“Tell me what happened,” Elizabeth said softly. “Tell me everything you remember.”
Martha was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the fire in the hearth. “It was a clear autumn night. Your parents had retired early—your father had been working on estate matters all day. I had just put you down in the nursery and was preparing for bed myself when I heard them.”
“Who?” Elizabeth whispered.
“They entered through the rear door—I heard the latch, though they tried to be quiet. I thought perhaps it was your father, returned from checking something at the stables. But then I heard voices I didn’t recognize. I crept to the top of the stairs and saw them—dark figures moving through the downstairs rooms.”
Elizabeth shuddered with a chill. “What did you do?”
“I ran to the nursery. Whatever their purpose, I knew I must protect you.” Martha’s eyes focused on something only she could see. “I had just reached your crib when I heard your mother scream. Then your father shouting. There was a crash, the sound of struggle?—”
She broke off, her lined face tight with remembered horror. Elizabeth reached across and touched the older woman’s hand gently, even as her stomach clenched at her parents’ remembered pain.
“You don’t have to continue if it’s too painful.”
Martha shook her head. “No. You deserve to know.” She took a steadying breath. “One of them said, ‘Finish it,’ and then anotherterrible sound—a thud, like something heavy falling. I knew then that they had killed your parents. And that they would come for you next.”
“So you took me,” Elizabeth said.
“I wrapped you in a blanket and fled through the servants’ staircase to the rear garden. I hid behind the hedgerow as they set the fire.”
“Did you see their faces?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, they tied cloth around their faces, but I got the impression that your uncle William, Fitzwilliam’s father, was the man who gave the orders. The other man seemed to falter, but he nevertheless helped set the fire to cover up the crime.”
Elizabeth felt the bottom drop from her stomach. She set the teacup on the table as nausea overtook her. “Darcy’s father killed his own brother?”
“I have no proof. I was too frightened to stick around. He was so angry about your grandparents changing the settlement, I knew I had to protect you. While the fire was raging, I took my husband’s coach and fled with you to Longbourn. I knew Thomas Bennet would protect his sister’s child.”
“But why didn’t you tell anyone about the murders? Why not seek justice?”
Martha’s laugh held no humor. “A servant’s word against the master of Pemberley? With no proof but my testimony? I would have been called mad—or worse, accused of the crime myself.” She shook her head. “No, I did what I could. I saved you. And I’ve waited all these years, watching and waiting for the right moment.”
Elizabeth absorbed this, her mind reeling with the implications. “And now? What proof can you offer of my identity?”
“We must start with the official records,” Martha said, her practical tone returning. “The parish registry will have both your parents’ marriage certificate and your baptismal record. Mr. Blythewood, the Darcy family solicitor, should have access to the original settlement that established the fee tail female.”
“And you? What testimony can you provide?”
Martha’s expression grew guarded. “In time, child. First, we must gather the documents. My word alone would not be enough—we need the papers to establish your claim legally.”
Elizabeth decided not to press further. Martha had clearly experienced tremendous trauma that night; perhaps she needed time to prepare herself for the role of witness.
“When can we begin?” Elizabeth asked instead.
“Today,” Martha replied, seeming relieved at the change in focus. “I have ordered the carriage to be brought to the cottage. One of the advantages of being the late steward’s widow. Ralph served the family faithfully for over thirty years.”
“That is very generous of Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, unable to help her good opinion of him. That he’d provide for a steward’s widow with both a cottage and a carriage spoke well of his character.
“Generosity runs in the family,” Martha agreed, rising from the breakfast table. “Young George often remarks on Mr. Darcy’s kindness during their childhood together. Two years difference in age, but they were raised as brothers growing up.”
“I’ve heard George mention it.” Elizabeth also rose, making her way to the doorway after Martha.
“Oh yes, those were happy times,” Martha said, getting her spencer and reticule. “The late Mr. Darcy treated George as his own son—saw to his education at Cambridge, intended him for the law, though George chose military service instead. Such a patriotic young man, determined to serve his country despite every advantage being offered to him.”
This painted a very different picture of Wickham than Elizabeth had formed during their brief acquaintance. “He seemed… charming when we met in Hertfordshire.”
“Charming indeed, and so accomplished! Handsome, well-educated, possessed of considerable address when he chooses to employ it. Any young lady would be fortunate to secure his regard.” Martha’s meaningful glance made Elizabeth pause.
