Page 65

Elizabeth had to know. She had pleaded, quietly but with urgency, that they stop at the estate—that someone, anyone, might offer more than rumor.

But her uncle, noting the deepening dusk, had gently insisted it would be improper, even fruitless, to call at so late an hour.

Better, he had said, to wait until morning—after rest and clear-headedness had returned.

Elizabeth had nodded, outwardly acquiescing. But her mind did not rest.

Sleep, when it came at all, was shallow and broken.

She lay for hours with her eyes on the ceiling, not only anxious, but ashamed—ashamed that she had let doubt take root where love had once stood certain.

The steady creak of the inn offered no comfort.

She had believed he had withdrawn—that his silence had been a choice.

But now, knowing what she did, she felt the weight of misjudgment more keenly than any uncertainty.

If he had been able to write, he would have. Of that, she was now sure.

But something had happened. What it was, she dared not name—but she knew he was not lost. And yet a darker fear whispered otherwise.

No. She would not believe it. Her mind recoiled from the image, even as doubt gnawed at the edges.

He was not careless. He was not cruel. If he could have written, he would have.

She had done her best to remain steady—clinging to memory, to his character, to the quiet conviction that love, once known, could not vanish without trace. But as the candle at her bedside guttered low, even that slender thread of hope felt frayed beyond holding.

"He is not dead," she told herself. And that, at last, she chose to believe.

She dressed quickly and crossed to the window. The sky outside was pale and damp with the remnants of night rain, the streets of Lambton still quiet beneath the soft haze of early morning. She did not know what the day would bring—but she knew where it must begin.

A gentle knock came at the adjoining door.

“Lizzy?” her aunt called softly. “Are you awake?”

“I am,” Elizabeth answered. “I’ll come down shortly.”

“Take your time, dear. We’ll leave whenever you’re ready.”

Elizabeth lingered at the window another moment, her eyes tracing the road that wound beyond the village. He is not here. But that road may lead to answers. And I will find them—and him.

Then, with steady hands, she turned from the sill and finished dressing .

Downstairs, the inn had come to life with the stirrings of a new day—boots scuffed softly along the corridor, voices called across the yard, and harness buckles clinked as carriages were readied for travel.

The scents of warm bread and damp earth drifted in through the open doors, mingling with the cool hush of early light.

Mr. Gardiner stood near the hearth, reading a small slip of correspondence the innkeeper had passed along—likely something from his clerks in town. He looked up as Elizabeth entered and offered her a kind smile, folding the paper into his pocket.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “I had been thinking—perhaps it is best we go directly to London after all. If what we heard last night is true, and Mr. Darcy was indeed injured there, it’s the place we are likeliest to learn something. If he is still recovering, his physician or cousin may know more.”

Elizabeth did not return his smile.

Instead, she clasped her hands before her, steadying her voice with care. “Uncle… Aunt… before we leave Derbyshire, I must ask you for one thing.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked up from where she was adjusting her gloves, a flicker of concern passing through her expression. “Yes, dear?”

“I need to go to Pemberley,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Before we go to London.”

Mr. Gardiner blinked, clearly surprised. “To Pemberley? But—my dear, you are a stranger to them now. They may not receive you.”

Elizabeth’s gaze met his directly. “I may be a stranger to them. But they are not strangers to me.”

There was a pause.

She turned to her aunt, her tone softening.

“I do not expect to find him there. Not after what we heard. But if anything has happened—if he has been injured or cannot speak for himself—his household may know. They may have received word. Or… they may know where he has gone. I must try. I will regret it forever if I do not.”

Mrs. Gardiner was already nodding. “Of course, Lizzy. You need not explain further.”

Mr. Gardiner studied his niece for a long moment, and then gave a single, decisive nod. “Very well. We shall call. But I’ll say this much: if they do welcome us, I shall be greatly surprised.”

Elizabeth gave him a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Uncle. ”

“Only let us go prepared,” he added with a touch of his usual wryness. “We do not go as invited guests but as quiet inquirers. We shall not be turned out without cause, but I shall not press them if they offer none.”

“No,” Elizabeth agreed, her voice low. “I would not ask you to.”

“Then let us breakfast quickly and be on our way,” Mrs. Gardiner said, already drawing her shawl about her shoulders.

