Page 108 of The Crown’s Gift

Light showed beneath the library door.

Sir Thomas sat at his desk with a book open and unread.

"I thought you had abandoned late-night hiding," Elizabeth said.

"I reserve it for emergencies."

"Is tomorrow an emergency?"

"For your mother, certainly."

She entered and sat opposite him. For a while neither spoke.

"I used to believe this room was where you loved us least," Elizabeth said.

Sir Thomas looked around the library. "You were not entirely wrong."

"No. You loved us. You simply preferred us outside the door."

He closed the book. "I thought affection was a feeling, and therefore sufficient if felt. I did not understand that love unseen is often indistinguishable from indifference."

Elizabeth's eyes filled.

"You made me certain of being loved," she said. "Eventually."

"I am sorry for the years before."

"I know."

He took a small object from the desk drawer: the broken wooden horse from the old nursery, its missing wheel still absent.

"You carried this everywhere when you were four. You named it Socrates because I told you philosophers ask questions."

Elizabeth laughed softly. "I remember Lydia chewing the tail."

"I kept it after we moved."

"Why?"

"To remember that you once asked me every question without wondering whether I wished to answer."

He placed it in her hands.

"Take it to Pemberley."

Elizabeth ran her thumb over the worn wood. "It has one wheel."

"Then it should feel at home in marriage. Progress will not always be smooth."

She came around the desk and embraced him.

"I shall miss you, Papa."

His arms tightened. "And I you."

"You will write?"

"When agricultural reports permit."