Everything had changed.
And yet, standing there, with the house before her and the life she had grown into unfolding around her, it felt, in every way that mattered, exactly right.
A footman opened the front door for her, and she passed through the now-familiar halls and up to her own small sitting room.
It had quickly become her favorite retreat—light, comfortable, and very much her own. The windows stood open to admit the late summer air, and her writing desk was as she had left it, papers neatly arranged, a letter set aside where she might find it again.
Jane’s hand.
Elizabeth smiled before she had even broken the seal.
She had read it once already.
That had not prevented her from reading it again.
My dearest Lizzy,
Jane’s gentle warmth seemed to rise from the page itself, her words full of anticipation—of happiness—of the quiet, steady affection that had never once wavered between them. She spoke of their reunion, of how she longed to see her sister again, of a dozen small domestic details that, taken together, felt like home.
Elizabeth’s expression softened.
They wrote nearly every day.
It had become a habit so quickly established that she could scarcely imagine being without it.
Darcy had teased her for it only the evening before.
“You are quite determined to bankrupt me in paper,” he had said, eyeing the growing stack of correspondence with mock severity. “I believe the household accounts must now include a separate line for your letters.”
Elizabeth had laughed. “Then you may take it from my pin money, sir. I assure you, I make very little use of it.”
“Very little?” he repeated. “Your trousseau alone might argue otherwise.”
She had been forced to concede that point—though not without reminding him that every gown had been put to excellent use, including winning the goodwill of the Lambton shopkeepers.
She had made it a point—quite deliberately—to purchase locally whenever possible, rather than sending to London for every fashionable novelty. It had earned her goodwill far more valuable than any imported ribbon.
The same proved true when she redecorated a few of the rooms at Pemberley, including the mistress’s chambers. Lady Anne had preferred darker, richer colors, but Elizabeth wanted to surround herself with softer, lighter hues that reminded her of the sunshine and flowers outside.
Her musings where interrupted when Darcy appeared at the door. “There you are,” he said, his gaze settling on her with quiet fondness. “Are you ready? The carriage is loaded.”
Elizabeth rose, setting Jane’s letter carefully aside.
“Yes,” she said. “I have been ready this half hour. I was only… saying goodbye.”
He smiled faintly, understanding without her needing to explain.
She crossed the room and slipped her hand into his offered arm.
Together, they went down.
The carriages stood waiting before the house, trunks already secured, servants in place. Lady Catherine was issuing a final instruction from the first carriage, while Lady Anne and Georgiana were already seated within.
Darcy led her over to the second carriage, climbing up the steps behind her and settling into the bench at her side. The door closed behind them, and the wheels began to move.
They would stop first at Netherfield—several days’ stay, as it fell upon Elizabeth’s birthday—and then continue on, escorting Lady Catherine back to Kent before returning once more to Derbyshire.
The road stretched ahead.
