“Papa?” Jane’s voice cracked on the single word.
“Have you found him?” Elizabeth added quickly, though her breath caught in her throat.
He shook his head. That one motion sent a crushing silence across the entryway.
“There is no sign. We combed the woods. Oakham Mount. The ridgeline. The hedges leading out towards Meryton.” He spoke as though his voice belonged to someone else. “Our friends joined us. And Darcy and Bingley were with us. Mr Fitzwilliam rode to the next town, but… nothing. Not so much as a broken branch.”
“No one saw anything?” Kitty whispered.
“No,” their father said, his voice hollow. “There are no witnesses—no tracks. He is gone.”
Miss Lane, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy, stepped forwards. Her hands twisted in anguish. “Mr Bennet… sir, I—I turned only a moment. Miss Lydia asked for assistance, and I looked away—only for a moment—”
Mr Bennet raised his hand gently, silencing her. “There is no blame here. No one did anything wrong. Whoever took Tommy planned this well. It could have been any one of us watching him. You are not at fault, Miss Lane.”
“But the note—” Elizabeth began.
“There was no signature,” her father replied grimly. “No proof. And Wickham… well, Wickham has vanished.”
Jane placed a hand on their father’s arm. “Papa, what do we do now?”
“I do not know,” he murmured, looking years older than he had that morning. “I went to Netherfield to speak with Darcy and Bingley. We are organizing a wider search. But for now…we wait.”
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Silence reigned, heavy and unbearable.
Elizabeth could not bear to stay. She turned without excuse or explanationand fled up the stairs.
Her room was dim and cold when she entered. She stood for a moment by the door, then collapsed onto her bed in a tangle of limbs and grief. The sobs broke loose before she could even draw breath. Her fingers clawed at the coverlet as if she could tear away the ache that pressed so tightly in her chest.
Tommy. Her sweet, wild, beloved boy.
Where was he now? Was he cold? Frightened? Was he crying for her?
She imagined his tiny hands reaching out, his voice calling for her in the dark. The image pierced her like a dagger.
This is your fault.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the thought away, but it returned with relentless cruelty.
Elizabeth pressed her face into the pillow to muffle the cries that tore from her throat. Guilt consumed her. Not even her mother’s death had wrought such torment in her heart. She had buried that pain—had been strong for her sisters, for her father, for the boy in their nursery.
And now he was gone. This was her punishment. Not just for hiding the truth, but for daring to love and hope and dream, whilst built on a foundation of lies.
“Tommy,” she whispered into the stillness. “Please be safe. Please hold on.” She promised she would protect him, and though she knew she might never see him again, she could not let herself lose hope. Not yet.
Night fell without ceremony.
Mr Bennet sat alone in the study, the candle long burned low, the chair opposite him conspicuously empty. He had sent the servants away with gentle firmness; he could not bear to see their pity, nor the fear they worked so hard to conceal.
The room felt wrong without Tommy.
Too quiet. Too orderly.
His gaze fell upon the low stool by the hearth, where the boy often sat to build towers from discarded pamphlets or demand explanations for words he overheard but did not yet fully understand. Tommy asked questions most men avoided. Not foolish ones. Not childish ones. Questions that struck uncomfortably close to truth.
Mr Bennet pressed his fingers to his brow.
Tommy had always been clever—but not merely quick of mind. There was a depth to his understanding that unsettled him. He noticed injustice without being taught its name. He felt deeply, and worse—he trusted implicitly. Too much. Too easily.
