“Indeed not,” Elizabeth said, meeting her father’s eye. “I should have been very put out.”
Her father regarded them for a long moment, then said, “Very well. Come and explain yourself, Mr. Darcy. I am, at present, in the mood to be entertained.”
Mr. Darcy kissed her hand before following her father, and then, just before he passed through the doorway, he looked back at her over his shoulder.
His eyes found Elizabeth’s at once and the smile he gave her was so unguarded, so quietly pleased, sopromising, that she could not imagine doing without him.
Then Mr. Darcy followed her father from the room and the door closed behind them with a soft click.
Elizabeth left her visitors to the Gardiners and moved to the writing table. In her uncle’s study, Papa was teasing Mr. Darcy, she was certain of it. But she had a letter to pen.
She wrote to Their Majesties honestly, plainly.
She began with duty, because even she understood that duty was the coin of any realm. She informed them that she would come to Thurnia when required, but ideally not until the weather improved. That she would learn what she must learn and represent what she must represent. That she would not sulk, flinch, or behave in any way like a child.
Then, with the same steady hand, she began to write the sentences that mattered most.
I am engaged to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.
She did not phrase it as a hope. She did not ask permission. She wrote it as a fact—like rain, like gravity, like the sun in the sky.
England will be our home.
It was not a rejection of Thurnia. She kept writing, explaining that Mr. Darcy had an estate in Derbyshire, he had responsibilities, he had a sister who was under his guardianship. Elizabeth would not ask him to discard his life. Nor, if she was truthful, did she intend to discard her own.
She added what she could offer in good faith: they would come for a long visit this year. They would bring their future children to Thurnia to meet their royal family. They would be pleased to handle the Crown’s affairs in their area of England. Given the business that had seen Elizabeth relegatedto the care of the Bennets to begin with, was it not best to have her serve the family here?
She set down her pen and read it through once.
Adrian leaned in without permission to read her missive. His brows rose once at the engagement line. They rose again at the mention of England.
When he reached the end, he exhaled through his nose. “Well,” he said. “You have managed to be respectful without being obedient. That is a rare talent.”
“It may be my only one in matters of politics,” Elizabeth said sweetly.
“I request,” Adrian said, “to add a few lines.”
Elizabeth sat back. “If you intend to turn it into a plea, I warn you—”
“I intend to turn it into something the Crown can accept without feeling it has been instructed.”
“Have I done that?” Elizabeth said, frowning. “I have only said what is true.”
“Yes,” Adrian agreed, entirely untroubled. “That is why I must help you.”
He took the pen when she offered it and added a small paragraph—formalities, assurances, a particular turn of phrase that sounded respectful while it stepped carefully around the truth.
Elizabeth read the words with a wary respect. “You are an alarming sort of cousin.”
“Everyone should have one.”
When he had done, he sanded the ink.
“There,” he said briskly. “Now it is both true and likely to succeed.”
Elizabeth scanned the additions—and then, at the very end, found the final sentence he had written, and felt her mouth twitch despite herself:
And for the Crown’s practical comfort, having Princess Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy settled in Derbyshire will prevent me from running to all ends of England in Their Majesties’ service and allow us to expand our reach. As our success here grows, I would very much like to share that burden with my cousin and her intended.