Page 49 of Pride and Penniless

“You had suffered a violent shock. I would not have pressed⁠—”

She almost laughed at her husband’s excessive concern, but she remembered herself and remained placid.

“Still, I owe you an explanation, as we had worried that my uncle’s will was a farce.” She tried not to look him directly in the eye, as she was not prepared to give him the whole of the story. “Mr. Sowerby confirms that the estate exists, though mostly in illiquid assets: shipping interests and private debts owed to my uncle. There is roughly six hundred pounds in accessible cash. Several Lady Day payments are outstanding, and he means to secure them before presenting himself to settle the final accounts.”

Darcy absorbed the intelligence without visible reaction. “Then the fortune exists.”

“Yes, it does.” Now she met his gaze, finding him reserved, with none of the eagerness or relief she might have expected from a man drowning in debt.

“Then I am profoundly glad for you, Elizabeth. And for your family, who will at last be secured.” He frowned slightly. “It has consistently baffled me why your uncle chose to entangle me in such an irregular, conditional provision.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on her teacup. “My uncle was a creature of whims. I daresay he must have caught the wind of local gossip last autumn and decided it would be worth a laugh.”

She was dissembling, and she knew it, but she could not tell him that her own words had sprung this trap for him.

Mr. Darcy pressed his lips together and shook his head. “It is no laughing matter, Mrs. Darcy, but I am pleased that your inheritance is unencumbered.”

She inclined her head and sipped her rapidly cooling tea.

He seemed to draw a fortifying breath. “However our marriage has transpired, I wish you to know that I consider you…” He paused, his dark eyes holding hers with an unwavering, naked honesty that made her breath catch. “—I consider it the greatest fortune of my life to have you as my wife.”

Elizabeth felt a sudden, traitorous heat flood her cheeks. He meant it, or Uncle Henry had arranged for him to mean it, and either way it was too much sincerity for a breakfast room. “Really, Mr. Darcy, you speak as though we had not already vowed to take one another for better or for worse.”

“Then let us resolve to make it considerably better,” he replied softly, a faint, disarming smile touching the corners of his mouth.

Before she could formulate a suitable defense against such quiet gallantry, he gestured toward the open window. “And since you are determined to brave the March winds in pursuit of thrushes, I believe I shall exercise my stipulated right to accompany you.”

Elizabeth felt her color deepen further. “That is a remarkably convenient recollection of our contract.”

“It is, and I do promise to stay on my side of the path, respecting your boundaries while looking at you with an eye for stray branches, puddles, and other impediments that might prevent your enjoyment of my grounds.”

“Why, Mr. Darcy, I do believe you are flirting with me.” She dabbed her lips with a handkerchief.

“I am merely overjoyed that your headache has retreated, Madam.” He gave a small bow, and they finished their breakfast, each hardly daring to peek at the other.

The grounds stretched with the fleeting magic of early spring as they set off down the garden path with Hannah following a few steps behind—ready, in case, the mistress required salts, rosewater, or sugared almonds. The brisk air hit Elizabeth’s face—crisp, green-smelling, and alive in ways the blue chamber’s carefully tended fires could never replicate. She breathed deeply and felt a knot in her chest loosen after days of tightness.

Darcy’s arm was strong and solid as he gestured toward the lawn that sloped toward the lake. “The snowdrops are fading, but the crocuses are still at their peak, and the primroses are just appearing.”

Elizabeth looked at the patches of purple and white pushing up through the last of the winter brown, and at the pale primroses along the edges of the gravel path, just beginning to show their faces.

“They are adorable. I did not know primroses grew this far north.”

“My mother brought them from her sister’s estate in Kent.”

“Your mother planted these?”

“She did.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its formal edge. “She said they reminded her of courage.”

“They do look quite small. Do they ever freeze?”

“Sometimes. A late frost will take them. But more often they survive, and by April the gardens are full of them.” He guided her around a muddy patch in the path. “My mother used to say the trick was not minding if some of them failed. Plant enough, and the survivors will be glorious.”

“A horticultural philosophy or a general principle for living?”

“Both.” He patted her hand on his arm, and they walked on. Elizabeth opened the Bewick.

“That one,” she said, pointing to a small grey bird picking its way along the branches of a nearby hedge. “What is it?”