Mr. Bennet’s gaze sharpened with sudden interest. “What evidence do you have of this claim, Mr. Darcy? And why, after so much time has passed, do you concern yourself with my daughter’s reputation?”
“Elizabeth is my wife,” he said simply, deciding that directness would serve better than elaboration. “We were married by special license on December third, 1811, at the Red Lion Inn near Barnet. I was then attacked on the road while securing transportation to London. The marriage documents were stolen, along with other valuables, and I was left for dead.”
The silence that followed this announcement was absolute. Mrs. Bennet’s handkerchief hovered forgotten halfway to her face, while Mr. Bennet’s expression transformed from skepticism to shock to something approaching calculation.
“You expect us to believe,” Mr. Bennet said finally, “that you secretly married our daughter during the very period when she disappeared from Longbourn? Without family present, without announcement, without any of the usual proprieties?”
“The circumstances were unusual,” Darcy acknowledged, meeting the older man’s gaze steadily. “Elizabeth had been cast out following her refusal of Mr. Collins. I encountered her at the Red Lion, where she had been denied accommodation due to her solitary state. Given the compromising nature of our situation—sharing quarters during a violent storm—marriage became the honorable solution.”
Mrs. Bennet’s gasp cut like the snap of a whip. “Married! MyLizzy, married to Mr. Darcy of Pemberley! Ten thousand a year! And she never said a word!”
“She could not speak of it,” Graham interjected quietly. “With Mr. Darcy unconscious and the marriage documents stolen, she had no proof of the connection.”
“We had heard you were indisposed,” Mr. Bennet said. “However, with our social isolation, no one mentioned you were unconscious. What exactly happened?”
“I was injured gravely and awoke with no memory of the events preceding the attack. It is only recently that I have begun to recover fragments of that missing time—including my marriage to Elizabeth.”
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, his expression transforming as he absorbed this information. “So when my wife received that letter from London,” he mused, “the one claiming Lizzy had been compromised by Wickham and fled to escape the consequences…”
“It was a deliberate fabrication,” Darcy confirmed. “Designed to destroy Elizabeth’s reputation.”
“And Wickham?” Mr. Bennet asked, his voice sharpening. “What became of him after this attack?”
“He disappeared from Hertfordshire shortly thereafter,” Darcy explained, “leaving considerable debts and a trail of falsehoods. I am currently tracing his movements, with the intention of recovering the stolen documents and bringing him to justice for his crimes.”
Mrs. Bennet burst into tears—not the affected weeping she typically employed, but what appeared to be genuine distress. “My poor Lizzy!” she wailed. “Abandoned in her time of need!”
Darcy regarded her coldly, unmoved by this belated display of maternal concern. “Indeed, Mrs. Bennet. Abandoned by the very people who should have protected her, regardless of her choices.”
“You cannot understand,” Mrs. Bennet protested, dabbing at her eyes. “We were desperate! With no son to inherit, the girls’ marriages were our only security!”
“A security you were willing to purchase at the cost of Elizabeth’shappiness and dignity,” Darcy observed. “An interesting calculation of maternal affection.”
Mr. Bennet, apparently recognizing the futility of self-justification, changed tactics. “You mentioned your marriage to Elizabeth. What of her current circumstances? Is she… well?”
“Elizabeth is safe and well,” Darcy replied, his voice softening at the mention of his wife. “She resides at Bellfield Grange under the protection of my aunt, Lady Eleanor Blackmore.”
“And Mary?” Mr. Bennet asked, his voice containing an unfamiliar note of vulnerability. “You mentioned she was well. Is she… content in her exile?”
“She seems quite at home at Bellfield,” Graham offered, his tone respectful but cool. “She has taken an interest in the estate records, showing considerable aptitude for organization and arithmetic. The Honywoods—who manage the household—speak highly of her character and contributions.”
Mr. Bennet nodded slowly, a mixture of relief and regret crossing his features. “That sounds like my Mary. Always seeking order, meaning in mundanity.”
“There is one other matter,” Darcy said, judging the moment right to introduce the most significant revelation. “One that may alter your understanding of these events considerably.”
“What more could there possibly be?” Mrs. Bennet asked, her eyes wide above her damp handkerchief.
“Elizabeth and I have a son,” Darcy stated, unable to keep a note of pride from his voice. “William Fitzwilliam Darcy, born in August of 1812. A fine, healthy boy of fifteen months now, with every indication of a strong character and quick intellect.”
The stunned silence that followed this announcement lasted several heartbeats before Mrs. Bennet shattered it with a cry that seemed to contain every emotion possible—joy, grief, shock, indignation, and a strange, wild exultation.
“A grandson!” she exclaimed, rising from her chair in agitation. “A Darcy grandson! And I have never laid eyes upon him! Oh, Mr. Bennet, our first grandchild, and we did not even know of his existence!”
“We had heard vicious rumors,” Mr. Bennet said. “But of course, we had refused to believe them.”
Or cared enough to verify them, Darcy thought. Nope, these were not the parents Elizabeth would be proud of.
“Well, well,” Mr. Bennet finally said, adjusting his spectacles with fingers that were not entirely steady. “It seems our Lizzy has been rather more occupied than we imagined. A wife and mother—and to one of the foremost families in England, no less.”
