Chapter 26

Pemberley, Derbyshire

Henry rose early the next morning and rang for Tindall, intending to get in a longer ride on Lucinda before breakfast. She had been restive yesterday, and Henry had found himself even more restive last night. When they had come to the split between passages yesterday, he had found himself longing very much to be paired off with Kitty Bennet. It was inappropriate, and yet he had wanted it, and he could not understand why that was. Henry liked women very much, it was true, but to wish to lure an unmarried young lady off down a dark corridor? That was not the sort of man he was.

What he had come to understand over a glass of brandy before bed is that he had wanted to go off with Kitty just to be with her, to be in her presence, to try to amuse her. That was a dangerous realisation, and he needed to keep familial friendship on his mind, when next he saw her. He needed to take better care around her. They – and Caroline Bingley – were the only single people in the household. Henry scrunched up his face at the thought of Miss Bingley. There was a fortune for the asking, and Henry would rather die a bachelor than ask.

For now, he would return to the safe female in his life, dear Lucy, and try to dissipate some of the nervous energy that seemed to be stealing over him. Tindall was prompt and efficient as usual, and as a distraction, Henry asked him whether there had been anything interesting afoot in the house.

"Do you mean aside from giggling and shrieking emanating from odd places?" Tindall asked, one eyebrow slightly raised.

Henry suppressed a chuckle. "Probably a pair of debutantes murdered in their beds some years ago, come back to haunt us all."

"Of course, that does seem the most likely scenario," was Tindall's dry rejoinder.

Lucy was pleased to see him, and still more pleased to have a good, long canter down the lane that led to Pemberley Woods. The morning mist had not entirely cleared, and Henry reined her down to a walk as they neared a thicker patch. He glanced about him and felt the glory of the morning: the mist, the birdsong, the pure country air, the dear creature beneath him. He sighed and felt a sense of peace. What was coming in the future was likely to be difficult, but here, now, in the present, everything was lovely.

Such peace could not last forever, but Henry's was particularly short-lived, for when he returned to the stables, there was the cart in the yard with what remained of the Darcys's post-chaise strapped to the top. He handed off Lucinda to a groom and walked over to the decimated equipage. Also examining it was Wallace, the Darcys's head coachman.

"I don't think it can be saved, sir," stated Wallace. "Nasty accident, that were. Worst I've ever been through. 'Tis a miracle everyone survived – save poor Blaze."

"Yes, it was." Henry began looking over the post-chaise. He was not entirely certain what it was he should be looking for, but it had occurred to him after the accident that there was a possibility it was not an accident. He knew Neston, the sort of hatred the man was capable of, and Henry thought Neston might have wished to do away with Elizabeth before the trial. It certainly would have saved Neston a great deal of testimony that had proven embarrassing to him.

Most of the damage was comprised of splintered wood and bent iron – the men had cleaned up all of the broken glass before transporting it. One of the wheels was particularly mangled, and Henry lifted it from where it sat on the bed of the cart, looking it over.

"I think that's what started it," Wallace said. "Wheel gave out and then the whole shooting match went. I checked the wheels before we set out, though – always do."

The metal tyre was dented and twisted, and much of the wood as splintered as the other damaged portions of the carriage. But not all of it, Henry realised. Half of the spokes were gone, the other half splintered, and where many of the spokes should have connected the inner hub and the outer felloes, the wood was a clean cut rather than splintered. Someone had cut it, Henry realised, his stomach lurching.

It would have been difficult to notice when the carriage set off, but as the miles had passed, the wheel would have weakened progressively, until the wrong rut in the road had made it fail entirely. It was possible Wallace had looked over the wheel and also not noticed it, or that the wood had been sawed through after he had made his inspection. Henry did not suspect Wallace – he had worked for the Darcys for better than twenty years, starting out as a groom and working his way up through the stables' hierarchy – nor did he think it likely any of the other stable staff had done it. But on a busy morning, with multiple carriages being prepared, baggage coming out and all the other related chaos that comes in a stable yard before such a journey, it would have been fairly easy for someone from outside the estate to slip in and sabotage the post-chaise.

