Their search moved outward, carefully, urgently. At a nearby inn, they learned of a veiled lady who had boarded an early coach toLondon—anxious, refined, and unmistakably gentle-born. She had been met by a well-dressed gentleman and conveyed away in a private carriage.
Then came the detail that stole Darcy’s breath: the woman had appearedwith child.
Anne? Pregnant?Impossible.
The revelation defied everything Lady Catherine had enforced—Anne’s cloistered existence, her supposed fragility, the illusion of perfect control. And yet the trail continued north, always north, along the Great North Road. Another inn. Another sighting. Always the same story: a quiet woman, a man who kept his face hidden, no names offered, no destination claimed.
By the time they exhausted their search and returned to Rosings, the truth could no longer be denied.
Lady Catherine raged, then broke. Her fury collapsed into sobs she could not command. And finally, Anne’s maid came forward in fear and guilt, confessing what had been hidden for months: Anne’s courses had ceased in January. She had sworn the girl to silence under threat of dismissal.
Itwaspossible, then. Entirely possible.
Rosings fell into a hush. Anne’s room was locked and left untouched, the key kept beside Lady Catherine’s teacup like a relic. The woman who had ruled through certainty retreated into silence, mourning not a death—but a loss she could neither control nor undo.
Darcy had not meant to stay. But with Lady Catherine withdrawn and the estate adrift, he took up its stewardship out of duty and honour. Georgiana was sent to London. Weeks became months. No letters came. No gossip surfaced. No trace of Anne emerged from town or country.
Richard’s riders returned empty-handed. The mysterious carriage vanished into the sprawl of England’s roads, leaving nothing behind but unanswered questions.
Rosings endured—but its heart grew quiet. And the daughter Lady Catherine had tried so fiercely to shape disappeared into the world, leaving behind a mother stripped of certainty, and a legacy that would never be spoken of again.
Chapter Five
Before Elizabeth knew it, an entire year had passed since the dreadful events at Longbourn. So many deaths in one day, for some of whom she had no name.
Little Thomas, affectionately called Tommy by his sisters, soon became the favourite in the household. Devastated by their mother's death, the Bennet sisters rallied around the new addition, lavishing him with love even as they mourned the passing of his 'twin' and Mrs Bennet. Even Lydia, who had thus far displayed a selfish streak, transformed, dedicating much of her free time to Tommy's care and entertainment.
Mr Bennet acquired a wet nurse from London. The lady was told only that her charge's mother had died, making her services necessary. Mrs Holmes, a cheerful woman, took to the baby instantly, and soon the heir to Longbourn flourished. His thin limbs rounded out, and his cheeks became delightfully plump. Lydia often pressed her lips to his cheek and blew, making impudent sounds until Tommy giggled.
With an heir, Mr Bennet found a new motivation to save. The arrangements Mrs Bennet had insisted upon after Lydia's birth remained in place. Along with investing in their children's education, Mr and Mrs Bennet had agreed to invest the latter's dowry with the help of her brother, Mr Edward Gardiner. Five years later, another investment opportunity presented itself, and Mr Bennet invested an additional two thousand pounds. The investments were prospering, and any income from Longbourn thatcould be spared was further invested for the future. With their current investments, each daughter stood to see a substantial increase to their dowries upon their marriage. It was not a large sum, but with five daughters to dower, it was a respectable amount.
A tidy amount earned interest, and more income improved Longbourn for his son. To his credit, Mr Bennet treated the lad as his own from the first. He took a particular interest in the boy, often rocking him to sleep or reading softly to him during the day. He paid more attention to his son than his daughters, but the girls did not resent him for it. They were much occupied with their governess and tutors, but each took some time every day to spend with their brother.
What a fortunate boy to have five doting sisters, Elizabeth mused one afternoon as she sat beneath the drawing room window with the now one-year-old nestled against her. Sunlight filtered through the gauze curtains, dappling the floor with gold. Outside, birdsong fluttered on the breeze, but inside the house, all was still.
Thomas had only recently begun to toddle. His uncertain steps were often brave but ill-timed, and that morning’s adventure had ended in a wail when he collided with the edge of a side table. His little lip had trembled, and then he'd burst into tears, burying his face in Elizabeth's skirts. Now she held him close, his warm body curled against hers, his sobs reduced to the occasional hiccup.
“There now,” she murmured, dabbing gently at his damp cheeks with her handkerchief. “All is well, my love. Are you ready to get down again?”
“No,” Tommy whimpered and clung tighter to her gown, his face pressed into her bodice. Elizabeth smiled faintly and threaded her fingers through his tousled blond curls, rocking him slightly as she stroked his back.
She had long ago ceased thinking of him as anyone buttheirs. The child might not have Bennet blood, but he had been folded into their family like a leaf into a favourite book—quietly, securely, and forever. His eyes were a deep, unfamiliar brown that none of the sisters shared, and his cleft chin was likewise foreign. But there was something about his expression when he smiled, the curve of his brow, even the way he furrowed it in thought, that reminded her strangely of Jane. Or of their mother in moments of tenderness.
To others, he passed easily as one of them.
And yet, Elizabeth could never forget. There was not a single day when the weight of the secret did not press against her ribs, making her breath feel shallow and tight. Since his arrival, a quietness had taken root within her—not melancholy, but restraint. It was a subtle change, but one that her father had noticed. She had grown less quick to laugh, more measured in her speech, her wit somewhat less biting than before. There were still flashes of the old Elizabeth, but she now filtered her thoughts, fearful of letting something slip.
Only her father shared the truth. And with him, she rarely spoke of it.
The day after the anniversary of her mother’s death—one year to the day since everything had changed—Mr Bennet summoned her to his study. The space was unchanged, still smelling faintly of ink and leather and the pipe tobacco he claimed not to smoke.
“We are out of mourning, my dear,” he said without preamble, looking at her over the top of his spectacles. “You are now sixteen—have you any desire to come out?”
The question startled her. Her mother had, of course, declared her out before she passed, likely with dreams of grand events and whispered matches. But her debut had never occurred. The household had beenthrown into mourning before anything could be arranged. In all honesty, Elizabeth had not given it much thought since.
“I hardly know,” she admitted truthfully, fingers twisting in her skirts. “In truth, I do not feel…ready. Before Mama died, my answer would have been different. Now…things feel changed. And would it not harm Jane’s chances if I were to come out before she is married?”
Mr Bennet sighed heavily, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. “Your mother had the final say in those sorts of things. She would have planned it all, down to the ribbons in your hair and the music to be played. She believed in such traditions.” His voice softened. “Despite our struggles, I miss her very much.”
