“These are legitimate,” he said. “Though they merely prove Elizabeth Rose Darcy existed, not that you are her.”
“A fair observation.” Elizabeth withdrew Martha Wickham’s letter next, the paper now worn at the creases from repeated folding. “This arrived at Longbourn shortly after our encounter at the Meryton assembly. It was the first time I learned of my possible identity.”
Darcy read the letter, his expression darkening at certain passages. “This was sent anonymously? You had no idea who wrote it?”
“None, but the next day, George Wickham helpfully told me his mother wrote the letter, and Mrs. Wickham admitted to it when I later met her.” Elizabeth leaned forward slightly. “What troubles you most about its contents, Mr. Darcy?”
“Anything related to the Wickhams troubles me.” His finger tapped the paper where the warning about danger lay. “Particularly, the language bothers me. These melodramatic warnings about murderers still hunting you—‘your safety depends upon their continued ignorance’—and this urgent deadline that you must actbefore your birthday or lose everything forever. Such language is designed to provoke immediate, perhaps reckless action.”
Elizabeth had not considered the letter’s manipulative tone. “You believe it was calculated to send me rushing headlong into danger?” The idea stung as she had always prided herself on seeing through artifice.
“Or into an alliance with whoever sent it.” Darcy’s expression darkened. “The instruction to ‘choose wisely whom to trust’ coupled with the convenient appearance of helpful guides suggests a trap rather elegantly laid.” He returned the letter. “I assume you spoke to your father about this?”
Elizabeth nodded. “He advised me to ignore it and to let the deadline pass. He cared more for my life than for the inheritance.”
“But you clearly disobeyed him. I’ve heard you had help from Mr. Wickham.”
Elizabeth felt heat creeping up her neck, not from shame at her actions but from the mortification of having her missteps laid bare. She glanced at Georgiana, whose wide eyes suggested a fascination rather than censure.
“I should not have borrowed the five pounds from Mr. Wickham, but necessity made for strange bedfellows, Mr. Darcy,” she replied with pointed archness. “My uncle Philips proved disappointingly practical about inheritance claims without evidence, and my father’s solution was to marry me to my cousin Mr. Collins—a man whose conversation has all the sparkling wit of lukewarm tea. Between an unwanted marriage in Hertfordshire and possible danger in Derbyshire, the choice seemed rather clear.”
She allowed a glimmer of self-mockery to enter her smile. “Though I confess my judgment regarding Mrs. Younge proved somewhat less than impeccable. She abandoned me at the inn after relieving me of what remained of my traveling funds—apparently finding my company less compelling than my purse.”
“Wickham and Mrs. Younge are most untrustworthy,” Darcy said grimly. “While his father served admirably as steward here, the sonhas ill-used my family more times than I care to recall. I find it difficult to trust anything they say or do.”
“I believed him to be a friend in Meryton,” Elizabeth said, surprised at his candor. “But just because Mrs. Wickham wrote me and George aided me doesn’t mean my claim is not true. I could still be Elizabeth Rose Darcy, and they only meant to take advantage of that fact.”
“By forcing you to marry Mr. Wickham before she would give her testimony,” Darcy said, shaking the letter. “You should be aware that she testified that you’d died in the fire.”
“Yes, but since she wrote me, she obviously knows I survived,” Elizabeth countered. “Unless she has developed a remarkable talent for corresponding with the deceased—in which case her services would be in high demand indeed.”
“Or she’s presenting you, an imposter, as Elizabeth Rose Darcy.” Darcy’s brows furrowed. “That is what my solicitor believes. The birthday is upcoming, and she’s found a suitable candidate.”
“However, my birthday is truly November first, and I’ve always been Elizabeth Rose Bennet,” Elizabeth argued. “My father’s reluctance to aid me on my quest speaks volumes. He told me that I was left in a basket on the doorstep of Longbourn with his sister’s locket and a note, warning him to hide me from his sister and brother-in-law’s murderers. He and Mrs. Bennet chose to raise me as their own, convenient in age between Jane and Mary. Rather more compassionate than leaving an infant to the parish, wouldn’t you say?”
Darcy’s jaw worked as he absorbed her words. “The locket could have been stolen. Even if your account is true, you still face the challenge of impartial witnesses. Your father—Mr. Bennet—is hardly disinterested in the matter.”
“What about Hodge?” Georgiana interjected suddenly, leaning forward with unexpected boldness. “Brother, you haven’t shared what he told you.” Her eyes darted between Elizabeth and Darcy. “Molly specifically mentioned that only two bodies were discovered at Rose Cottage, not three.”
Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line, clearly displeased at being cornered. “Hodge confirmed that particular detail,” he admitted reluctantly. “The absence of the child’s remains suggests several possibilities—that the infant survived, or was carried off by wild dogs.”
“I assure you, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth was compelled to respond, “despite my occasional snap, I am not descended from canines. My teeth, while serviceable, are hardly suited to tearing raw meat.”
A startled laugh escaped Georgiana, quickly stifled behind her hand. More surprising still was the twitch at the corner of Darcy’s mouth—not quite a smile, but dangerously near one.
“Your ability to find humor in the most macabre circumstances is unexpected,” he said.
“A necessary talent when one grows up with my mother’s nerves and my father’s sarcasm,” Elizabeth replied. “One either laughs or goes quietly mad.”
Darcy smiled, a tentative bridge forming where barriers had stood. Elizabeth felt the subtle shift—not friendship exactly, but the possibility of it, hovering like the fragile promise of spring after a harsh winter.
“The rain appears to have stopped.” Darcy glanced toward the window. “Perhaps a turn about the grounds would be beneficial after such heavy conversation.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Elizabeth agreed, rising from her chair. As Georgiana moved to collect her shawl, she turned to Darcy with a more serious expression. “What would it take, Mr. Darcy? For you to believe I am who I claim to be?”
He studied her face with an intensity that might have unsettled her had she not been so determined to meet his gaze. “My belief or disbelief is ultimately irrelevant, Miss Bennet. The burden of legal proof remains with you, regardless of my personal conclusions.”
“You evade the question admirably. But I am asking about Fitzwilliam Darcy the man, not Fitzwilliam Darcy the master of Pemberley.”
