The invitation came in a letter bearing the Pemberley seal—thick cream paper, Darcy's handwriting elegant and unflinching. Addressed formally to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, it extended an offer for the family—and myself—to visit Pemberley at the close of July. The purpose was framed as hospitality, with the mild excuse of a summer tour and countryside refreshment.
Mrs. Bennet read the letter aloud in the drawing room, her voice brimming with restrained glee.
"A visit to Pemberley! And from Mr. Darcy himself!"
"It is generous," said Jane, with her usual calm.
Elizabeth's expression was unreadable.
"And Lady Clara is mentioned by name," Mrs. Bennet added with particular relish, as though my inclusion proved the letter's elevation. "I dare say he has taken a real liking to you, my dear. Not that I am surprised—your father is a baron, after all."
"I think the fondness he shows me has less to do with my title," I murmured.
But even I wasn't sure how to define it.
---
The road to Derbyshire was long but pleasant. Summer was in full bloom, and the countryside seemed a patchwork of gold and green, stitched together by stone walls and winding roads. I shared a carriage with Elizabeth and Jane, our conversation ebbing and flowing with the landscape.
"Have you ever been to Pemberley?" Jane asked me.
"Not yet," I replied.
"But you have heard of it, surely?"
"Only that it reflects Mr. Darcy—strong, proud, and more dignified than showy."
Elizabeth gave me a side glance. "And do you still think him proud?"
"Not in the way I once did."
"Nor I," she said softly.
---
Pemberley rose from the land like something born of it—stone and time entwined. The house was grand, yes, but not gaudy. Its symmetry pleased the eye, its windows catching the sun like softened glass. Lakes and groves bordered the estate, and a light wind stirred the tall grasses in waves.
We were greeted by the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, whose warmth belied the usual stiffness of estate staff.
"You will find Mr. Darcy's hospitality most sincere," she said with a nod. "He speaks highly of Miss Bennet and Lady Clara."
Elizabeth coloured slightly. I remained silent.
Our rooms were well-appointed, and I was given a small suite at the rear of the house that looked out toward the hills. That evening, we dined in a smaller parlour with Darcy himself, who had arrived earlier than expected.
He greeted each of us with composed civility, though when he turned to me, I saw something behind the formal façade—a kind of steady warmth, quiet and purposeful.
"Lady Clara," he said. "You have brought the sunlight with you."
"I should hope it stays," I replied.
---
The following days passed in gentle exploration. Darcy gave us a tour of the grounds himself, pointing out groves planted by his grandfather and the winding brook that bordered the western fields.
"You built all this from memory?" I asked.
"From duty," he corrected.
"But you shaped it in your own image."
He looked at me. "And what do you see in that image?"
"Strength, solitude... and careful hope."
He did not respond at first. Then: "Hope is not something I allowed myself. Until lately."
We walked further in silence.
---
Elizabeth, for her part, grew quieter as the visit wore on. I found her often on the terrace, gazing at the horizon.
"He has changed," she said to me one morning.
"He was always this man," I said. "You only saw him through a storm."
She nodded slowly. "And you—do you love him?"
The question hung in the air.
"I am learning what love means," I said. "But if it is respect, if it is seeing the soul of someone and not turning away—then yes, perhaps I do."
Elizabeth smiled faintly. "Then I shall not stand in your way."
---
On the third day, a letter arrived addressed to Darcy. His mood shifted after reading it—he folded it once, neatly, then looked out the window for several minutes before speaking.
"There has been an incident," he said quietly. "Mr. Wickham. He has eloped—with Lydia."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Mrs. Bennet, when told, collapsed into anxious hysteria.
Elizabeth's face went pale.
"Is it confirmed?" she asked Darcy.
"I fear so. Colonel Forster's wife wrote from Brighton. There is no indication of a marriage yet."
Mrs. Bennet wailed. "My poor Lydia! She is ruined! And we—what shall become of us all?"
I stood motionless. Wickham. Of course. That he would act so was no surprise to me—but it hurt all the same. Not only because of Lydia's folly, but because of what it would mean for Elizabeth. For Darcy.
"I must go," he said, rising. "I shall make inquiries in London. If they are not married, I will see what can be done."
"You would do that?" Elizabeth asked, stunned.
Darcy looked at her, then at me. "I would do anything to restore your peace."
He left before sunrise the next morning.
---
The air in Pemberley changed. Without Darcy, the rooms felt colder, the halls longer. We stayed another day before deciding to return to Longbourn.
Elizabeth was quiet during the journey. She held a letter of her own—something Darcy had left her before departing. She did not share its contents, but I knew it had softened her. I saw it in her eyes.
"I misjudged him," she said once.
"He never asked you not to."
"I hope I have not lost my chance entirely."
"You may have lost the one meant for you," I replied gently. "But perhaps he has found the one meant for him."
She looked at me, but said nothing more.
---
Back at Longbourn, chaos reigned. Mr. Bennet had already left for London. Jane tried to hold the household together, while Kitty wept and Mary quoted scripture. I kept to the library, awaiting word.
It came in pieces. Wickham had been located. Darcy had intervened.
"They are to be married," Elizabeth said, stunned, when news finally arrived. "Darcy arranged it."
She looked at me, blinking tears. "He saved us all. And he never even asked for thanks."
"That is how you know it was love."
---
A fortnight passed. Lydia returned—married, silly, and unrepentant. The house breathed a sigh of relief, if not satisfaction.
Then came the next letter.
Darcy would return.
And this time, he asked to speak with my guardian directly.