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Miss Darcy paused at the landing, and cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, ensuring Elizabeth was still behind her. The girl was attempting to play the accomplished hostess, but her youth and innate timidity were betraying her at every turn.

Elizabeth’s heart softened. Knowing what she knew—the devastating contents of the letter Mr Darcy had handed her in the grove of Rosings Park two months ago—she viewed the young woman with sympathy. Miss Darcy was not haughty or proud as Wickham had so maliciously claimed. She was scarred, recovering from a betrayal that would have shattered a woman twice her age. Elizabeth resolved, with fierce determination, to be nothing but a source of comfort to this fragile girl.

They turned down a wide, airy passage flooded with sunlight.

“The guest wing is situated on the opposite side, Miss Elizabeth.” Miss Darcy gestured vaguely down a different passage, her voice barely rising above a whisper. “But my brother... felt you would be much more comfortable here in the family wing. My own chamber is just through that door.”

Miss Darcy stopped before a set of double doors fashioned from gleaming mahogany. She turned the handle and pushed them open, stepping aside to allow Elizabeth to enter.

Elizabeth crossed the threshold to the green chamber, a masterpiece of refined, understated opulence. The walls were hung with watered silk the colour of fresh spring leaves, catching the light and shimmering with brilliance. A four-poster bed dominated the centre of the room, draped in velvet hangings of the same vibrant hue. Expansive sash windows offered an unobstructed view of the lake and the forested hills beyond.

“It is beautiful, Miss Darcy.” Elizabeth moved further into the room, her eyes sweeping over the delicate mirrors and the plush Persian rug covering the floor. “I have never seen a room so well appointed. I feel unworthy of such splendour.”

Miss Darcy relaxed, a relieved smile touching her lips. “I am so pleased you like it. Mrs Reynolds prepared it for you. I hope everything is acceptable.”

She moved to the window, her fingers tracing the edge of a tassel. The silence threatened to return with Miss Darcy’s unspoken desire to converse and her inability to find a suitable topic.

Elizabeth closed the distance between them, adopting a bright, conspiratorial tone. “I must confess, Miss Darcy, the tranquillity of this house is a startling contrast to my own home. You have no siblings other than your brother, I believe?”

Miss Darcy shook her head, her blonde curls bobbing. “Only Fitzwilliam. The house is quiet when he is in London.”

“You must consider yourself incredibly fortunate.” Elizabeth laughed. “I have four sisters. The noise at Longbourn is akin to a battlefield. Just before we departed for Derbyshire, two of my youngest sisters engaged in a physical altercation over a trip to Brighton none of them went.”

Miss Darcy’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “A physical altercation? You mean they... They struck one another?”

“Struck, pushed, and deployed vicious tactics.” Elizabeth lowered her voice as if imparting a state secret. “My sister Mary attempted to intervene by citing scripture, which resulted in Lydia accidentally tearing a substantial clump of hair from Mary’s head. She was clutching it in her fist like a battle trophy when I left.”

Miss Darcy pressed both hands over her mouth, a peal of laughter bursting forth. “Hair! Oh, my heavens! What did your mother do?”

“My mother demanded her smelling salts and ignored them.” Elizabeth smiled, delighted to see the tension melting from the girl’s shoulders. “So you see, you must never envy those with large families. We are feral, and our households are perilous.”

“I should not mind it.” A wistful, longing expression settled over Miss Darcy’s delicate features. “I think... I think I should much like to have a sister. Even a feral one.”

Elizabeth felt a prickle of emotion behind her eyes. She reached out, gently squeezing Miss Darcy’s hand. “They are a trial, to be sure. But they are also fiercely loyal. If you ever require a borrowed sister for an afternoon, Miss Darcy, you have only to ask. I possess a great deal of practice in the role.”

A radiant smile illuminated Miss Darcy’s face. She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand in return, a silent pact sealing between them.

“I am so glad you came to Pemberley, Miss Elizabeth.” Miss Darcy released her grip, smoothing her muslin skirts. “Even if the hounds were terribly rude to your uncle. How do you find the room, truly? Do you think the light will be too strong in the mornings? Mrs Reynolds can easily arrange thicker curtains.”

“The room is perfect.” Elizabeth turned to admire the bedstead once more. “Though I confess, it feels far too grand for a mere gentleman’s daughter from Hertfordshire. The furnishings alone are fit for royalty.”

Miss Darcy nodded, missing the subtle self-deprecation in Elizabeth’s tone. “It is the second-best bedchamber in the house. Fitzwilliam occupies the master suite at the end of the hall, but this room is reserved for the most honoured guests. Only my Aunt Matlock has ever stayed in it during my lifetime. She demands it for the view of the lake.”

Elizabeth stared at Miss Darcy, trying to comprehend what she just told her.

The second-best bedchamber.

Reserved for the most honoured guests.

Aunt Matlock.

Her mind raced, attempting to process the implications of Miss Darcy’s innocent declaration. Mr Darcy had ordered her placed in this room, not in one of the fifty empty guest chambers in the other wings of the house, meant for visitors and acquaintances. He deliberately situated her in the family wing, in a chamber reserved for an Earl’s wife.

Was it an overextension of his duty as a host? Was he attempting to compensate for the lemonade incident?

Or was it something else?

The memory of the pleading look when he begged her to stay, crashed over her with the force of a tidal wave.