There was a pause, the weight of unspoken words settling between them, but she did not elaborate, though she sensed he wished she would.
His own expression softened, a rare vulnerability flickering across his features. “I understand,” he said quietly. “My mother also died in childbirth. She passed, bringing my sister Georgiana into the world.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lightened, the guardedness in her posture easing just slightly, and for a moment, there was a shared silence between them—a recognition of loss, unspoken yet deeply felt.
“I am sorry,” she said softly.
“As am I,” he replied.
Elizabeth left out that another babe had died that same day. Something told her Mr Darcy’s interest in Thomas was more than just a passing fancy. Though it seemed improbable, she wondered if he somehow had a connection to the mystery lady who had died that day in the carriage accident. If he did, well, the consequences could be detrimental.
He cannot prove anything,she reasoned as the conversation shifted to other things. Even if Mr Darcy suspected Thomas’s origins were not what the Bennets had declared, he had no way to disprove the tale. No matter her mental reassurances, Elizabeth’s conscience weighed heavy, and her heart ached for the deception. Having always been an honest and forthright creature, the disguise, in which she was an active participant, made her feel tainted. She knew her fears were likely irrational, as were her father’s, but such things were rarely rational.
What did she fear most? It was losing her brother, surely. But the fear of scandal, and her father’s fear of legal trouble also filled her with unreasonable anxiety.
The conversation moved on, Jane’s laughter breaking the quiet as she called out something teasing to Mary, but for a brief instant, Mr Darcy and Elizabeth shared a look that went beyond small talk and polite inquiry, a fleeting connection born of shared sorrow and the quiet resilience it had forged within them.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves should have soothed Darcy into quiet contemplation, but his mind would not be still. The fields of Hertfordshire slipped past in blurred shades of green and gold, yet his thoughts remainedfixed on the conversation in the Longbourn parlour, on Elizabeth Bennet’s measured words and the quick flicker of guardedness in her eyes when he had asked about her brother.
She had spoken readily of her sisters, each description coloured with affection—Mary’s studious nature, Lydia and Kitty’s youthful exuberance, Jane’s quiet grace. But when he had mentioned her brother, the hesitation had been unmistakable. The brief tightening of her fingers on the teacup, the way her gaze had held his, steady yet defensive, before she had offered that soft, carefully chosen phrase:“Forgive me. My mother died giving birth. I am very protective.”
She had not lied. He could see the truth in her eyes, the lingering pain of that loss, a grief not unlike his own. He could not fault her for her protectiveness, nor for keeping her brother close to her heart, away from the prying curiosity of near strangers. And yet…
Darcy’s hand tightened on the reins, the leather creaking under his gloved fingers. There was something more, something unspoken, that clung to her words like a shadow. The boy, Thomas Bennet, had not been mentioned by name, and there had been no mention of the twin who had died alongside Mrs Bennet. No idle details about the boy’s interestsor temperament, as there had been for her sisters. Nothing but that brief, strained sentence, offered like a shield.
Why no mention of the other child?Darcy’s mind would not release the question, no matter how he tried to reason it away. It was possible, of course, that the grief of losing a mother and brother in childbirth would cast a long shadow over the surviving child’s life, making the family reluctant to speak of the day. It was possible that Elizabeth’s protectiveness was simply that—a sister’s fierce love for the only brother amongst a household of sisters.
And yet, at least some of what Miss Bingley had said, however spitefully delivered, was correct. The Bennets’ situation was precarious. The entail made a son vital to the security of the estate, and the birth of a male heir at such a critical moment could not be dismissed as mere chance. Miss Bingley had prattled on about the Bennets’ lack of fortune, the necessity of securing their futures, the foolishness of Bingley’s attachment to Miss Bennet. Darcy had dismissed much of her talk as the petty complaints of a woman grasping for control. But in this, in the blunt practicality of her observation, there was a truth that Darcy could not ignore.
What lengths would a family go to in order to secure their home, their daughters’ futures, their livelihoods?He could not say.
The boy’s face rose in his mind again, solemn eyes that mirrored Georgiana’s, the stubborn tilt of a Fitzwilliam chin, the soft, unguarded laughter of a child at play that now seemed impossibly weighted with unspoken implications. Could he truly dismiss it all as a coincidence?
Bingley’s contented sigh drew Darcy’s attention. The younger man was lost in thoughts of Miss Bennet, a soft smile on his face as he gazed out at the passing countryside. Darcy envied him in that moment, envied the simplicity of his hopes, the certainty of his affections unclouded by suspicion.
Darcy leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. His sense of duty warred with the reluctant affection that Elizabeth Bennet had begun to stir within him. He could not ignore what he had seen, nor could he in good conscience accuse a family—herfamily—without certainty. And so, he would wait, and he would watch, and he would guard his suspicions until Richard arrived.
For now, all he could do was show patience, even as the questions gnawed at the edges of his mind, and the memory of Elizabeth’s guarded eyes refused to leave him.
Chapter Seventeen
Elizabeth successfully put her worries from her mind in anticipation of an evening spent in company. Though her friendship with Charlotte Lucas had once been strained after her brief and uncomfortable interest in becoming Elizabeth’s stepmother, they had moved past that awkwardness and now enjoyed a quiet, unspoken understanding. Though there was still awkwardness, at least on her part, Elizabeth looked up to the elder Miss Lucas, finding in her a fount of practical wisdom, even if Charlotte’s calm acceptance of life’s limitations could be vexing to Elizabeth’s more spirited disposition.
She and Jane were accompanied by Mrs Philips that evening, their aunt’s chatter and gentle fussing a comforting background as the carriage rattled along the rutted lane to Lucas Lodge. Mr Bennet, predictably, had chosen to remain at home, claiming a headache, though Elizabeth suspected the promise of a quiet evening in his study was a stronger lure than any party. They had grown used to this, knowing that their father’s rare appearances in society were to be cherished, as when he had attended the Meryton assembly.
“Good evening, Eliza. Jane, you look very well!” Charlotte greeted them warmly, her eyes alight with genuine pleasure, though Elizabeth noted the faint tightness around them, the small lines of strain that came from years of watching and waiting whilst younger women found husbands. Charlotte was nearly seven-and-twenty now, her single state a burden thatshe bore with stoic grace, but one that Elizabeth knew weighed upon her friend more heavily with each passing year.
“Mr Bingley is everything a gentleman ought to be,” Jane replied softly when asked about her courtship, her face suffused with a gentle, dreamy glow that made Elizabeth smile despite herself.
“Then you have every expectation that it will come to its natural conclusion,” Charlotte said with a nod, though Elizabeth saw the momentary shadow that crossed her friend’s expression before she recovered it with a composed smile. “I am happy for you, Jane.”
Eager to steer the conversation away from the quiet ache in Charlotte’s eyes, Elizabeth told her friend about the letter from Mr Collins and her father’s prompt reply, sharing her suspicions that her father meant to see one of his daughters settled with their clergyman cousin.
Charlotte’s eyebrows rose, and she let out a soft laugh. “There is no need to force the matter.”
“There is Tommy,” Jane agreed gently, and Elizabeth’s throat tightened with the effort not to respond sharply. Tommy’s existence had secured Longbourn, but at what hidden cost?
Charlotte, ever practical, offered a lifeline. “I am certain your father merely wishes to be thorough when securing your futures.” She gave a small, rueful smile before adding lightly, “But if none of the Bennet ladies want him, pray, recommend me to his notice. I should like being a clergyman’s wife. Yes, the occupation would suit me nicely.”
