Elizabeth recognised the invitation for what it was, another attempt to draw her from the brooding introspection that had claimed them both. Since their return, he had made numerous such overtures, seeking her company with a frequency that spoke of his own need for comfort as much as concern for hers.
“That would be pleasant,” she agreed, grateful for any distraction from the emptiness that seemed to echo through every room.
Their walk proved more companionable than their stilted breakfast conversation. Away from the house with its constant reminders of loss, they managed something approaching natural discourse. Darcy pointed out seasonal changes in the plantings whilst Elizabeth offered observations about the gardeners’ work, both grateful for topics that did not circle back to their absent child.
“I have engaged the services of a thief-taker,” he said suddenly as they paused beside his mother’s memorial fountain. “A local man named Hartwell who specialises in investigating questionable documents and fraudulent claims.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened at this evidence of active resistance to their situation. “What manner of investigation?”
“He will examine the circumstances surrounding Wickham’s supposed marriage to Ambrose’s mother. The timing, the witnesses, the parish records—everything that might reveal inconsistencies or outright fabrication.” Darcy’s jaw tightened with familiar determination. “If that certificate is false, as I suspect it must be, we shall have grounds to challenge the court’s ruling.”
“And if it proves genuine?”
“Then we explore other avenues. Birth records, military service documentation, and financial arrangements. Wickham has left a trail of deception throughout his adult life. Somewhere in that trail lies evidence of his unfitness as a parent.”
The methodical way he outlined their strategy provided her with more hope since leaving London. This was the man she had married—not the grief-stricken father who had barely spoken during their journey home, but the master of Pemberley who commanded resources and respect throughout England.
“I confess it comforts me to hear you speak so,” she said. “These past days, I have felt quite helpless against the magnitude of our loss.”
Darcy’s expression softened as he studied her face. “Neither of us is accustomed to helplessness. Perhaps that is why this defeat cuts so deeply, we are used to shaping our circumstances rather than being shaped by them.”
Their conversation continued as they completed their circuit of the gardens, each finding solace in the other’s company. Elizabeth noticed how Darcy’s shoulders gradually relaxed as they spoke, how the rigid tension that had marked his bearing since London began to ease. She, in turn, felt the suffocating weight of despair lift slightly under the influence of his unwavering resolve.
That evening found them in the drawing room with books they barely pretended to read. The fire crackled cheerfully in the grate, yet its warmth seemed unable to penetrate the chill that had settled over their domestic arrangements since Ambrose’s departure.
“Nothing will ever be the same without him,” she whispered, voicing the truth they both carried. “Every meal,every walk, every quiet evening—his absence colours everything we do. How do we learn to live with such a void?”
Darcy rose from his chair and moved to the sofa where she sat, settling beside her with a tender look on his face. And when he spoke, his voice carried a warmth that settled pleasantly over her heart.
“We survive by refusing to accept this separation as permanent. We endure by maintaining faith in eventual reunion. And we find strength in the knowledge that our love for him remains constant, regardless of physical distance.”
His words, delivered with quiet conviction, wrapped around her wounded heart like a healing balm. She allowed herself to lean slightly against him, drawing comfort from his presence in ways she had not expected when they first married.
“I should like to send some gifts to my family at Longbourn,” she said after a lengthy silence. “Perhaps selecting thoughtful tokens for them would provide me with some distraction, and I confess I feel the need to remind them that I think of them despite our current troubles.”
“An excellent notion. A trip to the village would do you good, and your family would surely appreciate knowing you remember them during such difficult times,” replied Darcy with an encouraging expression. “Your parents will be relieved to learn that marriage to me has not destroyed their daughter’s thoughtful nature.”
His attempt at levity drew a smile from Elizabeth. “Only partially destroyed, I assure you. The worst damage was inflicted by circumstances beyond your control.”
“What manner of gifts did you have in mind?” he asked, clearly pleased to see her engaging with something beyond their immediate grief.
“Ribbons for my younger sisters, perhaps some fine tea for Mama, and books for Papa. Small things that will remind them they are loved, even from a distance.” She paused, then added more quietly, “I find I cannot bear the thought of visiting just yet—of having to explain our loss repeatedly, of seeing the pity in their eyes. But I can still show them affection through carefully chosen gifts.”
***
The following morning found Elizabeth in the village of Lambton, grateful for the simple pleasure of selecting gifts for her family. The familiar rhythms of commerce provided blessed distraction from weightier concerns, whilst the shopkeepers’ respectful interest in her welfare reminded her that life continued beyond the boundaries of grief.
She was examining a display of handkerchiefs when an elderly woman approached with the confident bearing of someone accustomed to offering unsolicited advice.
“You have the look of someone carrying a heavy burden, my dear,” the woman said without preamble. “I am Beatrice Hartwell. My nephew speaks highly of his recent employment with your husband.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened with recognition. “You are related to the thief-taker Mr Darcy has engaged?”
“Indeed. Young Thomas tells me you have suffered a great loss recently—a child taken from your care through legal machinations.” Beatrice’s weathered face creased with sympathy. “I have lived through eighty-three years of joy and sorrow, prosperity and hardship. If I have learned anything, it is that even the darkest circumstances contain seeds of eventual redemption.”
“I confess I sometimes struggle to see how our situation might improve,” Elizabeth replied, touched by the woman’s kindness.
“Child, I have seen justice delayed but not denied more times than I can count. Men like this Wickham individual—they always overreach eventually. Their greed blinds them to the consequences of their actions, and they inevitably provide their enemies with the weapons needed for their own destruction.”
