Elizabeth.
After the match ended, Darcy retreated to the library, hoping the quiet would steady the tumult churning in his chest. Yet even as he stood before the fire, the flickering flames cast shadows that seemed to whisper her name.
Her laughter, the way she tilted her head in challenge, the fierce protectiveness in her gaze when she had spoken of her brother—it all replayed in his mind, refusing to be silenced. He ran a hand over his face, hating the vulnerability clawing at his carefully constructed reserve. What business had he to think of her so? She was beneath him in station, and did not command the dowry a Darcy of Pemberley might expect. Yet none of that seemed to matter when he remembered the spark in her eyes or the quiet strength she carried, even in her moments of levity. He had come to Hertfordshire to support Bingley, not to entangle himself in affairs of the heart. And yet, Darcy realised, with the growing certainty that made his chest tighten, that he was already entangled, hopelessly so, caught in the gentle web of a woman who did not even know the power she wielded over him—nor the truth he sought that could change everything between them forever.
Chapter Twenty
Mr Darcy did not accompany his friend to Longbourn the next time Mr Bingley came to call. Nor did he come the next time…or the next. For nearly two weeks, Elizabeth anticipated the man’s company only to be disappointed. She had thought they were forming a rapport, but it appeared she was mistaken.
At first, she had told herself that his absence was of no consequence, that she cared little for the man’s company beyond the mild curiosity he provoked in her. Yet, each time the sound of horse hooves approached Longbourn’s front drive, her heart would leap—only to sink again when Mr Bingley arrived alone, apologetic but never offering a reason for his friend’s absence beyond citing matters of business. It was foolish, she scolded herself, to be so unsettled by the whims of a gentleman she barely knew.
As time passed, she told herself she had been wrong to entertain suspicions that he might know Tommy’s true parentage. How could he possibly? She had discovered the lad as a babe—surely, there was no way to prove the boy was not a Bennet—not now, so many years later. Mr Darcy’s solicitous behaviour could mean he had decided to discount any questions he had. She could only hope that was the case. Still, her thoughts often returned to that moment when Darcy’s dark eyes had fixed upon Tommy, filled with such confusion, such intensity, that Elizabeth could not helpbut feel exposed, as if he had seen into her very soul. It haunted her more than she cared to admit.
Breakfast was the usual affair. Kitty and Lydia sat with Miss Lane. Tommy sat with his governess. The three youngest children spoke amongst themselves, leaving the others to speak quietly amongst themselves. The clatter of spoons against porcelain and the soft murmur of youthful conversation created a warm domestic scene that Elizabeth treasured, even amid her hidden anxieties.
Mr Bennet asked Jane about the preparations for Mr Collins’s visit. She gave a favourable report, and he turned his attention to the newspaper beside his plate, occasionally letting out a chuckle at some absurdity he found in its pages.
About halfway through the meal, Hill came in and presented a note to Jane. “From Netherfield, Miss Bennet,” she said politely before leaving the room.
Jane opened the missive, a look of curiosity on her face. “It is from Miss Bingley,” she related. “She writes to invite me to dine with her and Mrs Hurst this afternoon. The gentlemen, it seems, will be dining with the officers.”
“Do you mean to accept the invitation?” Mr Bennet glanced over the top of the paper. “I can spare the carriage horses.”
Jane nodded in confirmation, folding the note with neat precision, though Elizabeth saw the soft flush of pleasure on her sister’s cheeks.
“How very envious I am!” Lydia sighed heavily, slouching in her chair ever so slightly before Miss Lane calmly reminded her to sit up. Lydia obeyed with a huff, drumming her fingers lightly on the table. “Jane, do be sure to remember the details. I have never seen Netherfield’s interior. You must tell me everything about the furnishings and draperies. Oh! And their gowns—the ladies are sure to be wearing the latestfashions.”
“Yes, Lydia, of course I shall.” Jane smiled kindly, her serene manner unbothered by Lydia’s restless energy. “I promise to observe every detail faithfully and report to you once I return.”
