Page 70 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

Anne felt a rush of something warm break through the cold fog that had enveloped her since learning of Mrs. Jenkinson’s confession. “You have allowed him in?”

“He awaits in the blue sitting room,” Elizabeth confirmed.

“I have told Harrison we are not at home to any other callers. Your conversation will be private, though I shall be in the adjoining room, should propriety require it. Though you need not see him if you do not wish it; I can send him away with your apologies.”

“No,” Anne said, surprising herself with the quickness of her response. “That is... I should like to see him. Very much.”

Elizabeth smiled kindly. “I thought as much. Shall I accompany you to the sitting room?”

Anne hastily checked her appearance in the mirror, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers. Her reflection stared back, pale and solemn in her black gown, but with a flicker of anticipation in her eyes that had been absent these past days. “I am ready.”

Mr. Hislop rose immediately as she entered, his tall figure silhouetted against the window.

He was dressed soberly, his usual riding attire replaced by a well-cut black coat and grey waistcoat that spoke of respect for her mourning.

His face, typically animated when discussing horses, now bore an expression of grave concern tempered with genuine warmth.

“Miss de Bourgh,” he said, bowing formally. “I cannot express adequately how deeply sorry I am for your loss, and for the terrible circumstances surrounding it.”

“Mr. Hislop,” Anne acknowledged, sinking into a chair as her knees suddenly felt unequal to supporting her. “I... thank you for coming.”

He seated himself across from her, leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped between his knees.

“I realise this visit breaks with convention, and I would not have presumed except...” He paused, choosing his words with uncharacteristic care.

“I could not bear the thought of your departure without offering whatever support might be in my power to give.”

The simple sincerity in his voice touched Anne deeply. There was no pretence in Mr. Hislop, no careful social manoeuvring or calculated sympathy. Here sat a man who genuinely wished to comfort her, who had seen beyond her title and fortune to the person beneath.

“You are very kind,” she managed, her fingers twisting in her lap. “I confess, I have found these past days... challenging beyond description.”

“I cannot imagine the burden you bear,” he said quietly.

“To lose your mother so suddenly would be grief enough. But to learn the truth of her death, and of Mrs. Jenkinson’s actions.

..” He shook his head, wordless for a moment.

“If there is anything, anything at all, that I might do to ease your path, you have only to name it.”

“Your presence alone brings comfort,” Anne admitted, surprising herself with her candour. “When I depart for Rosings tomorrow, I shall face responsibilities I was never properly prepared to assume. The prospect is... daunting.”

Mr. Hislop nodded, his expression thoughtful. “You underestimate yourself, Miss de Bourgh. I have observed your knowledge, your insight, your quiet determination. Qualities that will serve you well as mistress of Rosings.”

“You have a generous view of my capabilities,” Anne replied, a faint smile touching her lips for the first time in days. “More generous, perhaps, than they deserve.”

“Not at all,” he countered firmly. “I have heard you speak of estate management with genuine understanding. Your observations about the Spanish horses at Tattersall’s revealed not only knowledge but vision. You possess all the qualities necessary to guide Rosings into a new era.”

His unwavering faith in her abilities both touched and strengthened Anne. She had grown accustomed to being considered fragile, incapable, in need of constant direction. Mr. Hislop saw her differently, and his perspective allowed her to glimpse possibilities she had scarcely dared consider.

“Miss de Bourgh,” he continued, his voice taking on a new, more serious tone, “I had not planned to speak so soon, particularly given your recent loss. But these circumstances have impressed upon me the fragility of life and the importance of honest communication between those who... care for one another.”

Anne felt her heart quicken, a flush rising to her cheeks that had nothing to do with her supposed delicate constitution. “Mr. Hislop?”

He rose suddenly, moving to kneel before her chair, taking her hand in his with gentle determination.

