Well-bound classics mingled with leather-bound first editions, and here and there, Darcy spotted a few rare titles that he himself had sought for his own collection, with only occasional success. The polished walnut shelves spoke of attentive maintenance, their surfaces gleaming in the morning light, yet the library bore signs of true use—small bookmarks protruding here and there, a brass inkwell freshly filled, and a ledger left slightly askew on the writing desk, as though Sir Thomas had only recently abandoned it.
Darcy’s hand itched to pull down a book or two, to examine Sir Thomas’s interests more closely. Libraries, he had always believed, offered a window into a man’s mind, and this one suggested both discernment and intellect. He was about to step further inside when Roberts gave a slight cough, drawing his attention back to the tour.
“If you will, sirs, this way,” Roberts continued, guiding them to the adjoining door. “Through here is the master’s study. Sir Thomas often finds himself here in the mornings, particularly when matters of estate require his attention.”
The study was more intimate than the library, with a sturdy oak desk, well-worn and ink-stained from years of use. A map of the estate hung on the wall, and an array of ledgers and correspondence were stacked neatly in trays. Darcy took note of the fine leather furnishings, softened with age, and could easily imagine Sir Thomas here, working late into the evening.
As they proceeded down the hall, Roberts paused outside another set of doors. “The second drawing room,” he announced, opening the doors to reveal a spacious, elegantly furnished room. “Sir Thomas uses this room but rarely, but I am given to understand that the previous owners, Mr. And Mrs. Bromley, favored this room for receiving guests, particularly in the evenings. It has a window facing westward and a fair prospect of the fields at sundown.”
Darcy noted the faded, though once-splendid damask drapes and the slight layer of dust along the edges of the carpet. Indeed, the room had not been used in some time, though its grandeur would be easy to resurrect.
As they turned to leave, a maid approached, glancing at Roberts and leaning in to whisper something to him. Darcy could not hear the words, but he noted a brief, almost imperceptible frown on Roberts’s face before he turned back to them, his voice carefully neutral.
“It seems the weather is holding steady for now,” he said. “But snow is expected later, so perhaps you might enjoy a walk around the grounds before it arrives. The stables are well worth a visit, if you are so inclined.”
Bingley paused, looking across the hall at another set of double doors that stood silent sentry near the main entrance. “What about the ballroom?” he asked. “It seems we are already nearby.”
Roberts hesitated, glancing from Bingley to the doors, his demeanor stiffening. “The ballroom is currently shrouded, sir. Some repairs are needed, and it may not be suitable for viewing at present.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “All the more reason for us to have a look, surely? We would wish to know the extent of any repairs before making arrangements.”
Roberts’s jaw tensed, and he cast a quick glance at the maid, who was watching him closely. “If you would not mind, sirs,” he said after a pause, “Sir Thomas is best suited to discuss the specifics of any necessary repairs.”
Bingley and Darcy exchanged glances, and Bingley gave a light shrug. “Very well, Roberts. I shall speak with Sir Thomas himself. I trust you will show us the grounds, then?”
Roberts’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he gave a nod. “Yes, sir. If you would allow me a moment, I will see that your coats are brought to the door so you may view the stables and grounds comfortably.”
He turned to the maid, who curtsied and hurried away to carry out the request. Darcy watched Roberts closely, still puzzling over the reluctance he sensed in him, as if there was something more than just “repairs” behind the closed doors of the ballroom.
The estate grounds were pleasant, if not extravagant. Paths wound through modest gardens lined with bare winter trees, their branches arching over pathways that would surely be charming in spring. Darcy noted the well-kept hedges and the scattering of berry-laden holly bushes, adding a touch of color to the otherwise frosted landscape. As they moved along, Roberts pointed out a well-maintained kitchen garden and a small orchard, currently dormant in the winter chill. Bingley, clearly enjoying the fresh air and open space, remarked on the tranquility of the grounds, and Darcy had to admit the landscape had a pleasing, unpretentious quality.
They arrived at the stables to find a tall man with an eye patch just brushing the flanks of a cart horse. Mr. Jackson, the coachman from last night. Jackson nodded a polite greeting, but his brow was slightly crumpled with suspicion as he watched Darcy and Bingley surveying his domain.
His broad shoulders and firm stance were unmistakably those of a soldier, which Darcy noted with quiet approval. The man had a steady air about him, though, in the daylight, Darcy was struck by his relatively young age. Late twenties, perhaps? Darcy recalled the girl in the house—a maid, he’d presumed—who had been addressed as “Mrs. Jackson.” Could she truly be his wife? There was something strangely incongruent about it.
After examining the stables, well-kept and efficient if modest in size, they concluded their tour of the grounds and returned indoors. Roberts offered them an opportunity to “refresh” themselves before continuing, an offer that struck Darcy as unusual, though he could find no polite way to decline.
“Why not, Darcy?” Bingley chuckled as they climbed the staircase. “A bit of country leisure, I daresay! It is not as if we are in any rush.”
They were halfway down the corridor when a distinct, unmistakable sound caught their attention—a baby’s cry, clear and shrill, from somewhere down the hall. Darcy and Bingley exchanged a wide-eyed look, stopping in their tracks.
“Did you just hear…?” Bingley trailed off, staring toward the door marked with a ribbon from which the sound had come.
Darcy nodded slowly, staring at the door with raised brows. He had heard nothing about other guests, nor had there been any indication that Sir Thomas was married or had children. A brief silence stretched between them, only to be interrupted by the opening of the door.
Sir Thomas emerged, stripped down to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his forearms bared, looking markedly less formal than he had earlier. Beside him, a short, plump woman was speaking in hushed tones, but both stopped abruptly when they spotted Darcy and Bingley in the hall. Sir Thomas’s face paled as his gaze met theirs, and a flicker of unease passed over his features.
Bingley, who had never been one for circumspection, blurted, “Was that a baby, man? I say, er… congratulations?”
A resigned sigh escaped Sir Thomas, and he murmured something to the woman at his side, who quickly nodded and excused herself, casting a brief but respectful glance toward the two gentlemen.
Sir Thomas took a steadying breath and addressed them. “Indeed, it was. Perhaps… we should have a word in private. My study?”
Darcy set his jaw. At last, they were to have some answers. “Certainly.”
Ten
Sir Thomas led theminto his study, the heavy door closing with a soft but definitive thud. With a slight, apologetic gesture, Sir Thomas reached for the brandy decanter on his desk and poured a glass for each of them. Darcy observed with a trace of unease as the decanter ran dry, just as he poured the last drop into Bingley’s glass. Sir Thomas himself took none, instead sinking wearily into the large chair behind the desk.