Henry wished for Kent. He was always useful, but he would have been tremendously useful at present. Perhaps he could convince Darcy to hire Bow Street Runners to investigate this, and bring Kent back in that capacity. It would not be fair to recall him otherwise.

He needed to talk to Darcy, first. As he walked back to the house, Henry began considering the fire at the Cross Keys. Was that a part of this, as well? Fires happened, of course, but the timing of that one was suspicious, coming so soon after the Darcys's post-chaise had been sabotaged. Fortunately, Henry was able to catch Darcy just before he went into the breakfast-room, and so only Elizabeth was witness to his asking if he could speak to his cousin in private.

They walked to Darcy's study, and once inside, he said, "You look troubled, Henry. What is it?"

"The accident with your post-chaise was not an accident. The wheel was sabotaged – cut where some of the spokes met the hub and the felloes."

"Good God!"

"I fear Neston may have wished to ensure some sort of negative outcome for your family, whether at the assizes or on the road there. At first, I thought his target was Elizabeth, but now with this South Sea fortune, I wonder if that might have been part of this."

"Elizabeth said the Beauford family had lost a great deal of money in the South Sea Bubble. I think there may have been some long-held grudge on their part, towards my family. If they knew of my great-grandfather's profits, resentment would have bred easily enough."

"Ah – I knew there had been some loss of fortune years back, but not that it was the cause. So was Elizabeth some pawn in whatever Neston's game is?"

Darcy looked as grieved as Henry felt. "I fear she might have been."

"I have also been wondering if the inn fire is related. It could have been a coincidence, but the timing is suspicious."

"I think for now we should proceed as though it was intentional, and set by Neston. I will set watches and ensure the house is secured at night."

"Best post signs against trespassing, as well."

Darcy nodded knowingly. "Good point, I shall. Henry, you have known the staff while I have been gone – is there any one of them you think could have done this?"

"No, do you?"

"No. Pemberley's servants have always been loyal. But I am glad to hear you agree."

"I would like to have Bow Street investigate – soon, if not at present, I will have two men there who have served under me, and I would entrust Kent with anything."

"If they know we suspect Neston, it will likely get back to him. I do not want to make matters worse by it."

"Nay, I will write two letters, one to Bow Street requesting Kent's assistance, and one to Kent directly. He can investigate who Neston might have hired to do this – I am almost certain he would not have done the deed himself. If Kent finds himself in need of additional assistance, he may seek Pratt's help."

"I like this plan," stated Darcy.

"Let us hope he finds something. Until then, we must be vigilant."

"There is something else we can do: find that South Sea fortune – or prove it does not exist."

"So we continue with the treasure hunt?"

"Yes, but I think there may be another way of finding what happened to it. If it was recorded as deposited in Pemberley, somewhere there may be records of withdrawals."

"Oh, so you only need to go through a hundred years of estate records. That sounds easy enough. You enjoy yourself with that – I prefer to search the house, with the ladies."

Darcy glared at his cousin and said they ought to go to breakfast.


Henry proved that his remark had been a mere tease when he assisted his cousin in pouring over the estate books in the following days, leaving the ladies to much of the searching, first in the passages and then in the other locations on Darcy's list.

While he appreciated his cousin's help, Darcy had begun to sense a particular restlessness on Henry's part and had sent him off to search with the ladies on this afternoon. He rubbed his eyes, more to take a moment before continuing through 1742 than to dispel the mild bleariness that came from staring at ledgers for hours upon end. Thus far, they had found no evidence of any of the South Sea fortune's having been deducted from the ledgers – not even a single guinea. Darcy's logical nature made him feel certain that the money was still to be found, either somewhere within the house, or in the ledgers. He just wished they could find it faster and be done with it. Of course once it was found – one way or another – he would need to confront Neston, but that was also something he would rather have done with.

There was a knock on the door, and Darcy called out that the knocker should come in, presuming it would be Henry. Instead, it was Georgiana. Darcy brightened and rose to lead her to a seat, but she said,

"I shall not be long. I am here as a messenger – your sons begged me to inform you that they would very much like to go sailing today."

Darcy frowned, realising that he had been neglecting much of his family over the past few days, save his wife. Georgiana he understood to be quite well occupied in the nursery, but he owed the boys a sailing outing, and he was pleased they had thought to ask their aunt of it. Nor could he deny that it would be pleasant to take a break from the books for some hours.

