Darcy agreed.
The search was brief but exacting. Three candidates were dismissed outright. Then came Mrs Annesley—a widow from Derby with sterling references, quiet warmth, and no inclination to impress. She sat besideGeorgiana and asked, simply, whether she preferred reading aloud or listening.
“Reading aloud,” Georgiana whispered.
“So do I,” Mrs Annesley replied. “Shall we take turns?”
Darcy felt his shoulders ease for the first time in weeks.
Within days, Georgiana began reading poetry by the fire—only a few lines at first, her voice trembling, but the sound was more precious than music.
Darcy spoke Wickham’s name no more.
Privately, however, he wrote once to the man himself, having received his direction from Georgiana, making it clear that any future approach to his sister would be met swiftly and decisively. He mentioned debts, obligations, and consequences. It was not a threat. It was a boundary.
Chapter Eleven
The morning sun filtered gently through the soft veil of mist that clung to the hedgerows along the footpath behind Longbourn. The air was crisp with the promise of autumn, and the grass beneath Elizabeth’s half-boots sparkled faintly with dew. Leaves, just beginning to turn, rustled above her, touched with the faintest hues of amber and gold. A blackbird flitted across the path ahead, disappearing into the tall hawthorn hedge with a flutter.
Elizabeth walked slowly, her hand clasped around the smaller one of her little brother. He trotted beside her with long, lanky limbs that had only recently outgrown his last set of boots, which now sat in the back hall, scuffed and forgotten.
“I have been writing with my left hand,” he declared, swinging their joined hands with enthusiasm. “Miss Lane says it is a curse, but I think it is just easier.”
Elizabeth smiled and glanced down at him. His golden curls bounced with each step, unruly as ever, and his brown eyes—so at odds with the blue and green shades of the Bennet sisters—were alive with mischief and curiosity.
“You like being interesting, do you?” she teased. "No other Bennet writes with their left hand!"For good reason.
He puffed up slightly. “Well, it would be terribly dull to be likeeveryoneelse.”
They passed beneath an arch of overgrown bramble, the scent of blackberries warm in the sun. The hedgerow on either side of the narrow path buzzed with late bees, and somewhere nearby, a wood pigeon cooed lazily. The fields beyond shimmered faintly, their grasses long and gold, swaying in the breeze.
“I have been thinking,” Thomas said suddenly. “Do you think I will be taller than you by next year?”
Elizabeth feigned deep thought. “Well, you are a Bennet, so you may grow long in the leg before long in that sense. But we shall see.”
He grinned at that, and she felt the familiar pull at her heart—pride, affection, and that dull ache of guilt that never quite left her.
He was not her blood brother. Not by the strictest rule of law. But he washers, in every way that mattered. Perhaps if she said it enough, she could convince herself it was true. And no one—not Mrs Long, nor the parish gossips, nor even her closest friends—suspected a thing. Thomas was a Bennet to the world, and she had made it her personal vow to be the best sister he could ever ask for.
If her true brother had lived, it would have been the same. That was how she justified the quiet deceit. The same inheritance and the same place at their father’s knee. The same pony, the same bedtime stories. What difference was there, truly?
But still—when he looked up at her with those dark brown eyes, so unlike hers—there was a sharpness in her chest that had nothing to do with walking too far.
“Lizzy?” he asked, tugging at her hand.
“Hm?”
“Will I really get to ride all the way to Oakham one day and talk to tenants and fix fences and decide where the sheep should go?”
She nodded. “One day, yes. But first, you must learn your Latin and remember not to feed Cook’s cat cheese. That is where great estate management begins.”
He laughed, unbothered. “I shall do it all, just as Papa says.”
They reached a wooden stile at the edge of the field. Elizabeth helped him up, watching his long limbs scramble over with more enthusiasm than grace. He jumped down on the other side and turned to help her, offering his small hand with exaggerated gallantry.
“Allow me, dear sister.”
She laughed and took it, stepping down to join him.
