Page 7 of Return to Pemberley

T he evening drew in with a subtlety that belonged only to Derbyshire, the light draining first from the park and then from the house, until the study was illuminated by nothing but the reflection of waning day upon pale blue walls.

Elizabeth had moved to the window, one of Lady Anne’s letters unfolded in her hand, and stood reading its contents with a concentration so complete that she was unaware of the slow encroachment of shadow.

She held the sheet at an angle, tilting it to catch the last possible rays. The script, though small, was as steady and legible as a printed page, and each phrase seemed to echo in the hush of the room.

“…our arrangement regarding the western fields is as delicate as ever, and I am determined to honor the assurances given, though I fear the claims of cousin Thomas will always prove a source of contention. I beg you to urge discretion upon his part, for the present master is proud, and does not suffer suggestion well…”

Elizabeth read the passage aloud in a murmur, as if hearing the cadence would assist in its understanding.

The reference to the “present master” could only mean Darcy’s father, and the implication—that there had once been a standing agreement, perhaps even an obligation, to cousin Thomas—caused her to read back through the preceding pages, searching for clarification.

She found only scattered allusions—“the matter of the entailment,” “your family’s expectation,” “the unfortunate necessity of silence”—but together they painted a portrait of a dilemma unresolved, and perhaps deliberately obscured.

She returned to her desk and arranged the letters in chronological order, weighing them carefully as she set them down.

The earliest were brief, almost clipped, but as the years advanced Lady Anne’s tone became more open, the confidences deeper, as if she had grown accustomed to confiding her doubts to a sister who was not always sympathetic but was always loyal.

Elizabeth made note of each date, writing them out on a slip of paper, and with each new discovery felt her curiosity sharpen to a point.

The name recurred several times: “Thomas Blackwood.” Always with a degree of familiarity, sometimes as “dear cousin Thomas,” and once, in a particularly candid line, as “the only man who ever dared challenge the Darcys, and was neither ruined nor banished for it.” The phrase amused Elizabeth, but also struck her as significant.

In all her reading of the family’s history—so fastidiously kept in the Pemberley records—she had encountered no mention of a Blackwood, at least none of consequence.

Who was he, and why did his claim—if indeed it was a claim—haunt the correspondence of Lady Anne?

She was in the midst of composing a mental sketch of the man when the soft rattle of a tea tray announced another visitor.

This time, Mrs. Reynolds entered unbidden, her carriage a model of propriety but her eyes alive with a shrewdness that would have made Elizabeth laugh, had she not been so preoccupied.

“I thought you might wish for a little refreshment, ma’am. It is some time before dinner.”

Elizabeth accepted the cup, pleased as always by the housekeeper’s knack for anticipating need. She gestured to the desk, where the papers lay sorted in neat columns. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. These letters are most absorbing. I wonder—did you ever know of a Thomas Blackwood, in your years here?”

Mrs. Reynolds set the teapot down with a faint clink, her hands never losing their composure.

“Blackwood, ma’am? The name is familiar.

There was a family of that name in the north, I believe.

They were related to the Darcys, though not closely.

I remember the old master spoke of them now and again, but it has been many years.

The line died out, I think, or else removed to another part of the country. ”

Elizabeth noted the housekeeper’s careful neutrality. “Did they ever visit Pemberley?”

“Not in my time, ma’am. There was some… misunderstanding, I believe, though nothing of which anyone would speak openly. The Darcy family has always maintained proper relations with their connections, madam, though some branches have, from time to time, fallen into… obscurity.”

The pause before the final word was so slight that a less attentive ear might have missed it, but Elizabeth caught the meaning.

Mrs. Reynolds was not one to speak ill of the family, even to the mistress herself.

Yet there was a shade of reluctance in her tone, a quiet sense that certain topics were best left undisturbed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds,” Elizabeth said, warming her voice with gratitude. “You are, as ever, a repository of the house’s best traditions.”

This elicited the faintest hint of a smile. “It is my duty, Mrs. Darcy.”

When the housekeeper had departed, Elizabeth sat for several minutes in thoughtful silence, sipping her tea and contemplating the box’s secret.

The letters and document together suggested a matter unresolved, a history not entirely erased.

She felt the weight of her responsibility as the current mistress—not merely to preserve the status quo, but to act, if action was required.

Yet another part of her hesitated. Darcy had always been open with her, had never made a secret of the estate’s history, and she disliked the idea of concealing from him anything that might bear upon his inheritance.

And yet—and yet—she knew the pride and the loyalty with which he regarded his family’s name.

To present him with an unfinished story, one lacking proof or even context, would be a disservice.

Better, she decided, to assemble all the facts first, and then bring them to him in a spirit of partnership, rather than alarm.

Darcy had married her for her judgment, after all—though whether he always welcomed its exercise was another matter.

She collected the papers, smoothing each sheet with a deliberate gentleness, and returned them to the box.

This time, she locked the drawer, slipping the small iron key into the pocket of her dress.

The act, though minor, gave her a sense of agency—a belief that she could shape the story, rather than merely react to its revelations.

Night had fallen fully by the time she rose from the desk and walked to the window. The grounds of Pemberley lay invisible, cloaked in darkness, but Elizabeth could sense the living, breathing presence of the estate—the rooms still, the air dense with the promise of what tomorrow might bring.

She leaned her forehead lightly against the cool glass, closing her eyes for a moment.

There was much to consider, but for the first time, she felt herself not a stranger to the burdens of stewardship, but an equal participant.

Whatever secrets the house contained, she would face them with her own judgment, her own wit, and the steadfast knowledge that she was, at last, equal to its challenges.

With a quiet smile, she turned from the window, smoothing the folds of her dress with the careful attention of one accustomed to correcting both linen and circumstance.

She left the study with Lady Anne’s letters tucked away as neatly as a secret in one’s pocket—safe, yet promising mischief for the morrow.

Questions would surely greet her with the morning, and answers—if they proved willing—would arrive in due course.

For now, however, Pemberley lay in a dignified hush, and Elizabeth, taking some credit for the estate’s compliance, allowed herself the modest satisfaction of feeling, at last, more mistress than interloper.