Page 50 of The Longbourn Bloodline

Behind her Kitty lamented, “Mamma says Charlotte is to sit in the family pew with us because Jane says she is our new sister. I don’t want another elder sister. Jane doesn’t pinch, but Charlotte will if I nod off.”

“Jane does indeed pinch,” Elizabeth said. “She merely pinches me, who pinches Mary, though the chain invariably breaks because Mary notices nothing short of the rector collapsing mid-sermon.”

Mary, not surprisingly, pounded the piano while Jane conferred with Cook on the menu and trimmings. Elizabeth avoided her mother’s patrolling gaze by ducking into the bootroom to check on Henry, the rabbit. She found him inside a wooden box lined with straw, nibbling on a carrot the footman had provided. His leg was almost healed, the fur having grown in over the wound from the snare.

“Happy Christmas, Miss Elizabeth,” the footman said. “We have had to keep the cat away from him, but as you can see, he shall be ready to go home soon.”

“Where has the cat been sleeping then?” Elizabeth asked.

The footman scratched his chin. “She has been missing since the gentlemen left the cottage a couple of days ago. Cook is in a state about it—says the mice have been having a holiday of their own.”

“Missing for days?” Elizabeth frowned.

“Aye, miss. I’ve looked in all her usual spots—the dairy, the hay barn, and the kitchen garden. Nothing. Cook thinks she may have followed the gentlemen’s carriage, but I reckon she’s holed up somewhere warm, waiting for them to return.”

“She would have come back to the big house,” Elizabeth said. “Unless she had jumped onto their carriage, in which case she would be clear to Derbyshire by now.”

“Could be. She seemed quite attached to the tall gentleman.”

“I shall look for her just the same,” Elizabeth said, rising from Henry’s crate.

She donned a pelisse, a wool hat, and gloves, chiding herself for the wild hope that Darcy would be at the cottage, look up at her from the ledgers with that wry, expectant lifting of an eyebrow, or Colonel Fitzwilliam with his boots on the table, leaning back until he spotted her and almost falling to right himself.

She paused in the kitchen to secure a basket of scraps from Cook and set off for the well-worn path through the orchard to the steward’s cottage where only Cleo and a few mice might take shelter.

It was quiet and dark, and the thin layer of snow outside was undisturbed. Elizabeth found the door unlatched and let herself in, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior. One of the window shutters had opened, letting in light, and she spotted Cleo curled in the armchair nearest the fireplace as though waiting for a certain gentleman to return and light the fire.

“There you are.” Elizabeth crossed the room and gathered the cat into her arms. Cleo was thin—thinner than she should have been after only four days—and she mewed plaintively as Elizabeth lowered the basket of kitchen scraps. “Happy Christmas, Cleo. I’ve brought you goose giblets, which is more than you deserve, running away and leaving the mice to run the kitchen.”

With Cleo crouched on the floor, Elizabeth smoothed her skirts and joined her upon the cold stone, observing as the cat devoured her feast and then set about washing her paws.

“You miss him, too, I see.” She rubbed the tabby with the torn ear. “Left scratches on his forearms, tore his shirt, but you thought he would come looking for you.”

Cleo purred, rubbing herself against Elizabeth, thanking her for the scraps. As she petted the cat, her eyes roved around the room and how it appeared from underneath the desk. The leaky roof had been repaired, but she still felt a draft through the walls. The plaster was crumbling, and in one of the crevices where the plaster had not quite met the beam, she spotted a folded piece of paper, shoved into the wall as if it were a treasure map.

Curious, Elizabeth pulled it free.

It was a single sheet, folded twice into exact thirds, the paper thick and fine—the sort a gentleman might keep in his writing case. Elizabeth unfolded it as there was no seal, and recognized the hand at once.

Her heartbeat surged as she carried the letter to the unshuttered window where the pale light revealed blots and a shaky hand, without any salutation. It was Darcy’s script, but for whose eyes?

There were three questions, each on its own line.

Will you think of me?

A blot. A gap.

Will you miss me?

Another blot, larger than the first, as if he had pressed the nib down and held it there.

Will you not think too ill of what I confessed?

Then a longer pause: an inch of blank paper where he had set the pen aside and resumed with ink a shade fresher, blacker, as if he had dipped the nib and settled his resolve.

I came for you. I stayed for you. I surrendered everything for you.

And you gave me nothing.