Her father’s silence stretched until she thought she might scream. Finally, he nodded, the gesture barely perceptible.
“You are Elizabeth Rose Darcy,” he said, each word seeming to cost him. “Daughter of John Darcy and my sister Rose. I have been your uncle, not your father, for all these twenty years.”
“And Mrs. Bennet?” she asked.
“She knows. Jane was two, and she was with child with Mary when you arrived. We told everyone you were sickly and had been kept from company due to your delicate constitution.”
“All my life,” Elizabeth whispered, tears spilling over. “All my life has been a lie.”
“No.” He reached across the carriage to grasp her hand, his own shaking. “Your character, your intelligence, your spirit—those are entirely your own. Your name may be different, but you are exactly who you have always been.”
The carriage wheels rumbled over a rough patch of road, jostling them both. Elizabeth barely felt it. Her mind was spinning with questions, each more urgent than the last.
“My parents,” she managed. “Were they truly murdered?”
Mr. Bennet’s face seemed to age before her eyes. “Yes. John Darcy was my brother-in-law, married to my younger sister Rose. They lived at Rose Cottage on the Pemberley estate.”
“Tell me about them,” Elizabeth pleaded. “Please. I have a right to know.”
Mr. Bennet stared out the window at the passing countryside, his face etched with pain. “Rose was… she was like you. Spirited, intelligent, with a laugh that could fill a room. When she was eighteen, there was an incident with an officer. Nothing so severe as to be beyond repair, but enough that reputations were at stake.”
Elizabeth listened, transfixed, as the carriage swayed gently beneath them.
“John Darcy was visiting the area—he had a friend in the regiment. He met Rose at an assembly and was immediately taken with her. When he learned of her situation, he offered marriage despite the scandal.”
“But she was innocent, was she?”
“Indeed, she was.” A ghost of a smile touched Mr. Bennet’s lips. “Two years passed, and no child appeared—proving the rumors of Rose’s ruin had been greatly exaggerated. The officer in question had merely stolen a kiss, nothing more.” Mr. Bennet’s voice softened with memory. “Meanwhile, Rose proved herself a woman of remarkable character. When George Darcy’s health began to fail, she spent hours at his bedside, reading to him, ensuring his comfort, treating him with the sort of gentle attention his own family rarely provided. Your grandmother, Sarah Darcy, was initially cold, but found herself won over by Rose’s kindness and quick wit.”
Elizabeth felt tears prick at her eyes as she imagined the mother she had never known, tenderly caring for the grandfather who had initially rejected her.
“They grew to love her,” Mr. Bennet continued. “And when you were born in their third year of marriage, they fell completely under your spell. A tiny, dark-eyed creature who gurgled with delight whenever your grandfather held you. Sarah declared you the most perfect child ever born, and George spent hours playing with you, despite his partial paralysis.”
A sob escaped Elizabeth’s throat before she could prevent it. “I had grandparents who loved me.”
The carriage hit a rut, jostling them both. Elizabeth barely felt it. Her mind reeled with questions, but one rose above the rest.
“How did I survive? How did I come to Longbourn?”
Pain flickered across Mr. Bennet’s features. “Someone left you in a basket with Rose’s locket. I knew you were in danger andconvinced Mrs. Bennet to keep you as her own. She only knows you are Rose’s daughter and assumed your father was from the militia.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, trying to absorb the enormity of it all. Her chest ached with grief for parents she could not remember, for a life stolen from her before she could know it.
“Who did this?” she asked, her voice hardening. “Do you think William Darcy killed them for the inheritance?”
“William stood to gain everything,” Mr. Bennet said, his voice hard now. The hatred between the brothers had become raw and open by then. With John and his heir eliminated, William’s son inherited everything.”
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Elizabeth whispered. The name felt different on her tongue now—familiar yet foreign. Not just the proud, disagreeable man from the assembly, but her cousin. The man who had unknowingly usurped her birthright.
“He was but eight years old when it happened,” Mr. Bennet acknowledged. “Too young to have been involved, but old enough perhaps to have been aware of his father’s feelings. I cannot know what William may have told him over the years—what instructions he may have given should the truth ever emerge.”
“But surely, Mr. Darcy would have recognized me.”
“You were but an infant,” her father said. “There are others, though. A man like William Darcy may not have needed to act. He had servants, a steward at the time, Ralph Wickham, who was devoted to him. Friends like Benjamin Bingley, who was inseparable from him, carousing at all hours, accompanying each other everywhere—much like the current Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”
Elizabeth felt as though the air had been sucked from the carriage. “Bingley? Wickham? You mean to say that Mr. Bingley and Lieutenant Wickham’s fathers were?—”
“Potentially complicit in the murder of your parents, yes.” Mr. Bennet’s voice was hard now. “Do you understand why I forbade all contact with the Netherfield party? Why I wasso disturbed when you revealed your middle name at Lucas Lodge? You might as well have announced yourself as Rose’s daughter.”
