He had never disobeyed his father. Never once, though he had, at times, longed to do so. And now the man was beyond reach, beyond argument—and still managing to issue commands from beyond the grave.
“You have no objection to marriage itself, I assume,” Dyer added. “Simply to the timeline.”
That earned a humorless laugh. “I object to being auctioned off by the calendar like a bull in need of breeding.”
Dyer cleared his throat. “Well. That is one way to put it.”
Darcy rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had not slept properly in weeks. Pemberley’s land records were still in disarray, the steward had retired, and Georgiana smiled less frequently now that she had a new governess—one who thought sentiment was the balm of the lower class. His life, once a clean progression of Latin verse and Greek philosophy, had unraveled into ink-blotted ledgers and legalese.
He had no room for a wife yet.
Eventually, of course. He had always known what would be required of him. He would marry. He would produce an heir. He would preserve the estate his father had handed down.
What he hadnotexpected was to be badgered into it like some fumbling schoolboy behind on his sums.
“Iwillcomply,” he said at last. “But I will do so on my own terms. My own timeline. The trust allows me five and a half years, and I shall take them. When I marry, it will not be at the pleasure of my uncle, nor my aunt, nor a band of trustees sniffing after influence.”
Dyer nodded slowly. “Very well. Then I shall inform the board you are reviewing the matter and intend to act accordingly.”
He did not ask when. He knew better.
Darcy reached for his gloves. His hands had not stopped shaking since last October.
As he left the office and stepped into the white heat of early summer, he felt the full weight of it settle on his shoulders again—not grief, not duty, but the bitter knowledge that his father’s last lesson had come too late:
No one escapes legacy. Not even the unwilling.
The wheel hit arut and Elizabeth Bennet bounced in her seat, her shoulder thumping lightly against Jane’s. Acrossfrom them, Mary gave a soft, martyred sigh and tightened her grip on her copy of Fordyce’s Sermons, as though they might offer ballast.
Elizabeth turned back to the window. The hills were rising now—low and green and untamed—spotted with sheep and dry stone walls that unraveled across the landscape like abandoned threads. It was not wild, precisely, but it was not Longbourn, either. And thank heaven for that.
“Are we very near, Aunt?” she asked, not for the first time.
Mrs. Gardiner gave her an indulgent smile from beside her husband. “Another half-hour, I expect. Lambton lies just beyond the ridge.”
Elizabeth grinned and settled back. “If it were any farther, Mary might complete the entire sermon on prudence before we arrive.”
Mary lifted her chin without looking up. “There is no wrong time for moral instruction.”
“Except possibly when the hills are too pretty to scold,” Elizabeth murmured, but Jane’s quiet elbow persuaded her to leave the matter there.
This was not the first time Elizabeth had visited Derbyshire, but it had been years—probably at least ten, so her memory was but faint. Mr. Gardiner, when not absorbed in matters of trade and shipping, had a fondness for travel. He and Mrs. Gardiner had planned this excursion in the spring and invited her with such natural pleasure that Elizabeth could not help but accept. Jane had been added to the party as a matter of course—no one refused Jane anything—and Mary had insisted upon joining with the air of a volunteer for sainthood.
Kitty and Lydia had not been invited. Elizabeth suspected that Mr. Gardiner had decided he liked his sanity too much to see it scandalized by misplaced flirtation.
“I still cannot believe how green everything is,” Jane said quietly, drawing back the curtain. “It is softer than Hertfordshire, somehow.”
“It is older,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “The rocks know more secrets.”
“Now you sound like a Gothic novel,” Elizabeth teased.
“Do not tempt her,” Mr. Gardiner said from the opposite seat. “Last time we stayed in Lambton, she told me the bedposts whispered warnings in the dark.”
“They did,” said Mrs. Gardiner serenely. “You simply do not listen.”
Elizabeth smiled and let the chatter pass over her. She was not impatient, not really, but there was something in her chest that buzzed like a trapped bee. It had been building ever since the road began to climb, and she could not quite say what it was—excitement, perhaps. Or dread.
Her hand drifted to her satchel, fingers brushing the worn leather edge of her journal. She did not open it—she would not—not while Mary was within peering distance. But still, the weight of it was oddly steadying, as if the act of writing could settle the things she had not yet named.
