“Yes indeed,” said Elizabeth. “We value it greatly and we always think of Will when the children clamber over it.”

Alveston made his bow, then went out and seated himself on the bench which was on the edge of the woodland and just visible from the cottage, while Elizabeth and Georgiana took their proffered seats in the living room. It was simply furnished with a central oblong table and four chairs, a more comfortable chair each side of the fireplace and a wide mantelpiece crowded with family mementoes. The window at the front was slightly open but the room was still too hot, and although Will Bidwell’s bedroom was upstairs, the whole cottage seemed permeated with the sour smell of long illness. Close to the window was a cot on rockers with a nursing chair beside it and, at Mrs Bidwell’s invitation, Elizabeth went over to peer down at the sleeping child and congratulate his grandmother on the health and beauty of the new arrival. There was no sign of Louisa. Georgiana knew that Mrs Bidwell would welcome the opportunity of talking alone to Elizabeth, and after making enquiries after Will and admiring the baby, accepted Elizabeth’s suggestion, which had already been agreed between them, that she should join Alveston outside. The wicker basket was soon emptied, the contents gratefully received, and the two women settled themselves in the chairs beside the fire.

Mrs Bidwell said, “There is not much he can keep down now, madam, but he does like that thin beef soup and I try him with some of the custards and, of course, the wine. It is good of you to call, madam, but I won’t ask you to see him. It will only distress you and he hasn’t the strength to say much.”

Elizabeth said, “Dr McFee sees him regularly, does he not? Is he able to provide some relief?”

“He comes every other day, madam, busy as he is, and never a penny charged. He says Will has not long to go now. Oh madam, you knew my dear boy when you first arrived here as Mrs Darcy. Why should this happen to him, madam? If there was a reason or a purpose maybe I could bear it.”

Elizabeth put out her hand. She said gently, “That is a question we always ask and we get no answer. Does Reverend Oliphant visit you? He said something after church on Sunday about coming to see Will.”

“Oh indeed he does, madam, and he is a comfort, to be sure. But Will has asked me not to send him in recently, so I make excuses, I hope without offence.”

Elizabeth said, “I’m sure there would be no offence, Mrs Bidwell. Mr Oliphant is a sensitive and understanding man. Mr Darcy has great confidence in him.”

“So have we all, madam.”

For a few minutes they were silent, then Mrs Bidwell said, “I have not spoken of the death of that poor young man, madam. It upset Will terribly that such a thing should happen in the woods so close to home and he unable to protect us.”

Elizabeth said, “But you were not in danger I hope, Mrs Bidwell. I was told that you had heard nothing.”

“Nor had we, madam, except the pistol shots, but it brought home to Will how helpless he is and what a burden his father has to bear. But this tragedy is terrible for you and for the master, I know, and I should best not speak about matters of which I know nothing.”

“But you did know Mr Wickham as a child?”

“Indeed, madam. He and the young master used to play together in the woodland. They were boisterous like all young boys, but the young master was the quieter of the two. I know that Mr Wickham grew up very wild and was a grief to the master, but he has never been spoken of since your marriage, and no doubt it’s for the best. But I cannot believe that the boy I knew grew up to be a murderer.”

For a minute they sat in silence. There was a sensitive proposal which Elizabeth had come to make and was wondering how best to introduce. She and Darcy were concerned that, since the attack, the Bidwells would feel at risk, isolated as they were in Woodland Cottage, particularly with a seriously ill boy in the house and Bidwell himself so often at Pemberley. It would be reasonable that they should feel nervous and Elizabeth and Darcy had agreed that she should suggest to Mrs Bidwell that the whole family move into Pemberley, at least until the mystery had been solved. Whether this was practicable would, of course, depend on whether Will could stand the journey, but he would be carried very carefully by stretcher all the way to avoid the jolting of a carriage, and would receive devoted care once he was settled in a quiet room at Pemberley. But when Elizabeth put forward this proposal, she was startled by Mrs Bidwell’s response. For the first time the woman looked genuinely frightened and it was almost with a look of horror that she responded.

