptly, her usual composure shattered. “Elizabeth Bennet, I have never known you to be cruel or dishonest, but this… This is both.”
Elizabeth flinched at the use of her maiden name, a reminder of the layers of deception she had already constructed. “Cruel? I am trying to protect my child from the stigma of illegitimacy, from being known as… ”
”As the child of Fitzwilliam Darcy?” Mrs Gardiner interrupted, her voice rising uncharacteristically. “A gentleman of impeccable character and considerable fortune? A man who offered you marriage?”
”You do not understand!”
”Then help me understand, Lizzy.” Mrs Gardiner moved closer, taking her niece’s hands in her own. “Help me understand why you would flee to France rather than inform Mr Darcy that he is to be a father. Have you got no feelings for the man?”
Elizabeth turned, her eyes flashing with a mixture of defiance and despair.
“What would you have me do? Enter a marriage where one party loves deeply while the other feels only… attraction? Gratitude? That is a recipe for resentment. For both parties.” She let out a long sigh and continued, “Do you not remember the marriage my parents had? Elizabeth’s eyes filled with unexpected tears.
“Even the best of men may change when their deepest hopes are continually disappointed.”
Mrs Gardiner was silent for a long moment, studying her niece’s profile against the grey light. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler but no less firm.
“You chose to lie with a man outside the bonds of matrimony. You made your bed, now you must lie in it.”
Elizabeth turned away, her gaze drawn back to the window and the gray London sky beyond. “I leave for France in a sennight. The arrangements are made.”