Would he hate them one day? Would the sweetness in his gaze vanish if he learned the truth? And would he feel betrayed? Certainly not unwanted. They loved Tommy desperately. But a child born in secrecy, raised in deception—what future could such a beginning yield?
She swallowed hard and reached for her tea, forcing her hand to remain steady.
“You are very quiet this morning, Lizzy,” Jane observed gently, her voice soft enough not to draw the others’ attention.
Elizabeth managed a smile. “I did not sleep well,” she replied truthfully. “It lingers with me.”
Jane reached across the table to squeeze her hand, her eyes full of concern. Elizabeth offered a reassuring squeeze in return, but her gaze drifted back to Tommy.
What if Mr Collins came and suspected the truth? What if he took offense at their years of deceit and brought attention to the situation? It would be humiliating…perhaps even ruinous. The entail might be enforced retroactively. Could the estate be stripped from them? Would Tommy be sent away—declared illegitimate and cast aside like a mistake?
No, she would not allow it.
Her eyes stung, but she blinked rapidly and took a deep breath.
Tommy caught her looking and gave her a toothy grin, waving his crust at her like a sword. “I am a knight, Lizzy! See?”
She laughed softly, despite the knot in her chest. “Indeed, Sir Thomas the Brave. Defender of jam and toast.”
He beamed at her, and Elizabeth felt something shift in her chest—something deep and immovable. She would protect him. No matter what it cost her. He was her brother in every way that mattered. He was innocent. Joyful. Pure.
A firm certainty settled in her chest. He was worth every lie they had told. And he was worth every truth she might someday have to reveal.
She forced herself to eat a bite of toast and nodded along as Jane asked a question about the day’s errands, but her thoughts remained half a world away, already turning over plans and possibilities. If their secret was ever uncovered, she would not let Tommy suffer for it.
He would not face this world alone. Not whilst she still had breath to defend him.
Chapter Sixteen
Darcy brooded for two days. Miss Bingley’s attempts to engage him in conversation were unsuccessful. If he were honest, he had likely been abominably rude and had completely ignored her on more than one occasion. Such was his preoccupation, for the sight of that child in the clearing haunted him relentlessly, intruding upon his thoughts whether he sat at his writing desk or stood at the window, staring blankly across the lawns of Netherfield.
The child had to have Fitzwilliam blood. Darcy would wager Pemberley against the fact, so certain was he. The resemblance was too strong—the shape of the boy’s brow, the stubborn tilt of his chin, the eyes that had looked up at Darcy with the same solemn, clear gaze he had seen countless times before in his family. Fitzwilliam’s? His estate was not far from here. Perhaps they had formed an acquaintance during a posting, or some social call in Hertfordshire. Could his cousin and one of the Bennet sisters… No, certainly not. It was preposterous even to contemplate. Richard was not that sort of gentleman. He was honourable to a fault—just like Darcy. They had both learned at his father’s knee the cost of carelessness and the value of duty.
Yet the memory of the child’s face refused to leave him. Little Thomas Bennet looked too much like family. Darcy raked a hand through his hair, pacing before the hearth. If not Richard, then… A wild thought took root, one he had pushed away repeatedly, only for it to return with greater persistence each time. Had the maid at Rosings Park not mentioned, in hushed tones, that Anne might have been in a delicate condition when she left Rosings Park so suddenly? The whispers he had dismissed as idle gossip now clawed at him, demanding attention. Could the boy be Anne’s child?
No. Darcy clenched his jaw. The Bennets were respectable people, as far as he could tell, despite their modest means and country manners. They would not attempt to pass another’s child off as the heir to Longbourn, not even for the sake of securing the estate. Yet he could not dismiss the doubts that wormed their way into his mind, relentless and insidious. He had only met the family a handful of times, exchanged pleasantries in drawing rooms and at assemblies. Could he truly say he knew them well enough to vouch for their integrity in this matter?
What had Miss Bingley said of the family, with that sharp-edged delight she took in the misfortune of others? Mrs Bennet had died in childbirth, along with her son’s twin. The birth of a son had secured Longbourn’s future just in time. How that harpy managed to find such details so swiftly upon their arrival in Hertfordshire, he knew not, but the timing was too convenient, too neatly tied to the boy’s existence.
Longbourn’s entail meant a son was vital. With five unmarried daughters, Mr Bennet would understandably be worried about the state of his affairs and their welfare after his death. Would that worry be enough to risk perpetuating a fraud against a rightful heir to the estate? Darcy’s sense of justice warred with his growing unease. If the child was not the rightful heir, if a deception had been enacted to secure the estate, what was his responsibility? Was it his duty to intervene, to protect the interests of the rightful heir, whoever that might be?
Yet another thought, quiet and unsettling, whispered in his mind. The man might have married again, Darcy reasoned. Since he did not, does that not indicate he had no need—nor any wish to take another wife?Perhaps Mr Bennet had accepted the situation with quiet desperation, doing what he believed necessary to protect his daughters. Was that truly so unforgivable?
He hardly knew what to think.I need more information.His mind turned over the possibilities again and again, seeking clarity in a tangle of doubts and half-truths.
Darcy was forced to admit defeat for the time being. There was no way forward without more certainty, and he could not allow himself to act on mere suspicion. The anniversary of Anne’s disappearance had reopened the old wound in his chest. He closed his eyes, pressing a hand to the bridge of his nose.
Mayhap he could put it aside, at least for the night. A letter to Richard could not go amiss, but another hesitation caught him. Richard was to come to Netherfield soon. It would be better to discuss it in person, to look into his cousin’s eyes and measure his reaction. Richard would not mock Darcy’s suspicions if faced with the lad. If the truth was as Darcy feared, then they would know what must be done. And if it was nothing but shadows and resemblance, they could leave it in the past, where so many other sorrows lay buried.
He looked into the flames, the crackle and hiss a quiet backdrop to his restless thoughts. For now, he would wait. But the image of that child’s solemn eyes would not soon leave him.
The next morning dawned grey and cool, the lingering mist softening the lines of the Netherfield lawns. After completing estate business, Darcy leftthe house, intending to meet Bingley at the stables. He waited in the stable yard, his mount stamping impatiently. Bingley strode out moments later, a bright grin on his face despite the weather.
“Caroline has decided she will remain behind,” Bingley said lightly as he adjusted his gloves. “She claims she has correspondence to which she must attend.”
Darcy arched a brow. “Correspondence or embroidery?”
Bingley’s grin widened. “Likely both.” His expression turned sheepish as he glanced towards the house. “She was not pleased when I mentioned we would ride out to Longbourn.”