He informed Georgiana that he would indeed take the boys sailing, but when she made to leave, he told her to wait. As quickly and concisely as he could, he informed her about the South Sea fortune, that the rumours were indeed true. She was as shocked as he had been, but when pressed to think of any potential places where it might be hidden, could only name a few locations that had already been on Darcy's list. In a half-hearted tone, she asked if she could be of assistance in the search. Darcy said that would not be necessary, to her visible relief – and his concern. Darcy had many worries at present, and his sister's growing attachment to Julia was one of them. All would work out well if Elizabeth decided to give the child over to the Colbournes, but regardless of how much he loved his sister, Darcy could not influence his wife towards this outcome. It was Elizabeth's child, and therefore Elizabeth's choice. He had done all he could at present, and could only hope Georgiana's heart would not be broken again. Darcy had seen that once in his life and did not want to see her endure that pain once more. He might have discouraged Georgiana from spending time in the nursery – might have taken up her offer to be of assistance in the search. Yet he also knew that her growing attachment to Julia would have an influence on Elizabeth's decision. All he could do at this point was to pray the outcome was best for all of them.

They walked upstairs together, and Darcy was about to follow his sister towards the nursery, but instead turned and went to his dressing-room. There, still hanging in the wardrobe, was his woollen gansey. He contemplated it for a few moments before unbuttoning his coat and donning it, grateful that he had not taken it with him to Derby and thus lost it to the inn fire. Darcy thought of Jory and Eseld, and felt a strange sort of homesickness overcome him. He continued to think of them as he went to the nursery to collect the boys and walk them out to the boathouse. It was strange to be able to remember both the Trevillses and his own parents, particularly his father and Jory: the man who had taught him to sail on this very lake, and the man who had been his sailing partner for years. Elizabeth had feared he had felt the burden of too many responsibilities, had enjoyed an easier life, but Darcy wondered if perhaps he had stayed so comfortably in Jory and Eseld's lives because it had been like having parents again, because it had been so wonderful to be praised and loved like a son. And all the while, you were absent from the lives of your own sons when they needed you.

After what Henry had told him about the post-chaise, he felt compelled to make a very thorough check of the boat before he would take them out, but it was sound as ever, gliding along the lake. Darcy enjoyed a few minutes of this sweet, simple peace of pure sailing, his children laughing and exclaiming their delight. Then his mind filled again, recalling the time he had brought Elizabeth here. He could still see her, almost as well as that day, her face turned towards the sun and her eyes closed, those long, lovely lashes gracing her skin. He had committed himself on that day to trying to restore the life they once held, to running this estate and moving in society. The former had come back easily enough, while the latter he no longer wished to pursue. He was not certain Elizabeth would agree – he could still recall her bitter words about what she had sacrificed, for society. Yet he did not think it would make either of them happy, and he hoped that when her bitterness passed, she would agree with him. So much had changed since that day, Darcy thought, and yet one thing had not: whatever he did, it would be for her.


The nursery was much quieter, with the boys absent. Both of the girls were napping, and Georgiana ought to have gone down to find company elsewhere in the house. However, most of her favoured relatives were likely to be off searching for this South Sea fortune – Georgiana was glad her brother had explained this to her, for she had begun to wonder over their absence from the usual rooms of the house – and Philip had gone riding with Charles Bingley. Which meant company was Jane and Caroline Bingley, and while Georgiana did like the former very much, she had already suffered more than enough fake overtures of friendship from the latter over the years. No, she would much rather remain in the stillness of the nursery; she had brought a book here some days ago, and it provided her with a far more pleasing occupation than sitting in company with Caroline.

After some time, Julia began to stir and then to fuss. Wilson rose, but Georgiana motioned that she would take the baby and went to the cradle to pick the child up. A quick check of Julia's tailclout proved that was not troubling the baby and so Georgiana held her, to see if the child merely wished for comfort. Georgiana knew just how to soothe her, and within minutes the baby had settled in her arms. Carefully, Georgiana sat back down in the chair, holding the gurgling child. She loved all of her nephews and nieces, of course, but oh how she adored this baby! The sweet, trusting nature of her, the way she responded when cuddled, even just the lovely smell of her all produced the deepest love in her aunt's breast. Love and longing, of course, but Georgiana tried not to think about that.

