“The artist completed it just weeks before the fire,” Georgiana continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Grandmother insisted it be hung, even after… afterward. She refused to believe you had died.”
“What a charming family scene,” Caroline observed, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. “One can certainly see why old Mr. Darcy was so attached to his granddaughter.”
“Attached enough to create a fee tail female?” Elizabeth asked, unable to tear her gaze from the infant’s face. “It seems an extraordinary measure.”
“Grandfather could be most determined when he set his mind to something,” Georgiana replied. “Father said he was never the same after the fire. He spent months investigating, convinced it wasn’t an accident.”
Elizabeth turned to her, startled by this new information. “Did he discover anything?”
Georgiana shook her head. “Father never spoke of it, except tosay that grief can make a person see conspiracies where there are none.”
Bingley, who had been unusually quiet during their tour of the gallery, murmured. “Extraordinary resemblance. The eyes, particularly. Darcy eyes.”
“Bennet chin,” Elizabeth countered, trying for levity despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm her.
“Darcy determination,” Georgiana added with unexpected firmness. “A quality she shares with my brother. Fitzwilliam might appear severe, but he is the most loyal, steadfast person I know. When he believes in something, or someone, nothing will shake his commitment.”
Elizabeth felt a strange twist in her chest at this description. It did not match the proud, dismissive man who had slighted her at the Meryton assembly, nor even the coldly efficient master who had evicted Mrs. Wickham without apparent compunction. And yet, there had been moments—his gentle insistence on helping her from the road, his obvious devotion to Georgiana, even his fierce defense of his family’s honor—that hinted at deeper waters than she had initially perceived.
“Your brother and I have had rather limited acquaintance,” she said carefully. “Most of it… contentious.”
Georgiana’s face fell slightly. “He can be difficult to know. Since Father died, he’s carried so much responsibility. Sometimes I think he forgets there’s more to life than duty.”
Elizabeth could not speak past the tightness in her throat. Here was proof beyond any document or testimony—the undeniable evidence of her own eyes. That baby was her. Those loving parents were hers. This life of warmth and security and unconditional love should have been hers.
“I cannot help but notice,” Charles Bingley said, appearing beside them with his sister close behind, “the remarkable resemblance between yourself and the late Mrs. Rose Darcy, Miss Bennet. Quite extraordinary, really.”
Caroline’s sharp gaze moved between Elizabeth and the portrait with calculating intensity. “Indeed. One might almost think… but no, surely such a coincidence would be impossible.”
Their words buzzed around Elizabeth like annoying insects, but she could not tear her attention away from the family portrait. Twenty years separated her from this moment of perfect happiness, and yet the connection felt immediate, visceral. She could almost hear her mother’s laughter, almost feel her father’s protective strength, and almost remember the security of being loved absolutely and without condition.
“Miss Bennet?” Georgiana’s voice carried concern. “Are you quite well? You look rather pale.”
Elizabeth tried to respond, but her throat constricted painfully as tears welled. She attempted to blink them back, to maintain the composure that had served her through so many trials, but this—this painted evidence of what might have been—proved too powerful an adversary. She wiped hastily at her cheeks, but the tears continued, followed by a sob she couldn’t suppress.
“Forgive me,” she managed, stepping back from the portrait. “I find myself… unexpectedly moved by the tragedy of their loss.”
Another sob escaped her, then another, until her shoulders shook with grief she had never known to feel—mourning for people she had never missed because she had never known to miss them. The enormity of what had been stolen from her crashed down with unbearable weight: not just inheritance or position, but parents, family, identity—the very foundation of self.
Bingley produced a handkerchief and patting her arm with well-intentioned clumsiness. “There, there, Miss Bennet. Most understandable, most natural feeling.”
“Miss Bennet is clearly overwhelmed,” Caroline observed. “Perhaps we should return to the drawing room for a restorative cordial.”
The sound of measured footsteps drew Elizabeth’s attention. Mr. Darcy entered the gallery. His perceptive gaze took in the scene—Elizabeth weeping before his uncle’s family portrait, Bingley awkwardly attempting to comfort her.
“What is happening here?” His tone was soft, not at all severe. Crossing to Elizabeth’s side and, with surprising gentleness, he pressed a monogrammed handkerchief into her hand. “Mrs. Reynolds has prepared the Rose Chamber, Miss Bennet. You are understandably overwhelmed by the day’s events. Perhaps some privacy would be welcome.”
“The Rose Chamber?” Caroline’s eyebrows arched with pointed significance. “Is that not in the family wing?”
“It is,” Darcy confirmed without elaboration, his attention focused on Elizabeth’s tear-streaked face with an intensity that might have unsettled her had she not been so consumed by emotion.
“I’ll show you the way,” Georgiana offered eagerly, moving to Elizabeth’s other side.
Elizabeth nodded mutely, too embarrassed by her loss of control to trust her voice. She had faced rejection, hardship, and uncertainty without breaking; what would Mr. Darcy think of her dissolving into tears over a mere portrait? And yet his expression held no judgment, no disdain—only a quiet understanding that penetrated her distress.
“Come,” he said, his voice gentler than she had ever heard it. “You’ve had quite enough for one day.”
The kindness in his tone only made the tears flow faster, streaming down her cheeks in silent rivulets that she could neither explain nor control. She allowed herself to be guided from the gallery, leaving the Bingleys behind as Darcy and Georgiana flanked her like protective sentinels.
