The implications sank in. “Lieutenant Wickham was so interested in my name. He seemed particularly pleased when I said it was Rose.”
“Of course he was,” Mr. Bennet replied bitterly. “Ralph Wickham lived at Rose Cottage after your parents’ deaths. His wife still does. The boy was only six at the time, but he may have heard things over the years. Your middle name would have been a significant clue.”
“The letter says I must claim my inheritance before my twenty-first birthday,” she said carefully. “Will you help me?”
Mr. Bennet’s face went rigid. “I will not.”
“Papa—”
“No.” His voice carried an authority she had rarely heard from him. “I will not provide funds for travel, information about hiding places, or assistance in any form. Your safety is worth more than any inheritance.”
The carriage turned onto another lane, this one bordered by hedgerows that had begun to turn brown with the advancing season. Elizabeth watched the landscape change, her mind reeling at her father’s refusal.
“But if the estate is rightfully mine?—”
“Then it will remain stolen, and you will remain alive.” He leaned forward, grasping her hands with desperate intensity. “Lizzy, I have spent twenty years keeping you safe. I will not watch you throw your life away for property and money.”
Elizabeth pulled her hands free, frustration overriding her shock. “If Pemberley is mine, none of us need worry about the entailment. I could provide for all my sisters, ensure Mrs. Bennet’s comfort, and give you the literary retirement you’ve always wanted.”
“And I could attend your funeral instead.” His voice cracked with emotion. “Do you think I care about comfort or security if it comes at the cost of your life?”
“You cannot expect me to simply accept this injustice.”
“I expect you to choose life over pride.” Mr. Bennet’s voice grew firm with paternal command. “There is a solution that ensures your safety while providing for your future. You must marry Mr. Collins.”
Elizabeth’s stomach dropped. “Surely you cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely serious. If you marry our cousin immediately after your birthday, you become a settled matron with a respectable husband and a quiet life. No one would suspect the parson’s wife of harboring dangerous secrets.”
“I would rather face a dozen murderers than marry that pompous fool!”
“That is exactly the sort of nonsense that will get you killed.” Mr. Bennet’s tone was sharper than she had ever heard it. “Collins may be ridiculous, but he is harmless. He offers you safety, security, and obscurity.”
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her cheeks, feeling trapped between impossible choices. “I cannot marry a man I despise for the sake of hiding from dangers that may no longer exist.”
“May no longer exist?” Mr. Bennet’s voice rose with disbelief. “Lizzy, someone sent you that letter. Someone knows who you are and where to find you. Whether that person means help or harm, your secret is no longer safe.”
“You think it’s a trap.”
“I think it’s suspicious that this information arrives just weeks before your majority, delivered by someone who remains anonymous.” Mr. Bennet’s expression was grave. “Either someone genuinely wishes to help you claim your inheritance, or someone wishes to draw you into the open where you can be eliminated permanently.”
“Are there no witnesses who could attest to my identity?” Elizabeth pressed.
“None that I trust. Everyone present at your birth is dead, save perhaps Benjamin Bingley and his wife. They are hardly likely to support a claim that would ruin their son’s closest friend.”
The trap was closing around her with suffocating precision. Nomoney, no allies, no proof, and a father who refused to help her pursue justice. Elizabeth felt desperate anger building in her chest, hot and rebellious.
“I will consider your advice carefully,” she said. “And I understand your concerns.”
“Burn the letter, Lizzy. Forget anything you’ve heard about Pemberley or the Darcys. I would urge you not to delay too long. Collins expects an answer, and the longer you wait, the more suspicious your behavior may appear.”
The carriage rounded a bend, and Elizabeth noticed a rider keeping pace alongside them. Her heart stuttered as she recognized Lieutenant Wickham’s handsome features. He touched his hat politely, but something in his smile made her skin crawl.
Mr. Bennet rapped sharply on the roof. “Simmons, do not slow the carriage. We have no desire to converse with the gentleman on horseback. Take the next fork toward the hillside.”
Wickham kept pace, a respectable distance back, until they turned away from Longbourn, where he evidently decided to cease his pursuit.
“He was watching us,” she noted.
