Her thoughts, however, were far less steady.
A cousin. An unknown cousin who, by rights, would inherit everything were the truth to come out. Mr. Collins—his name sat oddly in her mind, like a stone in her shoe. His letter had been courteous, even kind, though unmistakably marked by an affection for his own voice. Still, his request to visit had not been presumptuous. It had been humbly phrased. Civil. Curious, but not demanding.
And what if he were willing? Willing to marry into the very family that had unknowingly displaced him from his inheritance—if he came without resentment or pride, content with what he believed his due. The thought followed her as she slowed near the orchard fence, her hands tightening on the top rail as its dreadful clarity took shape.Perhaps I ought to marry him.
The notion sent a cold flush through her—not because it was new, but because it made a terrible kind of sense. If Mr. Collins proved a decent man—unmarried, established, and satisfied with the life set before him—then Thomas might be spared the cruellest consequences of the truth. The entail would pass as expected. Longbourn would remain in familiar hands. Thomas would not be erased or cast aside, but quietly allowedto remain as he was: loved, protected, unquestioned. He would lose a title he had never known, but not his name, nor his place, nor the care owed to him.
The cost, however, would be hers alone. She would bind herself to a life she did not want in order to shield a child who had no choice in the matter—and in doing so, she would make the lie permanent. It would secure Thomas’s future, yes, but at the price of her own. Elizabeth released the fence at last, her chest tight beneath the weight of it. This was not sacrifice dressed in romance. It was endurance, plain and unadorned. And she did not yet know whether she was strong enough to choose it.
A fitting reckoning, she thought bitterly. For every half-truth spoken, every careful evasion, every smile offered while pretending there was nothing strange about her brother’s birth.
A crow called overhead, breaking the hush. Elizabeth lifted her head and watched the dark bird sweep across the field. Her fingers curled once more around the fence rail.Oh, what a tangled web we weave…
How quickly the web tangled. How swiftly it had become something they could not unweave. And now her father—clever, detached Mr Bennet—spoke of this stranger as a solution, a way to restore balance should the truth ever rise. Would it truly be so terrible to tie herself to such a man?
But even as the thought settled, her stomach turned. How could she make such a vow to a man she had never met? How could she sacrifice herself, her future, simply to keep the past buried?
No—she was not ready to answer. Not now.
She wandered back slowly, her feet tracing familiar routes as if they might return her to the girl she was before the carriage accident. The sky had dulled to a pewter grey, and the wind was picking up again, rattling the trees in their autumn undress.
By the time she reached the back door of the house, her fingers were stiff with cold, and her skirts damp at the hem. She paused before entering, looking up at the windows above. This was still her home—for now. She would fight for it. But the cost of that fight was no longer hypothetical. It had a name. A face she had yet to see. A future she had yet to decide.
Still unsettled, but quieter inside, she stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind her.
Chapter Fifteen
The carriage ride to Longbourn was not as pleasant as Charles Bingley had hoped. Though the morning sun shone cheerfully through the windowpanes and the autumn breeze was warm for mid-October, Miss Bingley’s voice had made the journey anything but tranquil.
“I cannot understand, Charles, why you are so obstinate in your affections,” she drawled for the third time. “There were any number of eligible young women of fine breeding and exceptional fortune—Lady Adeline Grant, for example, or Miss Mortimer of Cavendish Square—each would have made an admirable match.”
Bingley, seated opposite her, maintained a light smile, but his voice was firm. “Their breeding and fortune could not make them agreeable, Caroline. No, I much prefer a woman with a warm heart and lively mind. Miss Bennet may not possess connections or wealth, but in felicity of temper, she is unequaled.”
Darcy, seated beside the Hursts, said nothing but watched Caroline from the corner of his eye as she pursed her lips in disapproval. It was no secret that she had hoped to steer her brother towards a match that would reflect favourably on herself.
Upon arriving at Longbourn, Miss Bennet received them in the drawing room. She greeted them warmly, though Darcy noted at once that someone was missing.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Elizabeth—is she not at home?”
Jane smiled. “She is out walking with our brother and younger sisters. They were full of energy and wished to take advantage of the fine weather.”
Bingley brightened. “Then perhaps we might meet them on a stroll ourselves. Dear Miss Bennet, will you lead the way?”
It was quickly agreed upon. Jane and Bingley stepped out first, followed by Mr and Mrs Hurst. Darcy was left to bring up the rear with Miss Bingley.
“It is far too warm for October,” she murmured as they entered the wooded path along the side of the house. “I shall be glad when we are indoors again. Country walks have such a way of rumpling one’s appearance.”
Darcy offered no reply. His mind was on Elizabeth. As quickly as he could, he made an excuse to move away from Miss Bingley, walking quickly up the path.
They were some way down the path when the sound of laughter broke the stillness. High, childish peals of delight carried on the breeze, and just ahead, a small clearing opened where sunlight danced between the trees.
There, surrounded by three young ladies, was Elizabeth Bennet. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching a child—perhaps five or six years of age—chase the girls with a blindfold tied about his eyes. His laugh was infectious, his tiny boots thudding on the grass as he cried, “I shall catch you! Just wait, Lydia! I shall catch you!”
Two of the girls had their hair unbound and skirts short enough to suggest youth—the two youngest Bennet girls, perhaps. The third was older, skirts brushing her ankles, but she joined in with the same gleeful abandon. Elizabeth clapped her hands and encouraged the child as he stumbled blindly in circles.
Darcy’s lips parted in surprise. She was radiant—her cheeks flushed, eyes bright, her laughter rising like birdsong. Her hair gleamed in the sun, a few rebellious strands escaping her bonnet.
Suddenly, the blindfolded boy careened towards them. Before anyone could step aside, he barrelled directly into Darcy with a gleeful shout.