She did not know how long she sat there with the baby before she saw Philip enter. He stood in the doorway for some minutes, his countenance serious.

"How was your ride?" Georgiana asked, concerned.

"It – it was good. G, may we talk, privately?"

She nodded, giving the baby over to Wilson and following him out of the nursery. "There is a sitting-room, just down the stairs," she said. It was one of her favourites in the house, especially decorated for her by her brother. They walked there silently and Philip closed the door behind him, leading her to sit on the sofa with him.

"G, I do not think it is good for you, the amount of time you're spending in the nursery," he said. "Particularly with Julia. She is not yours."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Do you think I do not understand that?"

"Of course not, G, but we will not remain here forever. We will purchase our own home, and – "

"Our own home, with an empty nursery," said Georgiana bitterly. "I understand what you are trying to say, Philip, I do, but just – please – let me enjoy what time I have with her."

"I am sorry, G. Both for upsetting you, and that our nursery will be empty."

Philip always tried to claim the blame for their continued childlessness. It was kind of him, and Georgiana loved him deeply for this and so many other things. She would still have chosen him, even if she had known this was what they would face, and yet it would have been a far more painful choice.

She embraced him. "I know you are trying to protect me, but please let me have this time. And – and I would like to settle near Pemberley, if we can, so I can see her – them – more often."

"I had thought you would want to settle near Pemberley regardless. I know how close you were to your brother – and will be again, I hope, now that he is returned."


Elizabeth was surprised to find so many of the occupants gone from the nursery. Wilson informed her that William had taken the boys sailing, but Georgiana had become so much a fixture of the room it was strange, to find her absent. They had little more than an hour before dinner, so perhaps Georgiana had gone down early.

Wilson was holding Julia, and gave the child over to Elizabeth without Elizabeth's asking. She wondered if she would have done so, and realised in that moment that she had been thinking of Julia as Georgiana's child, not her own. It was strange, Elizabeth thought, that she could ever come to such a point when she knew she had borne the baby: knew it, but could hardly remember it, nor the days that had followed. Perhaps she might have been better able to forget the child's conception, had ill health not robbed her of that time and those memories. Perhaps if she had been well enough and allowed to suckle the child at her own breast, that time would have bonded the two of them together. Perhaps not. She could never know.

Elizabeth allowed herself to imagine – fully, completely imagine – a world where Georgiana was Julia's mother, where the child was gone from Pemberley's nursery and home, living with a mother who adored her. A nursery where three children remained, all effortlessly beloved by their parents. It seemed wonderful, but more than that, it seemed right. In that moment, Elizabeth knew she had made her decision. It was complete. She would let William know first, and then they could approach the Colbournes.

The sound of little thumping feet in the hallway informed her the return of the boys was imminent. They came tromping in, little William shouting, "Ready to tack?" and little Henry replying, "Aye!"

Elizabeth laughed, her heart feeling lighter now that the decision was final. The sudden ruckus in the nursery awakened little Elizabeth, and she sat up in her tiny bed, looking groggy and confused. Her eyes alighted on the elder William.

"Papa!" she cried, and she was lifted up from bed by that man, snuggling into his embrace.

"I think soon enough you will be getting old enough to come sailing if you would like, my sweetling. And perhaps we might convince mama to come with us as well."

"Mama! Saywl!"

"Oh, my darling, that is another word!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "How proud I am of you!"

"Mama!" the child reached out towards her.

"Here, why do we not trade," said William, approaching Elizabeth and Julia. The elder girl was given over to her mother, the younger carried off. The daughter, and the niece. It felt right.


They observed precedence going in to dinner, but given they were a family party, Elizabeth had encouraged everyone to mix themselves up at the table every night so as to enliven things. At least that was what she said – Henry felt certain this was so none of them had to suffer Caroline Bingley for multiple nights in a row. Henry had paid that penance last night, and so after he pulled out Elizabeth's chair and seated his hostess, he gazed about to see how the others were settling and was pleased to claim a space between Georgiana and Kitty. Too pleased, perhaps.