The moment passed, but its meaning lingered. As Elizabeth followed them out into the brightening morning, she felt her pulse quicken—not from fear, but from purpose.

She did not know what they would find at Pemberley, but she knew she had to go.

There could be no more hesitation, no more second-guessing.

She was done doubting her instincts—done silencing the one voice that had never yet failed her.

That voice, quiet but resolute, told her what she must do: go to Pemberley.

The green hills passed unseen. Elizabeth’s thoughts moved faster than the carriage. She needed a plan.

It had not been the moment to speak of it in the carriage, but once they arrived, she would have to act—and swiftly. Someone at Pemberley must know the truth. But she could not simply walk to the door and demand it. Not now. Not as she was.

Mrs. Reynolds, ever loyal, ever discreet, would not betray her master’s confidence—not to a stranger. And a stranger was precisely what Elizabeth would appear, no matter what she remembered.

The steward was dutiful, the gardener reserved, the stable master silent. They would speak of weather and road conditions, of horses and repairs—but not of Mr. Darcy.

But perhaps… Molly.

The name surfaced unbidden. A kitchen maid, scarcely more than a girl, all freckles and nervous energy, with a heart that spilt into words before she could think to guard them.

In the life Elizabeth remembered, Molly had come to Pemberley shortly after her marriage—bright-eyed, breathless, and entirely too open for her own good.

She had wept over broken crockery, whispered a footman’s awkward proposal, and confided in Elizabeth about the cook’s temper with all the innocence of a heart that could not help but trust.

If, by some mercy of timing, Molly was already part of the household, there might yet be a chance.

And even if she was not—grief is not so easily hidden.

However loyal the staff, sorrow settles into the walls of a house.

It echoes in corridors left too quiet, in routines subtly disordered, in eyes that glance away too quickly and never quite return.

Pemberley would not speak—but it might still reveal.

Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap. Others might keep their silence—but she would not let uncertainty silence her.

She would seek out the truth herself, quietly but with resolve.

; she would seek them out herself—steadily, without fanfare.

If someone—Molly or another—possessed even a fragment of truth, she would be ready to hear it.

As the carriage crested the final hill above Lambton, the village rooftops broke through the summer trees. Elizabeth sat taller—not in pride, but in readiness. She was not a visitor now. She had not come to admire. She had come because hope, once lit, ought not to be extinguished without effort.

And then, the gates of Pemberley.

Her breath caught.

The house stood just as it had in memory—elegant, serene, its stone facade bright in the morning sun. Ivy curled neatly along the walls, the gravel drive swept clean. It was unchanged. And yet she was not.

She descended from the carriage, her boots striking the stones with quiet purpose. These were paths she had once walked in wonder, in joy. Today, she walked them for truth.

They had not reached the door before it opened.

A woman stepped out—erect, composed, her cap crisp, her expression cool. Elizabeth knew her instantly.

“Mrs. Reynolds,” she said, the name escaping her more gently than intended.

The housekeeper gave a shallow nod. “Good day,” she said. “I regret to inform you that the family is not receiving callers. Mr. Darcy is not in residence, and the house is presently closed. There are no public hours.”

Mr. Gardiner removed his hat with courteous ease. “We understand, ma’am. We mean no intrusion. My niece has an acquaintance with Mr. Darcy, and we had hoped—briefly—to inquire after his health. A personal matter, nothing more.”

Mrs. Reynolds’s gaze shifted to Elizabeth. Appraising. Reserved.

Elizabeth met her eyes. “We heard… troubling reports,” she said carefully. “Only rumor. But if Mr. Darcy is well—if he is merely in London—we would be grateful to know it. ”

At this, Mrs. Reynolds’s expression cooled further.

“I am sorry, miss,” she said, with just enough curtness to be noticeable.

“The master’s affairs are not a subject for public conversation.

We have had more than one stranger inquire under polite pretenses these past weeks.

I trust you will excuse me if I do not oblige. ”

Elizabeth felt the blow of it—sharp, though not unearned. To Mrs. Reynolds, they were nothing more than unfamiliar travelers, hinting at connections they could not prove. And Mr. Darcy had ever been a man whom others sought: for his name, his fortune—rarely, if ever, for his friendship.