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She swallowed, then asked quietly, “May I ask—does a maid by the name of Molly Jones work at the house?”

Mrs. Reynolds hesitated—barely more than a breath—but Elizabeth caught it.

“No,” she said at last. “No Molly Jones works here.”

Something in Elizabeth’s chest shifted. Of course. She had come too soon. Molly had not yet joined the household. Not in this version of time.

“She is not one of yours, then,” Elizabeth murmured. “But… Jones is a tenant name, is it not? On the northern field?”

This time, Mrs. Reynolds's posture altered slightly—not alarmed, but watchful. “Yes. That family holds one of the smaller farms, I believe. But I cannot say more. If you will excuse me—”

“We won’t trouble you further,” Mr. Gardiner said quickly, stepping forward with a respectful nod. “Thank you for your time.”

Mrs. Reynolds inclined her head and, without another word, turned and disappeared into the quiet of the house.

Elizabeth stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the gravel where the door had closed. No welcome. No answers. But perhaps… a sliver of possibility.

They had only just reached the edge of the drive when Mr. Gardiner glanced back at the great house and shook his head.

“I think we had best be on our way, Lizzy,” he said gently. “There’s no good to be gained from lingering where we’re plainly unwelcome. I don’t like to see you pressed so.”

Elizabeth did not respond at once. Her eyes were on the road ahead, her hands clenched loosely at her sides .

Mrs. Gardiner, watching her niece with quiet worry, reached for her arm. “My dear… perhaps it is time we accepted there is nothing more to learn here. I would not have you suffer more than you must.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said, her voice soft but composed. “I know you are both trying to spare me.”

She turned to face them fully, her gaze steady. “But I must ask one more thing. The Jones farm—just past the northern fields. I remember the path.”

Mr. Gardiner looked at her, concerned. “I am sure you do, but Lizzy, what do you hope to find? If Mrs. Reynolds cannot—or will not—speak, I do not see how a tenant might do better.”

Elizabeth folded her hands before her, not pleading but resolute. “When I asked about Molly Jones, Mrs. Reynolds hesitated. Not long, but enough. I am almost certain she knows the name—and is choosing silence.”

She paused, then added with quiet certainty, “The staff are loyal. Well-trained. But tenants are not so closely watched. And grief… grief does not always heed discretion.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with concern. “Elizabeth… are you quite sure?”

“No,” she admitted. “I am not sure. But I feel it—deeply. I cannot explain it properly, but something tells me there is a reason to go. If I do not, I shall regret it. Even if they say nothing, even if it leads nowhere… I must try.”

Mr. Gardiner sighed, folding his arms across his chest. “It is not the sort of call we are accustomed to make. Most irregular.”

“But not impossible,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Please, Uncle.”

There was a pause. Mrs. Gardiner turned to her husband and gave a small, encouraging nod. “It would ease her mind.”

He looked from one woman to the other, then at last relented. “Very well,” he said with a faint, reluctant smile. “But only a short visit. If we learn nothing, we return to Lambton before evening.”

Elizabeth’s relief was immediate. She stepped forward and took his hand. “Thank you. Truly.”

It made no more sense to visit the farm than it had to visit the house.

And yet, something had told her to go to the house—and now something stirred again, just as surely.

She had not trusted her instincts before, and it had led to doubt.

She would not make the same mistake twice.

She could not explain why she believed the truth waited there—but she did. And now, at last, she would follow it.

The farmstead at the edge of the Pemberley lands was modest and well-kept, its stone walls worn smooth by generations of wind and weather. A collie barked once from the yard as they approached, and Mr. Gardiner called out a friendly greeting.

The door opened. A woman of about forty appeared—kind-faced but cautious.

“Good afternoon,” Mr. Gardiner said, removing his hat. “We’re visiting from Lambton and hoped to inquire after a young girl named Molly Jones.”

The woman’s expression cooled. “Molly’s our daughter, sir. She’s inside.”

Elizabeth stepped forward. “We heard she’s to begin service at the main house.”

“That’s so. Next week, God willing.”

Her flat tone made the conversation unwelcome.

“We mean no harm,” Elizabeth said gently. “Only… we had hoped she might know something of Mr. Darcy. There have been troubling reports.”

The woman frowned. A man stepped into view behind her—broad-shouldered, sun-browned, and watchful.

“Our Molly’s fourteen,” he said, not unkindly. “She hasn’t begun work yet, and she’s no gossiper. And if she had heard something, I wouldn’t have her share it with strangers.”

Elizabeth flushed. “Of course. I understand.”

“Folk’ve been sniffing around all week,” he added. “But the master’s business is his own.”

Mr. Gardiner gave a respectful nod. “Quite right. We thank you for your time.”

The woman’s face softened. “No offense meant. But there’s been too much talk already.”

“None taken,” Elizabeth replied, though her heart sank.

They turned back toward the lane. The walk felt longer now, each step heavy with disappointment.

“I am sorry, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner said quietly. “We did what we could.”

Elizabeth managed a faint smile. “And I thank you—for indulging me. ”

But the ache in her chest remained. She had chosen Pemberley over London—not blindly, but with hope kindled by memory.

Her aunt and uncle had supported her, kindly, though their counsel had pointed toward London.

Now, with nothing but unanswered doors behind her, Elizabeth felt the familiar sting of doubt return.

What if she had chosen wrong? What if this detour had cost them precious time?

A locked door. A loyal housekeeper. A girl not yet arrived. She had followed her instincts—had insisted upon them—believing they would lead her to truth. And still, they had found nothing.

If he had needed her, and she had gone the wrong way—how could she ever forgive herself?

Mrs. Gardiner placed a gloved hand on her niece’s arm. “We should return to the inn,” she said gently. “We can depart for London in the morning.”

Elizabeth gave a faint nod, though her eyes remained fixed on the road ahead—torn between disappointment and the echo of some instinct that refused to fade.

Then, just as the carriage curved past a narrow break in the trees, a glint of sunlight caught something ahead—a flash of motion on the road. The low rumble of wheels—not their own—stirred faintly in the distance, and Elizabeth leaned forward, her heart stuttering.

A dark carriage crossed the lane, sleek and unmistakable.

Then she saw it: the gold stag of Pemberley, glinting on the door like a sign drawn from memory.

A sudden beat quickened in her chest.

It might be anyone—his sister, his cousin. Or it might be him.

Had they turned toward London, she would not have seen it. Had they left a moment earlier, she would have missed it entirely.

Her hand flew to the glass.

"Stop the carriage," she said.