The soup came out, and he turned to Kitty. "So what are you reading about now, Miss Bennet? What historical subject has your present interest?"

"I am reading about the Tudors, although I have had a little less time for reading, of late," she said, with a little private smile.

"Ah, yes. So which wife is your favourite?"

"Oh, I am not reading about that." She scrunched up her nose, rather adorably. "I am reading about the Battle of Bosworth Field."

Henry chuckled. "I stand corrected."

An historic battle was just the sort of subject to well occupy an avid reader and a military man for a goodly portion of dinner, and it had been a very long time since Henry had been so well occupied in conversation with a lady. Indeed, the only thing that interrupted them was a conversation from the other end of the table, which eventually encroached on the entire party. Henry's attention was drawn when Miss Bingley asked Georgiana whether she would like to go to Matlock on the morrow. It appeared she had already proposed the idea to at least some of the others, and no-one's countenance was enthusiastic as to the notion.

"Caroline," began Jane, "I do not believe any of us has a particular wish to travel anywhere, at the moment."

"But the Marchioness of Huddersfield is said to be there, to take the waters. And we have hardly done anything, the past few days."

"Caroline, I believe you forget this was not meant to be a house party – this was a gathering of family, for a very serious event."

"Yes, but now that the event is over and the outcome was positive, we should celebrate. Eliza, what say you? Surely you were not purchasing any new dresses while you thought you might go to Botany Bay, and there must be some mantua-maker in Matlock. It will not be town quality, of course, but it will be something."

Darcy looked as though he was ready to order Caroline out of the house at that moment, but it was Elizabeth who replied, if not levelly, than at least more levelly than her husband would have done: "Most of my wardrobe remains in town, but I have sufficient for a quiet life in the country. I think you for the consideration, but I prefer to remain at home."

"Caroline, you may meet marchionesses and shop all you wish when you go to Scarborough," stated Charles. "As soon as I hear back from our aunt, you may depart and leave our dull company behind."

This caused Miss Bingley to turn bright red, and Henry felt certain there was not mutual agreement that she should go to Scarborough – that it was instead a punishment for showing up uninvited. For his own part, and – he suspected, the rest of the party – he was glad to hear she would be leaving their company. Henry could not say Caroline Bingley was like having a wolf in their mix – he would not give her the credit. Rather, she was like a snake. A grass snake – not venomous, but aggravating when she bit.

"I do not wish to go so far as Matlock, but I will go to Lambton with you tomorrow, if you would like," said Jane, ever the peacemaker.

"I suppose so," stated Caroline.

"I should have picked her up and thrown her out of the house," whispered Kitty, and Henry laughed so hard he had to feign a coughing fit.


William was so livid over Caroline's behaviour at dinner that evening that it could not but take up the first few minutes of conversation, after the Darcys settled into bed that night. He was very nearly ready to order her dismissal from the house, and only Elizabeth's reminder that such an action would be tremendously embarrassing for the Bingleys would stop him. He must have caught something in her countenance as she responded, for he laid his hand on her cheek and said,

"Something else is troubling you, I think."

"I would not say troubling me, but yes, there is something else I wish to speak of. I – I have made my decision about Julia. I wish to give her to the Colbournes." She was startled by a sudden sob, and soon found herself weeping.

William drew her into an embrace and asked, "Are you certain? Clearly it upsets you."

"I – I think some part of me will always feel that I failed her, as her mother. But it feels right, that Georgiana become her mother. You were right – she can love her in a way I will never be able to."

He nodded. "Do you wish to talk to Georgiana and Philip tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Shall we invite them to my study after breakfast?"

"I think that is a good plan," she said. "William, thank you for approaching this delicately. I know you want your sister to be happy, and I am the one who can give her the one happiness that has been denied to her."

"I did not wish to pressure you," he said. "But I do believe this will be the best outcome, for all three of you. In time, too, I hope this feeling that you failed as her mother will lessen. You will see her in her new home, happy and thriving with a mother and father who love her very much."

Elizabeth was reminded of her feeling earlier, that Julia already belonged to Georgiana, and thought he was likely right. There would be pain and guilt in the beginning, but in time she would see her daughter thrive with her new family.