“Oh no, madam! Please don’t ask this of us. Will couldn’t be happy away from the cottage. We have no fear here. Even with Bidwell absent, Louise and I were not afeared. After Colonel Fitzwilliam was good enough to check that we were all right, we did as he instructed. I bolted the door and locked the downstairs windows, and no one came near. It was just a poacher, madam, taken unawares and acting on impulse, he had no quarrel with us. And I’m sure that Dr McFee would say that Will couldn’t stand the journey. Please tell Mr Darcy with our gratitude and compliments that it must not be thought of.”

Her eyes, her outstretched hands, were a plea. Elizabeth said gently, “Nor shall it be, if that is your wish, but we can at least ensure that your husband is here most of the time. We shall miss him greatly, but others can manage his work while Will is so ill and requires your care.”

“He won’t do it, madam. It will grieve him to think that others can take over.”

Elizabeth was tempted to say that, that being so, he would have to grieve, but she sensed that there was something here more serious than Bidwell’s desire to feel perpetually needed. She would leave the question for the moment; no doubt Mrs Bidwell would discuss it with her husband and perhaps change her mind. And she was, of course, right; if Dr McFee was of the opinion that Will could not stand the journey it would be folly to attempt it.

They had made their goodbyes and were rising together when two chubby feet appeared above the rim of the cot, and the baby began to wail. With an anxious upward glance towards her son’s room, Mrs Bidwell was at the cot’s side and gathering the child into her arms. At that moment there were footsteps on the stair and Louisa Bidwell came down. For a moment Elizabeth failed to recognise the girl who, since she had been visiting the cottage as chatelaine of Pemberley, had been the picture of health and happy girlhood, pink-cheeked, clear-eyed and fresh as a spring morning in her newly ironed working clothes. Now she looked ten years older, pale and drawn, her uncombed hair pulled back from a face lined with tiredness and worry, her working dress stained with milk. She gave a quick bob to Elizabeth then, without speaking, almost grabbed the child from her mother and said, “I’ll take him to the kitchen in case he wakes Will. I’ll put on the milk, Mother, for his feed, and some of that fine gruel. I’ll try him with that.”

And then she was gone. Elizabeth, to break the silence, said, “It must be a joy to have a new grandchild here, but also a responsibility. How long will he be staying? I expect his mother will want him back.”

“She will indeed, madam. It was a great pleasure for Will to see the new baby, but he doesn’t like to hear the child wailing, although it’s no more than natural if a baby is hungry.”

“When will he be going home?” Elizabeth asked.

“Next week, madam. My elder daughter’s husband, Michael Simpkins – a good man, as you know madam – will meet them off the post-chaise at Birmingham, and take him home. We are waiting to hear which day will be convenient for him. He is a busy man and it isn’t easy for him to leave the shop but he and my daughter are anxious to have Georgie back home.” It was impossible to miss the tension in her voice.

Elizabeth realised that it was time to leave. She said her goodbyes, listened again to Mrs Bidwell’s thanks and immediately the door to Woodland Cottage closed behind her. Her spirits were depressed by the obvious unhappiness she had seen, and her mind confused. Why had the suggestion that the Bidwells should move to Pemberley been received with such distress? Had it perhaps been tactless, an unspoken implication that the dying boy would receive better care at Pemberley than a loving mother could give him in his home? Nothing could have been further from her intention. Had Mrs Bidwell genuinely felt the journey would kill her son, but was that really a risk when he would be carried, well wrapped, on a stretcher and attended every inch of the journey by Dr McFee? Nothing else had been envisaged. Mrs Bidwell had seemed more distressed by the thought of a move than she was by the possible presence of a murderer stalking the woods. And Elizabeth felt a suspicion, almost amounting to a certainty, which she could not discuss with her companions, which indeed she doubted whether it would be right to voice to anyone. She thought again how much she wished Jane were still at Pemberley; but it was right that the Bingleys should have left. Jane’s place was with her children and Lydia would be closer to the local gaol where she could at least visit her husband. Elizabeth’s feelings were complicated by the acknowledgement that Pemberley was a less distressing place without Lydia’s violent swings of mood and continual complaints and lamentations.

For a moment, immersed in this jumble of thoughts and emotions, she had paid little attention to her two companions. Now she saw that they had been walking together on the fringes of the glade and were looking at her as if wondering when she would make a move. She shook off her preoccupations and joined them. Taking out her watch, she said, “We have twenty minutes before the landaulet comes back. Now that we have the sunshine, however brief, shall we sit for a while before we go back?”