“Traits all men should prize,” Elizabeth declared. Her own husband had once told her that he’d admired her for the liveliness of her mind. “Meanwhile, your mother’s family worked to arrange a marriage between her and Lord Everett. If your mother and father formed an attachment during his first visit, Easter must have seemed very far off, indeed — particularly since they could not with propriety correspond with each other directly. When and how did your father next write?”
The next letter on the stack was smaller than the others, and multiple crease lines indicated that it had once been well folded. He opened the note. “April.”
Elizabeth smiled. George Darcy had not wanted to leave Riveton without ensuring that Lady Anne knew she had won his regard. In a house full of people on a busy morning of departure, how had George delivered the note? Had he pressed it into Anne’s hand upon parting? Conveyed it through a servant?
“A clandestine letter. Are you shocked by your father’s impropriety?”
“Yes.” Darcy considered a moment. “And no. He was not a man to leave anything to chance. If something occurred shortly before his departure that caused her to doubt him, he would not have quit Riveton without finding some means by which to communicate his intentions. His persistence was one of the qualities I admired most in him.” He refolded the letter, his expression contemplative.
She realized their discovery of his parents’ private communication was no doubt triggering countless memories, and she hoped most of them were pleasant ones. She took her stack of letters and came to him so they could read them together. “I believe this note of your mother’s responds to his. Apparently, your mother also was not one to leave anything to chance.”
There followed other letters from George and Anne’s brief engagement and the first year of their marriage. The letters exchanged when business called George away or Anne visited a friend were few; once united, it seems the two had been nearly inseparable. More abundant were brief notes left, by the sound of them, on pillows and in pockets. One of these Darcy refolded without reading aloud.
She tilted her head to see his face. “Darcy — you are not blushing?” She took the note from him, read it herself, and giggled. “Oh, my!”
His countenance turned still more crimson. “One prefers to remain ignorant about some things regarding one’s parents.”
“Then we shall not leave such evidence behind for our own child to discover. She might figure out how she came to be.”
The expressions of newlywed bliss gave way to anticipation of their first child. By the time Elizabeth and Darcy depleted the ribboned stacks, they had followed Anne and George through their eldest’s first year. When Darcy’s rich tenor voice ceased reading the final letter, she opened her eyes but remained curled against him, her head resting against his chest.
“They clearly had a happy marriage. And it sounds as if your arrival added still more to their joy,” Elizabeth said. “Did you know they adored each other so?”
He held her tightly. “I could see fondness between them, but it was not the optimistic ardor of these letters. Something changed.”
Elizabeth did not want to hear that anything had changed. As they had read the correspondence between Darcy’s parents, Anne and George had become real people to her. Especially in the later letters, when Anne had been expecting their first child, her words had touched a response in Elizabeth, created affinity between them as Anne voiced feelings that echoed her own.
“Perhaps their love merely matured,” Elizabeth said, turning to face him. “Or they were guarded about displaying it before their son.”
“No, it—” Darcy searched for words. “It altered. I do not want to say it diminished, for my father mourned her as deeply as you can imagine. But it had a different character than what these letters contain.”
He gathered the letters he had read and stacked them neatly. “Now, we must find our way through this sea of stationery to our dinner attire, for the day grows late.”
She had become so engrossed in Anne and George’s story that she had lost track of the hour. Now she realized she was famished. “I hope Lucy can maneuver through the door when she arrives to dress me.”
“I hope so, too.” He stood and stretched. “Meanwhile, I am fleeing to the perfect order of my own dressing room.”
“You would abandon the mother of your child to this?”
“Accompany me if you like.”
“I shall. First, however, I want to return these to their case.” She retied the ribbons around each stack of letters and opened the lid of the leather chest. A solitary letter lay in the bottom.
“We missed one,” she said.
“We have read enough for one day. It can wait.”
She unfolded the letter. George’s handwriting met her gaze. The date was much later than the rest of the letters they had read, the lines more closely written. And the words were, as Darcy would say, of a far different character.
“No, it cannot.”
I shall be glad if you can revive past feelings, and from your unbiassed self resolve to go on as you have done.