“It is odd, is it not, that Lizzy is not included in the invitation?” Mary’s brow furrowed slightly, her voice mild but tinged with confusion.
Elizabeth laughed and shook her head, though a small pang of disappointment settled in her chest. “I am not offended. Besides, they likely wish to know our sister better. She is the one courting their brother.” Her assurances seemed to satisfy Mary, and the conversation turned to other things. Mr Bennet set aside his paper, giving the governesses instructions for the day before excusing himself.
As the family dispersed, Elizabeth remained seated, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her teacup. She told herself it was for the best that Mr Darcy stayed away, that her life was simpler without his steady, searching gaze upon her. Tommy would be safer without prying, curious eyes, too. And yet, as she watched Jane gather her shawl and bonnet with quiet anticipation, Elizabeth could not silence the restless ache within her heart—a mixture of fear, relief, and something she could not quite name.
Clouds gathered outside as Jane prepared to depart. Elizabeth watched out the window, praying her sister would arrive before the worst of the deluge struck. She pressed a hand to the glass, tracing the swirling grey patterns in the sky as the first drops of rain splattered against the windowpane, each soft patter echoing the quiet unease in her heart.
With her usual duties complete, she wandered around before deciding to spend time in the nursery, seeking the comfort that only Tommy’s laughter and the simplicity of his world could provide.
Tommy sat in the corner playing with blocks whilst his governess mended socks and shirts in the chair near the hearth, the gentle snap of fabric and the quiet scrape of her needle a comforting background rhythm. The scent of soap and starch lingered in the air, blending with the faint fragrance of lavender sachets tucked into drawers. The nursery, though small, felt like a haven—its shelves lined with worn books, a faded rocking horse near the window, and carefully folded quilts in a basket by the bed.
The lad jumped up excitedly as his sister entered the room, rushing across the carpet and taking Elizabeth’s hand with his small, warm fingers. His brown eyes, bright with the promise of adventure, sparkled as he greeted his sister.
“Come build with me!” he cried. “Look how tall my tower is. Once it is finished, we can set up the soldiers.”
“Are your brave men defending the tower?” Elizabeth lowered herself onto the rug, arranging her skirts carefully to preserve her modesty as she settled amongst the blocks and tiny wooden horses.
“They are! The enemy is approaching swiftly, and they do not have much time to prepare.” Tommy’s brow furrowed in earnest concentration as he ran to the shelf and retrieved his basket of soldiers, the small wooden figures clattering together with the eager rattle of childhood anticipation. “You must set up the enemy lines,” he instructed, handing Elizabeth a handful of soldiers.
The battle commenced in earnest, with Tommy narrating the sounds of cannon fire and sword clashes, as Elizabeth helped maneuver the troops with careful precision. The enemy advanced, knocking down a few blocks from the tower’s base, but Captain Thomas and his men held firm, launchinga counterattack from the flanks. Tommy cheered when a pebble rolled harmlessly away from the tower, declaring it a failed cannon shot.
At last, with a dramatic cry, Tommy toppled the enemy commander, a blue-coated soldier, with a victorious flick of his finger. “Victory!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around Elizabeth’s neck in an exuberant embrace.
Elizabeth laughed, holding him close as his warm, childlike joy seeped into her weary spirit. “Victory, indeed,” she whispered into his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
For a moment, the rain tapped on the windows and the worry about the future faded, replaced by the safety of the nursery, the warmth of Tommy’s arms, and the simple, powerful knowledge that for now, they were together—and that was enough.
The thunder started as a quiet rumble before growing louder. Lightning flashed, illuminating the nursery. Thomas lay in his cot, his eyes drifting closed as Elizabeth read him a story, her voice soft and rhythmic, lulling him into sleep even as the storm raged outside. When he was finally asleep, his small hand curled around the edge of his blanket, she rose, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead before slipping quietly from the room.
