“Hello, Mother. Hello, Father.” Her gloved fingers touched each name with trembling reverence. “I hope… I hope you would have been proud of the woman I’ve become, though I was raised far from here with another family and sisters…” Her voice broke entirely. “Mother, they say you loved to walk. I do too. Did I inherit that from you? And you, Father—did you love to read as I do? Did you both walk in the mornings and find peace in the quiet hours?”
Darcy’s throat constricted painfully. This was not a performance. This was a daughter speaking to parents she had never known, with a sincerity that no trained actress could have manufactured.
“My mother once told me that Uncle John had the kindest laugh she’d ever heard. That he found joy in simple things and never judged harshly.”
Elizabeth glanced up, clearly startled by his nearness and his words. “I had not thought you would share such memories with me.”
Darcy found himself kneeling next to her, handing her a clean handkerchief, which she grasped like a lifeline.
“You think me heartless,” he said. “For doubting you. For suspecting deception.”
Her gaze held his, unwaveringly direct despite her tears. “I think you protect what you love. As would I, were our positions reversed.”
“Then we share a common fear,” he said quietly. “Of being deceived in what we hold most dear.”
Elizabeth’s attention returned to the gravestones, her fingers still tracing the carved letters of her mother’s name. “My father, Mr. Bennet, warned me not to pursue this inheritance. He said sleeping dogs were best left undisturbed. But I could not heed him, not when I learned of my true parentage.”
“And now? Do you regret your decision to seek the truth?”
“I do not know who I am anymore,” Elizabeth said quietly, her gaze fixed on the carved names. “If I am their daughter, then I am not Thomas Bennet’s child, though he raised me with all the love a father could give. If I am not their daughter, then I have intruded upon their memory and claimed grief that belongs to another. Either way, I am not the person I believed myself to be.”
“That must be…” Darcy searched for adequate words and found none. “I cannot imagine such confusion of identity.”
“No, I do not believe the formidable Mr. Darcy should ever be confused.” Her laugh—soft but genuine—warmed him disproportionately. “Are we to have a civil conversation at last, Mr. Darcy? How extraordinary.”
The teasing light in her eyes undid him completely. Here, in this most solemn of settings, surrounded by the very real consequences of whatever tragedy had occurred twenty years ago, Elizabeth Bennet had managed to make him smile.
“I find that shared adversity creates unlikely allies, Miss Bennet.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Are we allies now? I was under the impression we remained opponents in a rather high-stakes game.”
“Perhaps we are both,” he conceded. “Opponents in claim, allies in pursuit of truth.”
Elizabeth considered this, her head tilted slightly as she studied him. “An elegant compromise. Though I must warn you, Mr. Darcy, I am a formidable ally—I expect full partnership in our investigation.”
“You drive a hard bargain for one in such a precarious position.”
“What have I to lose?” She gestured expansively. “My reputation is already compromised by this mad quest. My father—forgive me, Mr. Bennet—already believes me foolishly headstrong. And Mr. Collins has likely proposed to another by now, eliminating my sole prospect for respectable marriage.”
The mention of marriage sent an unexpected jolt through Darcy’s system. The image of Elizabeth married to the obsequious clergyman was profoundly disturbing. “Surely you exaggerate your circumstances, Miss Bennet.”
“Do I?” Her smile turned wry. “A penniless young woman of questionable parentage, who fled her home to pursue a dubious inheritance claim against one of England’s finest families? I assure you, Mr. Darcy, I harbor no illusions about my prospects should this endeavor fail.”
The matter-of-fact way she assessed her situation both impressed and troubled him. “You risked everything on this claim.”
“Not everything.” Her eyes returned to the gravestones. “I risked security, respectability, social standing. But I preserved my autonomy. My dignity. My right to know my own history.”
He had to admit he admired her for her bravery, for taking the harder road.
The air between them shifted—charged with something beyond their investigation, beyond grief, beyond the mystery of identity and inheritance. They knelt together on the grass, far too close for propriety, their knees nearly touching, and Darcy found himself noticing irrelevant, distracting details: the way sunlight caught in her dark curls, the precise shade of her eyes when filled with tears, the curve of her mouth even when sorrow weighted it down.
He should move away. Stand. Restore proper distance. Instead, he remained exactly where he was, caught in the gravity of her presence.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said softly, her sardonic edge fading into something more vulnerable, “may I ask you a question? One that requires complete honesty, however uncomfortable?”
“You may ask.” He could not promise his answer would satisfy, but he could at least grant her the attempt.
“Do you believe I am deceiving you?” Her gaze held his with uncomfortable intensity. “Not whether the evidence proves my claim, not whether Martha Wickham speaks truth, not whether legal documents will establish my identity. I am asking whether you, Fitzwilliam Darcy, believeIam attempting to defraud you.”
