Fitzwilliam Darcy had been but eleven when Lady Anne died giving birth to his sister, Georgiana. Their father, George Darcy, had left most of his beloved wife’s effects untouched, and his son had made minimal changes in the six years since he inherited the estate. Out of sensitivity to her husband’s feelings, and those of Georgiana, she hesitated to adapt much at Pemberley to her own taste. A lifetime stretched before them — time enough for a gradual transformation. She need not sweep in and obliterate all traces of the first woman he had loved. If not yet secure in her role as Pemberley’s mistress, she was secure enough in Darcy’s affections to share them with his mother’s memory.

If only that memory were not so idealized. Lady Anne had been loved not only by her family, but also by friends, neighbors, tenants, and servants. She had been a paragon of grace and lived an idyllic life. How Elizabeth would ever find her own place here, she could scarcely imagine.

Darcy at last nodded at the desk in approval. “You shall enjoy a finer view.”

She exhaled. “I am glad you agree. Mrs. Reynolds so disapproves that I thought I might have to move the desk myself.”

“I hope you jest. No mistress of Pemberley should be pushing furniture across a room, but especially not one in your condition.”

“Of course I jest. If the servants mutinied, I would have prevailed upon you.”

“And if I resisted?”

“I might have threatened to name this baby something ridiculous, such as Nancy.”

“Nancy Darcy? You would never saddle a daughter of yours with such a singsong name. Besides, you carry a boy. The Darcys for countless generations have fathered boys as their first offspring, so it only stands to reason that we would continue the family tradition.”