The thoughts came unbidden, unwanted, and faster than he could track. Darcy clenched his jaw.
“Are you well, sir?” Elizabeth asked softly.
He looked at her then—really looked—and saw something flickering in her expression. Composure, yes, but with a glint of apprehension, of fierce protectiveness.
“I—” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me. I thought—”
What did he think? Thathe had seen a ghost?
Elizabeth’s gaze did not waver. “Thomas is very dear to me,” she said simply. There was no lie in her tone.
He looked after the child’s retreating form until it disappeared into the trees. The laughter had faded, and the air seemed still again—but something had shifted. Permanently.
Darcy barely registered the remainder of the walk.
Elizabeth was civil, but the warmth that had marked their previous interactions was dulled. She remained close to Jane, her attention pointedly fixed on her sister and Mr Bingley. When Darcy attempted to engage her—asking if she frequented that path often or whether the boy, Thomas, enjoyed the outdoors—her replies were brief and politely evasive.
“Yes, the path is pleasant,” she said. “We walk often when the weather permits. He is a lively child.”
Her tone was neither cold nor unkind, but Darcy could not shake the sense that a barrier had risen between them. She did not meet his eyes as she once had, and her laughter, when it came, was muted.
By the time they reached the house, Elizabeth excused herself with a curtsy and murmured something about checking on the younger girls. Darcy watched her go, unease gnawing at him.
The Netherfield party returned to their carriage soon after, Bingley in high spirits and Miss Bingley in visible irritation.
“Well,” she said the moment the horses started forwards, “that was one of the most ill-organized social calls I’ve ever endured. Children darting about, hair unbound, dresses muddied—really, Charles, I cannot comprehend your fascination with such people.”
“Caroline,” Bingley said mildly, “you cannot blame the family for enjoying the fine weather as they please. We intruded upon their outing, not the other way around.”
“They were practically barefoot,” she sniffed. “It is no wonder you admire Miss Bennet—she is the only one who managed to maintain any decorum.”
Louisa Hurst yawned and murmured something about “country indulgences.”
Darcy said nothing. He sat rigid, eyes fixed on the shifting countryside beyond the window. His thoughts refused to settle. The boy—Thomas.
Elizabeth’s sudden reserve. Her protective posture. The way the child clung to her. His eyes. The profound likeness. He was around five years old… No; it was too ludicrous to imagine.
Darcy’s mind spun with questions, but none he could ask aloud. And Elizabeth… Elizabeth had not wished to linger. Had not met his gaze once since that moment. Still, the suspicions remained. There was something he was not being told, and he would find out what it was.
Little Thomas’s departure did not help ease Elizabeth’s anxiety. Mr Darcy’s question about Thomas had made her heart race. He showed an unusual amount of interest in the lad, but who was she to say what was usual and what was not? Perhaps he merely meant to be polite. And perhaps the fault was her own—was she on her guard because Mr Darcy was a newcomer?
He looked as if he had seen a spectre or some other aberration. His expression had shifted the moment Thomas tore the blindfold from his eyes, revealing his cherubic face, flushed with laughter. Darcy’s mouth hadparted slightly, his eyes wide, as though he beheld something long-lost—or deeply feared.
Mr Darcy’s gaze had roved over Thomas’s features, lingering with too much scrutiny for it to be mere curiosity. His jaw had clenched when the child swung his stick like a make-believe sword, and Elizabeth had seen it: the slight tremble in his hand as he adjusted his gloves, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.
The reason behind the gentleman’s odd behaviour was a mystery, and Elizabeth’s mind whirled as she considered the possibilities. It was almost as though he knew Thomas—had seen him before. The notion was absurd. It could not be possible that Mr Darcy knew her brother’s true parentage, unless… She scolded herself. Proper young ladies did not consider such things. Yet the look of recognition in his eyes said otherwise.
The moment she could justify the departure, Elizabeth retreated to her room. She claimed a headache, her excuse accepted without question, and retreated to her bedchamber. There, lying fully clothed upon her counterpane, she stared into the folds of the canopy overhead, seeking clarity and finding only a crushing weight of doubt.
Who could she turn to with her fears? Not her father. He had so often dismissed her concerns, waving them off with philosophy or wit. Yet, he too worried about the possibility of their secret being discovered. Why else would he consider marrying one of his daughters to an unknown cousin—the rightful heir to Longbourn? That plan, half-formed and born of desperation, now made grim sense.
There was a soft knock. Jane entered, a vision of gentleness and concern. Her eyes searched Elizabeth’s face as she approached.
“Are you well?” she asked, perching on the edge of the bed with careful grace.
Elizabeth mustered a smile. “I am. It is only a little headache. I shall be fully recovered tomorrow. Do you think Papa would let me take a tray in my room?” She winced inwardly at how flat her voice sounded. She could not face the dinner table. Not tonight.
“He has already directed Hill to see it done,” Jane replied, patting her hand gently.
