“No, but others did not understand their relationship,” Jane replied gently. “You were too young to remember, but before Lydia’s birth, there were years of…difficulty. Mama’s nerves worsened with each daughter. She grew more frantic, more obsessed with securing matches. Still, she never gave up her sense of duty to us.”
“She could have let Lydia run wild,” Elizabeth agreed. “She could have thrown us at every man within fifty miles, but she did not. For all her faults, she wanted what was best—though her methods were sometimes mortifying.”
“She meant to have you come out at fifteen,” Jane said, with a touch of amusement in her voice.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied dryly. “Too young, in hindsight. I am glad Papa has allowed me to wait.”
“So, now what must we do?” Mary asked, uncertain.
“It is not for us to decide,” Jane said softly, wrapping an arm around Mary’s shoulder. “But I think Papa is doing what he thinks best. He has no wish to marry again.”
“And no need,” Elizabeth added. “He has an heir now.”
Jane nodded. “Any woman who became Mrs Bennet would know her child would never inherit.”
At that, Elizabeth’s heart clenched.
Oh, Jane, she thought bitterly.If only you knew.
The house had grown quiet again. Jane and Mary had retired, and Elizabeth lingered in the parlour alone, the fire crackling low in the grate. She stared into the flames, her thoughts heavy.
Thomas. The child had changed everything.
“Lizzy? Still awake?” Papa stepped into the parlour, interrupting her thoughts. “You ought to go to bed.”
“I was merely considering what occurred tonight.” She brushed at invisible lint on her skirt.
Mr Bennet spoke without preamble, as though continuing a thought begun long before.
“Men rarely remain widowers long,” he replied.
Elizabeth looked up from her embroidery. “Is that so?” Something like panic bloomed in her chest. Was her father lonely? Did hewishfor another wife?
“Society dislikes the thought of a man without a wife,” he replied. “Interested parties often rush forward, volunteering to fill the position.”
She laughed faintly. “You have resisted admirably.”
“Resistance,” he said, “is easier than consequence.” Mr Bennet looked drawn and he rubbed his face tiredly.
She did not press him. The words lingered and she pondered them with curiosity—it was an odd remark, nothing more. Still, something akin toworry had settled within her. Worry for their future—worry for Tommy if her father chose to seek another wife.
Not a day passed that she did not love him more fiercely. Yet with that love came dread—the weight of the lie they lived, the secret kept behind gentle smiles and well-chosen words. He was not theirs, not truly. And yet, he was hers in every way that mattered. She had been the one to hold him first, to play with him, to rock him through teething fevers and soothe his nightmares. If love made a mother, then she was one.
She rose and made her way up the stairs, pausing at the nursery door. It was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and stepped inside.
Moonlight streamed through the window, silvering the curls atop the child’s head. He lay on his back, one tiny fist resting against his cheek, his lips parted in sleep. Elizabeth’s heart ached. He was innocent—so innocent. And yet one day, someone might look at him and ask too many questions.
How long could the truth be kept?
She reached down, tucking the blanket around his shoulders. He stirred slightly but did not wake.
“Sleep well, little one,” she whispered. “Whatever comes, you are loved.”
As she turned to leave, a thought struck her with painful clarity: this child was not just her secret—he was her charge, her duty, and her heart. Whatever storm might come, she would face it—for him.
Elizabeth discovered the book by accident—or so she told herself.
It lay upon the small table near her father’s chair, its spine cracked, the margins faintly marked. She recognised the title at once: a dry treatise on English property law, borrowed from a neighbour and seldom opened by anyone with sense.
