I waved my hand, sobering. “Forgive me, dearest. I merely want you to know your worth. Although...” The memory of George Darcy’s smiling countenance earlier that morning caused me to flush unaccountably. “Eligibility takes many forms. And genuine attachment must supersede other considerations, or what is the point?”
Jane opened her mouth to reply when a crash sounded down the passage. We turned to behold Anne Rose happily dismantling the hall table urn. As we rushed over amidst fluttering curtains of ostrich feathers, I firmly banished all thoughts of gentleman callers for now. My present charge demanded far too much focus for drifting into pleasant daydreams of golden hair and laughing blue eyes.
“Lizzy, might I ask you something?” Jane kept her voice low, glancing pointedly toward where Anne Rose sat, absorbed in scattering rose petals across the carpet.
I straightened from righting the luckily unbroken vase, intrigued. “Of course!”
Jane moved nearer, dropping her tone further. “When I was upstairs, changing into my work gown earlier, I looked outside. I—I could not help but observe you deep in discourse with Mr. George Darcy in the garden.” At my startled look, she rushed on, “Please do not mistake me. I do not mean to pry! Only he seemed uncommonly… attentive in his manner.” She bit her lip. “I merely wondered if you think his intentions bear scrutiny?”
I felt an unaccountable flush steal into my cheeks and busied myself, brushing off my apron. “Oh Jane, what fanciful notions! We were but renewing childhood ties after a long separation.” Even to myself, the denial rang hollow. I forced a teasing smile. “Next, you shall have us clandestinely betrothed!”
My sister surveyed me silently for a long moment from beneath delicately arched brows. “And if that were the case... would his addresses be so thoroughly unwelcome?” she asked gently. “I see how he looks at you, Lizzy.”
I twisted my hands together, pulse jumping erratically. “It would be the stuff of all my girlish dreams come true,” I whispered finally. “But alas, some dreams linger as only that—lovely but insubstantial visions.” I shook off the momentary melancholy, brightening even as a nameless pang caught in my chest. “Come now, we have had enough matchmaking for one morning! Let us tackle this menu plan while Miss Anne is so obligingly occupied.”
Thatafternoon,AuntGardinerinsisted that Jane and I each seek our leisure. Jane, dear girl, wanted nothing more than a good lie down. I, however, pulled on my boots and bonnet and took to the hills.
I wandered slowly through the gently rolling fields behind the manor house, my feet finding the path more by rote than conscious thought. My mind drifted, only vaguely aware of cows grazing placidly as I passed or swallows wheeling overhead in preparation for their long journey south. Try as I might to focus on my surroundings, my traitorous thoughts kept returning to dashing blue eyes and a devastating smile promising everything I had long dreamed of.
What was I to make of George’s sudden attentiveness? The old camaraderie between us had ever possessed a special understanding. But dare I read the deeper meaning behind his pointed looks and warm clasp of my hands today? His mystifying hints of awaiting changes haunted me. My practical nature argued against investing in premature hopes where cold reality must eventually intrude. And yet...
Caught in restless reverie, I had wandered some way from home. I had been careful this time not to let my feet stray to the road that would carry me heedlessly to Pemberley. Nor was I going in the direction of Lambton. Glancing up, I found myself standing atop the gently sloping ridge that formed Farthingdale’s western border. Pemberley’s folly beckoned enticingly in the distance, framed between an embracing pair of ancient oaks. Unthinking, I moved to perch atop the worn boundary stone wall, drinking in the achingly familiar view.
How vividly I recalled that one particular time I was there with the Darcys. Early autumn had set the trees aflame with vivid color, and Fitzwilliam had gone away to school. In another year, George would be going as well, but not yet. Mr. Darcy had taken George and me for one last picnic before the weather turned foul, his mood uncharacteristically subdued during the long walk to the folly. Upon arrival, he had drawn out a much-annotated volume of poetry, leaving George and me to race unchecked through the fallen leaves.
When I paused eventually in my play, breathing hard beside the silent figure on his bench, Mr. Darcy had become so lost in melancholic reflection he scarce noticed my approach. Only after several repetitions of “Sir? Father?” had he glanced up wearily to meet my concerned gaze.
His face had cleared faintly, and for a few seconds, he came back from wherever he had been. “Yes, Poppet?”
“Are you sad, Father?”
His eyes had gentled instantly, large hand cupping my small one where it rested on his sleeve. “You are observant as ever. I confess that after ten years, I still mourn my dear Mrs. Darcy. The season reminds me of the day we met.”
My small brow had furrowed. “Then you should not be sad to think of her today.”
One silvered brow lifted. “Oh?”
I traced the intricate gold ring on his hand. “Remembering happy things helps them stay close.” I leaned my tousled head confidingly against his broad shoulder. “Fitzwilliam said that when he went away last month. He gave me a ribbon. See?” I had tugged a soiled blue ribbon from a pocket in my dress. It had been Fitzwilliam’s bookmark, but upon seeing my tears at his departure, he’d given it to me to remember him by.
Mr. Darcy regarded the rumpled ribbon, eyes crinkling gently. “What a thoughtful gift from your brother. He is growing into a fine young man.” He folded his large hand tenderly over mine. “Keep your ribbon safe. I am certain whenever you look at it, you will find happy memories very near.”
I smiled sadly, the intervening years between then and now feeling like an insurmountable chasm. I had kept Fitzwilliam’s little gift for years until my sister Lydia one day snatched it, losing the precious memento almost instantly. I had cried for its loss, feeling as if more cherished pieces of those I loved slipped irrevocably away.
Remembering the echo of such loss now in the senior Mr. Darcy’s resigned features, something in my heart whispered caution through longing joy. No matter the hurt he had once caused me, he had been the very best of men. And such a man could never have wished me harm.
So, whathadbeen his purpose in sending me away? I turned back to Farthingale, more restless than when I had ventured forth.
Sixteen
Darcy
Idroppedanotherhandfulof fraying parchment onto my overflowing desk with a frustrated sigh. It seemed my father had been more fastidious regarding record keeping than maintaining useful correspondence. Three hours spent digging through an entire drawer of dated ledgers had yielded nothing but increased resentment over past secrets.
Restless, I abandoned the latest moth-eaten ledger and began pacing the Turkish rug instead. There must be some key, some trail overlooked, that would explain the missing history of the smiling, dark-eyed phantom haunting Pemberley’s halls and my imagination these past days. Pausing near the window, my gaze wandered instinctively downhill toward Lambton as though half expecting a rider even now approaching with long-delayed elucidation.
“Your pardon, sir. Will there be anything further tonight?”
I started slightly. My usually unobtrusive butler awaited direction beside the quietly closed door, his deferential posture indicating curiosity despite neutral features. I raked a hand through my hair, my frustrated exhale stirring abandoned pages on the desk.
