“I cannot begin to speculate what Lady Montrose may do should she acknowledge Elizabeth. But surely, sir, do we not owe it to your daughter to offer her this piece of herself?”
Shuddering, Mr. Bennet nodded slowly. He tugged the bellpull; when a footman appeared, he bid him summon Elizabeth and Mr. Bingley.
The pair arrived a moment later—Elizabeth looking bemused and Bingley appearing grave.
“Have a seat. This may take a while.” Mr. Bennet indicated a table near the window, arranged more suitably for group conversation. Darcy remained standing but stepped to Elizabeth’s side and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Sir, I have not yet given you my consent to marry my daughter, and until such time as I do, I expect you to behave with proper decorum.” Darcy blanched and withdrew his hand at once.
“Papa!” Elizabeth cried, nudging him with her elbow.
Mr. Darcy inclined his head. “Well, sir? May we hope for your blessing?”
Mr. Bennet cast them both a long, pointed look. “And you, Lizzy… Are you not out of your senses to be accepting this man?”
“No, Papa,” she laughed, nudging him once more. “I am honored by his proposal. I know we will be so very happy together.”
Mr. Bennet sighed in resignation. “Very well. Let me be the first to wish you joy. I own myself surprised, but I am gratified that my Lizzy has chosen a respectable gentleman…even if he is a trifle stiff.” That earned a round of laughter.
“Now, returning to the other matter, Mr. Darcy, why do you not tell Elizabeth what you told me? And Mr. Bingley, you may speak when his knowledge fails.”
Darcy spoke plainly, recounting Bingley’s strange behavior since his introduction to Elizabeth. He described the epiphany he had experienced that very morning; and then his friend took over.
“I believe you are Elizabeth Montrose,” Bingley said, his tone firm. “You resemble your mother…a second mama to me after mine died.” He fell silent and swallowed. Darcy was certain his friend was struggling not to reach up and tug at his cravat. After a moment, Bingley said gently, “There is no easy way to tell you, Miss Elizabeth. Your family was murdered; everyone in the house was killed. You vanished that same night. From what Darcy has told me, I suspect you were meant to be amongst them.”
Elizabeth gasped, her hand rising to her hidden scar. Her gaze darted to Darcy. “You told him?” she asked incredulously, strangling a sob. “That was shared in confidence, sir.”
“Pray, forgive me, Miss Elizabeth. I did—but only because I believed it might help bring clarity to the questions that have long plagued you. I meant no betrayal, only to aid in the discovery of who you truly are.”
“Who… Did they ever find the culprit?”
“No. I…my father was never the same, and we left Yorkshire a few years later. Darcy says you have evidence…something that would identify you.”
Elizabeth nodded, her wide-eyed confusion softening her features, rendering her younger than her twenty years. “Could it be?” she asked. “You could be mistaken. Why has my family not searched for me?”
She rose. “I shall fetch the box.” Elizabeth hurried from the room.
The gentlemen sat in strained silence until her return a few minutes later. She crossed to her father’s desk, placed the small chest upon it, and lifted the lid. After moving aside several folded papers, she drew forth a stained blue gown and something wrapped in a handkerchief. Slowly, she unfolded the gown. It was small, a silent testament to her slight frame, even in childhood. Then, with careful hands, she removed the linen covering to reveal a finely wrought cameo brooch. She cradled it in her palm and turned it toward them.
“M for Montrose,” Bingley choked, eyes shining as he blinked rapidly, unmistakably near tears. “Oh, Elizabeth, I thought I would never see you again.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
November 27, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Sheignoredtheinformality;it felt strangelyrightto hear Mr. Bingley use her given name so freely.
“I have seen that before,” Mr. Bingley said, once he had regained his composure. “Aunt Amelia wore it nearly every day. It was a gift from her mother-in-law, the only Montrose who would speak with her husband after the…their marriage. I understand that, though Viscount Marston kept his distance, he disapproved of his father’s harshness and sought to remain in contact with his Montrose family through his mother.”
“Is it a brooch then?” Elizabeth asked. “I confess, it has puzzled me exceedingly. See the hinges there? And yet there is a clasp on the back.”
“I cannot say. Though I recall Mrs. Montrose wearing it, I do not remember whether she wore it as a brooch or something more. The crest, though, is unmistakable. Mr. Montrose kept a coat of arms in his study—a reminder, he called it, of where he came from, and that being born to privilege did not ensure kindness.” Mr. Bingley smiled faintly.
“And now we come to the crux of the matter,” Papa said, leaning forward. “Mr. Bingley informed Mr. Darcy that you have family living; a grandmother who, from the name I was given, is a member of the peerage. It may be, Lizzy, that your hand is no longer mine to give.”
