“I imagine discovering one’s true heritage must be rather disorienting,” Mrs. Bingley observed, her voice lowered for privacy. “Especially when it places one in such a… delicate position regarding inheritance.”
“The legal matters are quite complex,” Elizabeth agreed. “Though I am more concerned with understanding what happened to my parents than with questions of property.”
Mrs. Bingley’s shrewd eyes assessed her. “A commendable sentiment, though I wonder if you truly appreciate the forces your investigation has disturbed. Some secrets are buried for good reason.”
“And yet truth has a way of emerging despite efforts to conceal it,” Elizabeth countered. “I notice you seem quite familiar with my mother, Mrs. Bingley. Were you close friends?”
“Let us say we understood one another,” Mrs. Bingley replied with calculated vagueness. “Rose was… idealistic. She believed in absolutes—right and wrong, truth and falsehood. Such rigid thinking rarely serves one well in complex matters.”
“And what of my father? Did you know him equally well?”
“John Darcy was much like his niece—principled to a fault.” Mrs. Bingley’s gaze moved deliberately to Georgiana, who sat quietly by the pianoforte. “Admirable in theory, but ultimately impractical. The world rewards flexibility, Miss Bennet. Remember that as you pursue your… inquiries.”
“Are you offering advice, Mrs. Bingley, or a warning?”
“Let us call it friendly counsel from someone who understands the landscape. There are connections worth cultivating and those best avoided. A wise woman knows the difference.”
Her gaze drifted meaningfully toward Darcy, who had just entered the drawing room with Charles and Mr. Hurst. Elizabeth followed the look, puzzled by its implication. Was Mrs. Bingley suggesting that Darcy’s father was the murderer? Or warning her directly about Mr. Darcy himself?
The gentlemen joined them, and the conversation necessarily became more general. Charles immediately sought Elizabeth’s company, steering her toward the pianoforte with determined enthusiasm.
“You must play for us, Miss Bennet. Mother tells me you have a particular talent for music.”
“Your mother seems to know a great deal about me, despite our never having met before tonight,” Elizabeth observed, allowing him to turn the pages of sheet music without committing to perform.
Charles laughed, though the sound held more nervousness than genuine humor. “She has always taken an interest in my… friendships.”
“Indeed? And what about your friendship with my sister Jane? Is your mother equally interested in her?”
Charles’s face flushed crimson. “Miss Bennet—that is, Miss Jane—she is in good health, I trust?”
“She was when last I saw her, though somewhat diminished in spirits. Curious how attachment can form so quickly, yet prove so easily severed when other considerations arise.”
Before Charles could formulate a response to this pointed observation, Furgate appeared at the drawing room door.
“Mr. Darcy, sir. A message has arrived from Lambton that requires your attention.”
Darcy excused himself to receive the communication, returning moments later with a carefully composed expression that nevertheless failed to hide his disquiet.
“Is something amiss, Brother?” Georgiana asked, clearly attuned to his mood.
“Nothing of immediate concern,” Darcy replied, though his tone suggested otherwise. “Merely information regarding a new arrival in Lambton.”
“Not more relatives claiming connection to our Lizzy, I hope!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “Though I suppose with her new position, one must expect fortune hunters to emerge from every quarter.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Bennet,” Darcy agreed with surprising mildness. “One must be cautious regarding those whose sudden interest might be motivated by advantage rather than genuine regard.”
His gaze moved briefly to Charles, who became extraordinarily interested in rearranging the sheet music before him.
The drawing room had become oppressively suffocating. Pleading a need for fresh air, Elizabeth excused herself to step onto the adjoining terrace, grateful for the cool evening breeze that greeted her.
The gardens stretched before her, silvered by moonlight. In the distance, she could make out the dark line of trees that sheltered the family cemetery where John and Rose Darcy lay. Mrs. Bingley suggested she knew more than she was telling, but what was the cost of her testimony? Elizabeth would not marry Charles Bingley for all the jade in China.
“Does the evening air bring relief?” Darcy’s voice came from behind her, startling her.
Elizabeth turned to find him standing at a respectful distance, his tall figure silhouetted against the light from the drawing room windows.
“It does,” she admitted. “Some conversations require more fortitude than others.”
