Page 22 of Return to Pemberley

"Quite specific indeed," Elizabeth replied with that particular sparkle that accompanied her moments of greatest satisfaction. "Though I believe we may consider her objections adequately addressed, at least for the present."

The remainder of the day passed in purposeful activity.

Darcy composed several letters while Elizabeth, her mind finally at ease, took the liberty of reorganizing a section of the library according to principles that seemed eminently sensible to her, if perhaps unconventional to previous generations of Darcys.

It was only as the afternoon light began to slant golden through the tall windows that Elizabeth allowed herself to contemplate the broader implications of what they had set in motion.

The Blackwood claim, once merely a troubling possibility hidden among old papers, had now taken on the substance of moral obligation.

There would be correspondence to conduct, interviews to arrange, and quite possibly—should justice demand it—restitution to make.

Yet she found herself curiously untroubled by these prospects.

For the first time since becoming mistress of Pemberley, she felt herself to be not merely its occupant but its conscience.

In that role, she discovered not the isolation of responsibility but the particular satisfaction of having one's principles both understood and supported.

She moved to the window and gazed out across the familiar prospect of lawn and parkland, reflecting on how the view might appear to future generations.

If the Darcys yet to come remembered her at all, she hoped it would be as a woman who had taken the business of justice as seriously as she did the business of household management—and had found both, in their way, essential to the proper conduct of domestic happiness.

Raising her teacup in a private toast to the day's work, she drank to the house, its history, and the promise that its future might prove worthy of its best traditions.

O n the morrow following the aftermath of their deliberation, as the morning sun dappled its rays across the gilded spines, the library retained an air of latent expectation, as if the books themselves awaited a further pronouncement.

Darcy, usually content to resume his pursuits at the desk or to confer with Harrow on the matter of rents and repairs, instead moved restlessly about the room.

His progress was a study in controlled agitation: he traced the border of the hearthrug with the toe of his boot, then crossed to the west window and stood with arms folded, his gaze fixed on the winter landscape beyond.

Elizabeth, observing him with the delicacy of a naturalist noting the habits of a rare bird, held her silence until the rhythm of his movements suggested a readiness to speak.

He did so at last, his voice more contemplative than before.

"I confess myself less astonished by the substance of these revelations than by their manner of presentation.

My father was a gentleman of the strictest principle, yet one not always given to transparency, even with those closest to him.

There were matters—I now perceive—which he deemed it prudent to withhold. "

He turned from the window and resumed his pacing, each turn shorter than the last, as though the field of battle had contracted.

"I am reminded of an incident during the winter of '95, when a letter arrived from Lambton.

My father received it in the blue drawing room, and I recall—" here his brow furrowed, as if the effort of recollection were almost physical—"I recall the alteration in his countenance, as if he had received intelligence of the gravest nature.

He consigned the letter to the flames immediately, and passed the remainder of the evening in profound silence.

When I ventured to inquire whether anything was amiss, he replied only, 'There are obligations in this world, Fitzwilliam, which cannot be discharged in coin alone, but demand the currency of memory.

A gentleman of our name must ensure that all such debts are honoured, whether monetary or moral. '"

Elizabeth, recognizing in this anecdote the very shape of her own suspicions, produced from her notes a slip of paper and read aloud: "'Should the Blackwood family resume its rightful place in Derbyshire, let them remember the kindness owed them by the house of Darcy; and if the question of boundaries remains unresolved, it must be met with all charity.

' Lady Anne to her husband, December 1763. "

Darcy stilled, the abruptness of his halt underscoring the impact of her words. He accepted the paper from her hand, read it twice, then let it fall lightly to the desk. "The obligation, it would appear, extends beyond mere legal requirement to encompass the demands of honour itself."

He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture that betrayed more than any speech the disturbance of his thoughts. "What remains unclear to me is whether the Blackwoods have ever pressed their claim, or whether this burden of conscience has been carried in vain anticipation."

Elizabeth, now in the role of careful interlocutor, replied, "The parish records are silent on any formal petition.

However, the correspondence suggests that the Shepherd's Lot was at some point conveyed—whether by lease, loan, or grant is not specified—to one Thomas Blackwood, a cousin to Lady Anne.

