The phrasing was casual, almost careless—queries about recent finds, about collectors, about the proper handling of objects of historical interest. It was precisely the sort of inquiry one might make out of idle curiosity.
Except it was not idle. Not at all.
Has my father already disposed of the treasure?she wondered.How could he do it without telling me?
A rush of betrayal followed hard on the thought. She had found it. She had unearthed it with her own hands, felt the weight of centuries resting against her palms. How could he act without her? How could he decide alone?
“Elizabeth?”
Mr. Bennet entered the room. “What are you doing?”
She spun toward him, the letter clenched in her hand, all careful restraint abandoned.
“Where is it?” she hissed, unable to contain her anger.
Her father stopped short, surprise flickering across his features before resignation settled in its place. Mr. Bennet sighed and shut the door behind him, the soft click of the latch sounding unnaturally loud in the charged silence.
“It is in the floor safe,” he murmured, kicking the edge of the rug up to reveal the heavy lid. “I did not deem it wise to keep it in the open any longer. The treasure-hunting fervor has yet to subside, and I did not wish to risk potential theft.”
Elizabeth’s gaze followed the motion, her anger wavering into something more complicated—relief, swiftly followed by frustration. He had not sold it. Not yet. But neither had he resolved the matter.
“Then you mean to contact the correct authorities?” Hope rose in her chest. Her voice softened despite herself, as though gentleness might coax the answer she longed for.
“I have not yet decided. Though your courtship proceeds apace, and Jane receives the attentions of two men, nothing is settled. I cannot put my family’s future at risk.”
The words landed with force. Her hopes fell as quickly as they had risen. The familiar ache returned—this endless waiting, this moral limbo in which he seemed content to linger while she frayed under the strain.
She shook her head in disappointment, unable to find any response that would not turn sharp. Her father watched her closely now, lines deepening at the corners of his eyes.
Her father placed a hand on her shoulder, and she stiffened.
“I must go,” she murmured, moving away before he could say anything further.
She dared not trust herself to speak. Not without anger spilling over, and saying things that could not be taken back.
Once safely in her chamber, she collapsed on her bed and screamed into her pillow. The sound was muffled but fierce, torn from a place deep in her chest where frustration, fear, and helplessness tangled together. Tears threatened, and she rolled over and stared up at the canopy above her, tracing familiar patterns in the fabric as she struggled to steady her breathing.
How much longer until I must confide in Darcy?
The question had haunted her for days, hovering at the edges of every conversation, every stolen glance, every moment when she felt his attention sharpen because her own thoughts had strayed.
Elizabeth did not wish to wait any longer. The waiting had become unbearable. She loved him, and he deserved to know what bothered her. He deserved honesty, not evasion and half-truths. She could feel his concern when her mind wandered,when her replies came a fraction too late, when she withdrew into herself without meaning to.
Darcy would know what to do. The certainty of it settled her in a way nothing else had. He would not dismiss her fears, nor brush aside the law with careless indifference. He would weigh it and whatever counsel he offered would be grounded in principle as well as compassion.
Elizabeth would tell him soon. The decision steadied her resolve even as it filled her with dread. There would be consequences—of that she was certain. But secrecy had already cost her peace of mind. And she was no longer willing to pay that price alone.
Darcy had never thought himself a man inclined to flight. As he stood in Mr. Phillips’s small but well-appointed study, listening to the scratch of pen upon paper as the final terms were set down, he felt something very like relief settle upon him.
Purvis Lodge was modest—considerably smaller than Longbourn and far removed from the grandeur of Pemberley—but it was solid, well kept, and, most importantly, separate. It would serve.More than serve,he thought. It would grant him distance from a household that had grown increasingly volatile, and space enough to think, to act, and to protect what mattered.
Mr. Phillips cleared his throat and set down his pen. “Given the uncertainty of your plans,” he said carefully, folding the document, “I am willing to offer the lease on a rolling monthly basis. It allows you flexibility, Mr. Darcy—and it spares me the trouble of finding new tenants should circumstances change again.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Your accommodation is appreciated. I would not bind you—or myself—longer than is prudent.”
Richard, leaning against the mantel with his arms crossed, grinned openly. “You see, cousin? I told you it would be straightforward. Country gentlemen value plain dealing.”
Mr. Phillips smiled faintly. “That we do, sir. And I should say—having two such tenants is no hardship at all.”
