Elizabeth wished fervently for the floor to open and swallow her whole. The clerk stared, slack-jawed with horror. Darcy had goneutterly still beside her, and she could not bear to see what expression his face might hold.
“Mother,” she managed, extricating herself from Mrs. Bennet’s enthusiastic embrace. “I had not expected you so soon.”
“The very moment I received your letter! Not even stopping for my best bonnet, though I did bring my second-best, for I said to your father, I said, ‘Mr. Bennet, our Lizzy will need proper support in her great claim!’ Though of course he said nothing useful in return, merely buried himself in his book as he always does. But I knew my duty! A mother always knows.”
Lydia giggled, her gaze fixed appreciatively on Darcy. “Lord, what a fine house Pemberley must be if this is just the solicitor’s office. Wickham said it was the grandest estate in Derbyshire.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, certain that her mortification could not possibly increase, then opened them to find the clerk stuttering in bewilderment.
“I—that is—you cannot—the appointment?—”
“I haveproof,” Mrs. Bennet repeated, brandishing her small case with the determined enthusiasm of a general waving a battle standard. “I demand to see this lawyer person at once.”
The clerk froze, his gaze darting desperately to Darcy, pleading for intervention. But before Darcy could speak, the inner door opened to reveal Mr. Blythewood, wearing a severe black coat and an even more severe expression reserved for sentencing criminals to hangings.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said, ignoring the commotion. “Miss Bennet. I believe we had an appointment.”
Mrs. Bennet whirled toward the new voice. “Are you the solicitor? Excellent! I am Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn, Hertfordshire, mother of Elizabeth Bennet—or should I say, Elizabeth RoseDarcy, rightful heir to Pemberley. I have brought proof that will settle this matter once and for all.”
Mr. Blythewood’s eyebrows rose a precise quarter-inch—the only indication of his feelings about this dramatic announcement.His gaze moved from Mrs. Bennet to Elizabeth, then to Darcy, before returning to Mrs. Bennet with the weary patience of a man accustomed to managing difficult clients.
“Perhaps we should continue this discussion in my office, where we might speak with greater discretion.” His tone was cold while he viewed Mrs. Bennet the way a cook would a fly frolicking in the soup.
“Discretion!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “There is no need for discretion when truth is on our side. My Lizzy is the daughter of Rose Bennet Darcy, my husband’s sister, and I have proof right here.”
“Mother,” Elizabeth intervened. “Mr. Blythewood is quite right. These are matters best discussed privately.”
Mrs. Bennet huffed but allowed herself to be guided toward the inner office, Lydia trailing behind with undisguised glee at the drama. Elizabeth followed with Darcy and Georgiana close behind. Her cheeks burned with mortification. How could the Darcy siblings possibly respect her after witnessing her mother’s horrendous behavior?
Blythewood’s private office bore the same dignified austerity as its owner: dark wood, leather-bound volumes, a massive desk that created an effective barrier between the solicitor and his clients. He gestured them to chairs arranged before the desk—not quite enough for their unexpected party, Elizabeth noted with dismay.
“Smith,” Blythewood called to the flustered clerk. “Two more chairs, if you please.”
“Yes, sir, of course, right away.” The clerk scurried off.
Mrs. Bennet settled herself with a rustle of skirts and a satisfied air, while Lydia perched on the windowsill, openly examining the room’s contents. Elizabeth took the chair before the desk, setting her portfolio upon its polished surface. Georgiana seated herself beside Elizabeth, while Darcy remained standing, positioning himself close to Elizabeth, but slightly behind her to remain unobserved by her.
“Now then,” Blythewood began once Smith had provided the additional chairs and retreated. “I understand there is a claimregarding the identity of Miss Elizabeth Bennet and potential inheritance rights to the Pemberley estate.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said firmly, before her mother could launch into another proclamation. “I have come to formally register my claim as Elizabeth Rose Darcy, daughter of John and Rose Darcy, and rightful heir to Pemberley under the terms of the fee tail female provision established by George Darcy.”
She opened her portfolio. “I present as evidence the baptismal certificate of Elizabeth Rose Darcy, the marriage certificate of John Darcy and Rose Bennet, and this letter, which first informed me of my true identity.”
Blythewood accepted the documents, examining each with meticulous attention. “These appear to be in order,” he acknowledged, though his tone suggested this concession meant very little. “However, they establish only the existence of Elizabeth Rose Darcy, not that you are indeed that person.”
“Which is precisely why I have brought this!” Mrs. Bennet announced triumphantly, opening her small case to reveal a delicate gold locket. “The very locket that was around my Lizzy’s neck when she was left on our doorstep as a baby.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She had expected the locket, had requested it specifically in her letter to her mother, yet the sight of it—this tangible connection to parents she had never known—affected her more powerfully than anticipated.
Blythewood accepted the locket with careful hands, examining its craftsmanship. “May I?” he asked, fingers poised to open it.
Mrs. Bennet nodded eagerly. “Go on, then. See for yourself the likeness between my Lizzy and her true mother.”
The locket opened with a small, well-oiled click to reveal two miniature portraits: a handsome man with Darcy’s strong brow and a woman whose dark, expressive eyes struck Elizabeth with a jolt of recognition. She had seen those same eyes in the portrait gallery—and in her own looking glass each morning.
“The resemblance is indeed striking,” Blythewood admitted,studying the miniatures, then Elizabeth, then the miniatures again. “However, family resemblance alone is not sufficient legal proof of identity. Mrs. Bennet, perhaps you could explain how this locket came into your possession?”
“It was with the baby, of course,” Mrs. Bennet declared, as if this should be obvious to anyone with sense. “Twenty years ago in August, a basket was left at Longbourn’s door in the dead of night. Inside was the sweetest little dark-haired baby girl, wrapped in fine linen with this locket around her tiny neck and a note explaining she was Rose Bennet’s daughter, in danger, and needed protection.”