The precise terms appear to have grown increasingly obscure with each passing generation. "

"Indeed." Darcy's acknowledgement carried both resignation and resolve.

"If the grant bears authenticity—and I perceive no reason to doubt its legitimacy—then honour demands its fulfilment, regardless of personal inclination.

" He paused, clearly struggling with his next words: "I cannot pretend the prospect affords me any satisfaction.

To relinquish land that has been considered ours for the better part of half a century is no small matter.

Nor is it easy to contemplate that my father, for all his virtues, may have failed in this particular duty. "

Elizabeth observed the deepening lines about his mouth, evidence of the struggle between inherited pride and the principles of justice he had so often championed.

She spoke with gentle precision: "You are accountable only for present actions, not past omissions.

It lies within your power to remedy what has been left undone, and in so doing, to heal rather than perpetuate the wound. "

He regarded her intently, and in his eyes she read both the cost of such concession and the relief of having the path made clear. "You speak as though the matter were one of simple arithmetic."

Her smile held more mischief than triumph. "I would not presume to suggest that any decision of true consequence could be reduced to mere calculation. Yet surely the arithmetic of conscience, once properly tallied, admits of clearer resolution than the tortured mathematics of self-justification."

He considered this observation, then gave a short, rueful laugh. "I perceive you mean to transform me into a philosopher, madam."

"I should hardly attempt such presumption where nature has already provided so apt a pupil," she replied, her tone restoring a measure of lightness to their discourse.

"Though I confess myself curious whether your philosophical inclinations extend to the practical application of these elevated principles. "

Darcy resumed his pacing, though with considerably less agitation than before.

"I must own myself surprised to find that consultation with my wife on matters of estate law proves both illuminating and.

.. unexpectedly congenial. Your investigations have displayed a thoroughness—and a discretion—that would have earned the commendation of my father's most trusted advisers. "

Elizabeth felt warmth rise in her cheeks, but met the compliment directly. "I aspire to nothing more than faithful service to this house and its people. If such service occasionally requires the questioning of established assumptions, I trust I may depend upon your forbearance."

"You have it unreservedly—and my gratitude besides." He reached for her hand with sudden decision. "Pemberley could not have asked for a more devoted mistress."

She accepted his hand, and in the silence that followed, felt the last vestiges of uncertainty dissolve, replaced by a partnership more formidable than any opposition that Lady Catherine—or indeed the world—might devise against them.

When he released her hand, it was with renewed purpose.

"Tomorrow we shall consult with Harrow. If any Blackwood survives to press this claim, we shall address the matter with all due expedition.

Should none remain, we must determine what steps will best serve both legal propriety and the honour of our name. "

Elizabeth inclined her head with formal satisfaction. "Very well. I shall ensure that all pertinent documents are prepared for Mr. Harrow's review, and inform Mrs. Reynolds to expect his attendance at whatever hour proves most convenient."

"After breakfast, then. Let us afford this matter no further opportunity to fester in uncertainty."

The deep breath he drew seemed to release a burden that had long constrained him.

The remainder of the day proceeded according to the usual customs of the house, yet with a perceptible difference—a new sense of true partnership, an acknowledgement that the weight of inheritance need not be borne in solitude.

At dinner, though their conversation touched upon the commonplace matters of weather, harvest, and village concerns, it never strayed far from the unspoken alliance that had been forged that morning.

Even Georgiana, sensitive to the altered atmosphere of the household, appeared more at ease, her countenance reflecting the quiet confidence that now characterized both her brother and his wife.

Only later, as Elizabeth prepared for bed, did she allow herself to contemplate what had transpired.

Standing before the window, the vast indifference of the night sky spread beyond the glass, she considered the modest yet significant victory of the day.

She had not merely uncovered a secret, but had earned the privilege of revealing it; had not simply hazarded her position, but had secured it more firmly than ever before.

She drew the curtains, extinguished her candle, and settled between the covers, her mind at perfect peace.

Whatever tempests the morrow might bring, she knew she would meet them not as an interloper, but as the true mistress of Pemberley—and as the equal partner of the man whose name and honour she now shared.