“Miss de Bourgh, Anne. I come to you not as a man seeking advantage or position, but as one whose heart and mind are engaged. These past weeks, as we have shared conversations about horses, about literature, about your hopes for Rosings, I have found in you a kindred spirit, a woman of intelligence and sensitivity whose company I value above all others.”

Anne’s breath caught in her throat. She had dreamed of such a moment, had imagined words of affection directed genuinely toward her rather than her fortune or position. But to hear them now, in the midst of grief and upheaval, seemed almost too much to comprehend.

“I understand that you must enter a period of mourning,” Mr. Hislop continued, his voice steady despite the emotion evident in his eyes. “I would never ask you to set aside proper respect for your mother. But I cannot let you depart without expressing my deepest wish to one day call you my wife.”

The directness of his proposal, so characteristic of the man, brought tears to Anne’s eyes. Not the tears of grief that had been her constant companions these past days, but something sweeter, something that spoke of hope rather than loss.

“I will wait,” he promised, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of her hand. “A year, two years, whatever period you deem appropriate. I ask only for your promise that, when the time comes, you will consider joining your life with mine.”

“Mr. Hislop,” Anne began, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Timothy,” he corrected gently. “If we are to speak of such personal matters, might we not use our Christian names, at least in private?”

“Timothy,” she repeated, the name feeling both foreign and right on her lips.

“I am... overwhelmed by your offer. Under normal circumstances, I might ask for time to consider. But recent events have taught me the value of honesty and the danger of delay. Yes. When an appropriate period of mourning has passed, I would be honoured to become your wife.”

The smile that transformed his features was like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a fervent kiss to her fingers. “You have made me the happiest of men, Anne. I shall endeavour every day to prove worthy of your trust.”

“It is not a matter of worthiness,” Anne said, surprising herself with her conviction. “But of compatibility, of shared vision. I believe we might build something remarkable together at Rosings.”

His eyes brightened at the mention of her estate. “I have ideas for the breeding programme that might complement Rosings beautifully.”

Anne found herself smiling despite her grief, captivated by his enthusiasm and the vision he described. “I should like to see Rosings become known for exceptional horsemanship again, as it was in my father’s day.”

“It shall be,” Timothy promised. “And not only the stables. Your mother preserved Rosings admirably, but perhaps without allowing it to evolve. Together, we might honour its heritage while guiding it into a new era.”

They talked for another half-hour, their conversation ranging from immediate practical concerns about Anne’s journey to longer-term dreams for their shared future.

Throughout, Anne felt a curious lightening of her spirit, as though the black weight of grief and shock had been balanced, if not removed, by this new thread of hope running through the fabric of her life.

When at last they rose to part, Timothy took both her hands in his, his expression once again serious. “I shall call at Rosings after a proper interval,” he said. “Not to intrude upon your mourning, but to offer whatever support I may as you assume your new responsibilities.”

“I should like that,” Anne replied softly. “Rosings has always felt more like a prison than a home. Perhaps, with time and different guidance, it might become something else.”

As she watched him depart, Anne pressed her fingers to her lips, still feeling the warmth of his kiss upon them.

Amidst the darkness of recent days, he had offered not escape but companionship through the shadows.

Not false promises of immediate happiness, but steady support as she navigated her grief and new responsibilities.

For the first time since learning of her mother’s death, Anne felt not only sadness for what was lost, but genuine hope for what might yet be.

“You simply must write to us the moment you are settled at Rosings,” Kitty declared, carefully folding a lace fichu before placing it in Anne’s travelling case.

The three young ladies had gathered in Anne’s bedchamber on her final evening at Darcy House, ostensibly to assist with the last details of packing, though little remained to be done.

In truth, none of them wished to acknowledge the imminent separation that morning would bring, preferring instead to focus on small tasks that kept their hands busy and their emotions contained.

“Of course,” Georgiana agreed, arranging Anne’s hairbrushes in their velvet-lined case. “We shall be most anxious to know you have arrived safely.”