Page 176 of Honor Requires

The wedding breakfast, held at Matlock House, was a scene of lively conversation and unrestrained celebration; the ball that followed, hosted by the Countess, was widely regarded as the most splendid of the season. The ton attended in force, eager to witness the union that had become the subject of so much speculation.

Darcy moved among them with ease. Elizabeth, at his side, felt no hesitation. They were, at last, entirely themselves.

The Darcys departed for Derbyshire soon after. The journey, though not overly long, seemed to carry with it a significance that neither could ignore. As the miles passed, the landscape shifting gradually from the ordered bustle of London to the open, rolling expanses of the countryside, Darcy found his thoughts turning inward with increasing intensity.

Pemberley. The name alone was enough to stir longing deep within him. This homecoming had been the subject of his frequent imaginings. None of those imaginings had fully captured the reality.

When at last the house came into view, framed by the gentle rise of the land and the sweep of the park beyond, Darcy felt his breath catch. He did not speak.

Elizabeth, sensing the moment, remained silent.

The carriage slowed.

Darcy stepped down.

He simply stood, staring up at his ancestral home.

The house was much as he remembered. The lines of it, the proportions, the familiar arrangement of windows and stone—these remained unchanged. There was a subtle difference, a sense of neglect that revealed itself upon closer inspection. The gravel of the drive was uneven in places. The gardens, though not entirely untended, lacked the careful precision that had once defined them.

But it was the land that struck him most. Beyond the immediate grounds, the effects of the mining were unmistakable. The earth itself bore the scars of intrusion. Where once there had been uninterrupted stretches of green, there were now pits and disturbed soil, the natural harmony of the landscape broken by the demands of industry.

Darcy’s throat tightened.

He walked forward slowly, his gaze taking in every detail.

Elizabeth remained beside him.

When he reached the steps, he paused.

He could not move.

Then, quietly, without shame, he wept.

Elizabeth placed her hand upon his arm.

He covered it with his own. “I am home,” he said reverently.

Mrs. Reynolds knew him at once. She had come forward with the rest of the staff, her manner composed, though her eyes held a question that had not been voiced. When she saw him clearly, when recognition settled upon her features, she did not cry out, nor did she falter.

“Count Vendicarsi,” she said. “The new Mr. Darcy.” There was no doubt in her tone. Though the staff had been told he had assumed the name, she knew her former master.

Darcy felt a long-held tension within him ease. “Mrs. Reynolds.”

She met with him and Elizabeth later that evening. In that moment, the formality of their positions seemed to dissolve, replaced by a more personal connection, one more deeply rooted.

“You are returned to us,” she said.

“I am.” He did not conceal the truth from her.

There, amid the stillness of the house, he told her everything. She listened without interruption, her expression grave, her understanding clear. When he had finished, she inclined her head.

“It shall go no further,” she said. “You have my word.”

Darcy nodded. “I never doubted it.”

The work of restoration began at once. The mines were closed without delay. Orders were given, contracts terminated, the machinery of extraction brought to a halt. There was resistance, of course. Those who had profited from the enterprise did not relinquish it easily; still; Darcy’s authority was firm, his resolve unshaken.

The land required attention. The damage, in some places, was extensive. Soil had been stripped and left exposed. Waterways had been altered, their natural courses disrupted by careless excavation. Areas that had once supported thriving growth now lay barren, the earth compacted and unyielding.