“I think not,” Elizabeth replied firmly, not reacting to her mother’s aggrieved huff.
She made her way to the entrance hall, where a young man in nondescript clothing stood waiting, a sealed letter in his gloved hand.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet?” he inquired, his accent suggesting he was not from Hertfordshire.
“Yes, I am Elizabeth Bennet.”
He bowed slightly and presented the letter. “I was instructed to ensure this reached you directly and no one else. Will you confirm receipt?”
The formality of the exchange struck Elizabeth as curious. Who would take such precautions for a simple correspondence?
“Yes, I have received it,” she confirmed by signing a note. “May I ask who sent it?”
“I am not at liberty to say, miss. Good day to you.”
With another bow, the messenger departed, leaving Elizabeth staring at the mysterious letter. The paper was of fine quality, the seal unmarked by any family crest or personal insignia. Curiouser and curiouser.
Upon returning to the breakfast room, she found her family watching her with undisguised interest.
“Well?” Mrs. Bennet demanded. “Who is it from?”
“The messenger would not say,” Elizabeth replied, slipping the letter into her pocket. “I shall read it later.”
“Later? How can you bear to wait?” Lydia exclaimed. “I should die of curiosity! Open it now, Lizzy, do!”
“I prefer to read my correspondence privately,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall take a walk. The morning is too fine to waste indoors.”
She made her escape before anyone could protest further, though she could hear her mother’s voice raised in frustrated speculation as she collected her spencer and bonnet. The letter seemed to burn through the fabric of her pocket as she walked, her steps automatically turning toward Oakham Mount.
The gentle climb afforded expansive views of the surrounding countryside—fields golden with autumn harvest, woodlands ablaze with seasonal color, and the distant rooftops of Meryton nestled in the valley below. On clear days like this one, she could see for miles, the landscape spreading before her like a patchwork quilt of human endeavor and natural beauty.
Settling on her favorite boulder, she withdrew the letter with hands that shook more than she cared to admit. The morning sun caught the fine paper as she broke the plain wax seal, and she hesitated, seized by an inexplicable premonition that reading these words would change everything.
The elegant script was unfamiliar, but the salutation made her heart skip strangely:My dear Miss Bennet.
What I am about to reveal will shock you beyond measure, but you must know the truth before it is too late to protect yourself.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. This was no romantic correspondence or social invitation. The formal gravity of the opening suggested matters far more serious than anything she had anticipated.
You are not Elizabeth Bennet, but Elizabeth Rose Darcy, legitimate daughter of John Darcy and Rose Bennet.
She blinked, certain she had misread, but the letters remained stubbornly unchanged. Elizabeth Rose Darcy. The name seemed to mock her from the page.
Darcy?
“This cannot be true,” she whispered to the empty morning air. “That man who dislikes me so is a relation?”
Pieces of a puzzle she had never known existed began clicking into place with horrible clarity. Her mother’s consistent coldness, so different from her warmth toward Jane, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia. The way she referred to Elizabeth as “that girl” or “her least favorite daughter.”
But that meant her father wasn’t the father she knew ashisfavorite daughter.
Your father, John, was the eldest son and rightful heir to the Pemberley estate. Your mother, Rose, was the sister of the man you call father, Thomas Bennet.
Both your parents were murdered at Rose Cottage on the Pemberley estate shortly after your birth in November of 1790, and you were spirited away for your protection.
Murdered. The word clapped like thunder on her eardrums. Her parents had not died of fever or accident, but had been killed by someone who had then tried to eliminate her as well. The letter trembled in her hands as the full horror of this revelation sank in.
Under the settlement established by your grandfather, George Darcy, you are the rightful heir to Pemberley and its considerable fortune.
