“The Bingleys were frequent visitors before Father died,” Georgiana confirmed. “Mrs. Bingley is my godmother, actually.”
“Are they still alive?” Elizabeth’s scalp prickled at the realization that they could be eyewitnesses to what happened twenty years ago.
“I’m not sure,” Georgiana said. “They haven’t come around lately. There are a few older sisters than Caroline. Mrs. Hurst was older and might remember more than the others.”
“Do you think she might have known my aunt Rose?” Elizabeth asked. “Remembered anything about the fire?”
“It’s possible,” Georgiana brightened at the thought. “We should ask Caroline to invite her parents to the All Hallows’ Eve celebration. Aunt Catherine said Mrs. Bingley had quite a challenge getting her daughters properly married. They are from trade, you know, and I gather the older girls were rather too fond of militia officers.”
Elizabeth hadn’t known this detail about the Bingley family, but she filed it away carefully. The Bingleys, it seemed, had a complex history with the Darcys—perhaps not all of it as respectable as Charles Bingley’s polished manners would suggest.
A strategy began to form in Elizabeth’s mind. If Bingleypossessed information about her parents’ deaths or her true identity, direct questioning would only put him on his guard. But if she appeared receptive to his attentions—perhaps even encouraged them slightly—he might speak more freely, especially if he believed she was warming to him.
As her father had often told her,The straight road is seldom the safest, my dear; truth is best approached at a gentle angle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
UNRELIABLE WITNESSES
Elizabeth and Georgianastrolled through the kitchen gardens, where an elderly woman sat on a bench in the weak late-autumn sunshine, her gnarled hands busy with mending. From her weathered appearance and the comfortable way she occupied the bench, Elizabeth guessed she was a long-serving retainer, perhaps retired but still connected to Pemberley.
Georgiana’s face lit with affection. “Molly! How lovely to see you taking the air. I’ve brought someone to meet you—this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, a connection of Uncle John and Aunt Rose.”
The old woman looked up with faded blue eyes that still held keen intelligence despite her advanced years. “Miss Bennet, is it? Well, now, that’s a name with history at Pemberley. Come sit by me, child, and let me have a proper look at you.”
Elizabeth settled herself on the bench, studying Molly’s wrinkled face. The woman had the kind of age that suggested she had seen everything at least twice and retained opinions about most of it.
“You’ve the look of family about you,” Molly pronounced after a thorough examination. “Something in the eyes and the way you holdyour head. Though whether it’s Darcy blood or Bennet blood causing it, I couldn’t say for certain.”
Elizabeth’s heart quickened at this casual observation from someone with no apparent motive to flatter her. Either she truly resembled her supposed parents, or the power of suggestion was remarkably strong.
“You knew my aunt Rose?” she asked, trying to keep her tone merely curious rather than desperate.
“Knew her well enough, though she wasn’t here long. Sweet girl, full of life and opinions, though not always ones the family appreciated.” Molly’s expression grew thoughtful. “Old Mr. and Mrs. Darcy came around to loving her, especially after the baby. That child was the apple of everyone’s eye. Sad business with the fire.”
“Did you ever see… did you happen to be present during the fire?” Elizabeth asked, unable to maintain the pretense of casual interest.
“Said it was an accident.” Molly wiped her wrinkled face. “But I never believed it. It was a wet August, full of thunderstorms. Course, there were tensions. You know family disagreements. Master John, he had strong feelings about right and wrong, didn’t like some of the business arrangements his brother was making. Said there were better ways to prosper than getting mixed up with… certain types of people.”
Molly glanced around as if checking for eavesdroppers, then lowered her voice. “Traffic coming in and out. All political. High taxes, you know, and Master John, he was worried about the family name being connected to such activities.”
“And Martha Wickham?” Elizabeth asked carefully. “What do you remember of her during that time?”
Molly’s expression grew complicated. “Poor Martha. She’d lost her own babe just before coming to work at Rose Cottage—stillborn, it was, after she’d carried nearly to term. Made her fiercely protective of little Elizabeth Rose, sometimes more than was welcome.”
“More than was welcome?” Georgiana echoed.
“Oh, she meant well, but she’d fuss and worry over that babysomething dreadful. Wouldn’t let Miss Rose do things her own way, always hovering and correcting. There were words between them more than once about who should decide the child’s care.” Molly shook her head sadly. “Martha had so little left after losing her baby that she poured all her mothering into little Elizabeth. Natural enough, but it caused friction.”
“Didn’t she have a son?” Elizabeth reminded.
“Ah, yes, little Georgie.” Molly’s eyebrows furrowed. “Always getting into trouble, that one. He was often with his father, tagging along on estate business.”
Georgiana’s face soured at the mention of George Wickham. “What happened the night of the fire?”
Molly’s expression grew grave. “Terrible night, that was. Martha came running to the main house, screaming that Rose Cottage was ablaze and everyone inside was lost. Took three men to calm her down enough to get the story out of her—she said the smoke was too thick, the flames too fierce. She tried to reach them, but…” The old woman shook her head. “Poor soul was beside herself with grief.”
“She said everyone was lost?” Elizabeth pressed.
