Mr Bennet’s sharp eyes flicked upward. “Certainly, Mr Darcy. Shall we take a turn about the hall?”
They stepped into the corridor, the cool air a stark contrast to the cosy warmth of the drawing room. Darcy folded his hands behind his back and began.
“Sir, I have just spoken with Miss Elizabeth, and she has agreed to enter into a courtship with me. I come to you now to formally request your permission and blessing.”
Mr Bennet studied him with a long, unreadable gaze. “My daughter is dearer to me than any book in that library. If you hurt her, I shall make you regret it most eloquently.” His brow furrowed, and there was something uncertain and unfathomable in the depths of his gaze.
Darcy inclined his head solemnly. “I understand, sir. You have my word—I mean only the highest respect and the most earnest intentions.”
A beat passed. Then Mr Bennet’s mouth twitched. “Well then, I shall content myself with seeing if you can match her wit. If you can survive her tongue, you may just deserve her.”
Darcy’s lips curved. “I shall endeavour not only to survive but to thrive.”
Mr Bennet chuckled. “Go on then. You have my permission. But do not forget—Elizabeth is nobody’s fool. You will have to earn her heart every day.”
Darcy nodded, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him. As he returned to the drawing room, Elizabeth looked up, meeting his eyes across the room. He gave a slight nod, and her expression softened.It would seem my heart has chosen for me,he mused. Discovering the truth about Tommy would have to come later.
The night air at Netherfield was heavy with the scent of wood and damp soil. The house had quieted, the Bingley sisters having retired after an evening of conversation and card games, and Mr Hurst having vanished with a faint excuse about needing to “read something terribly dull” before bed.
Darcy, Bingley, and Fitzwilliam remained in the drawing room, now dimly lit with only a few candles flickering in wall sconces and the remnants of the fire glowing faintly in the grate. The conversation had drifted from horses to politics and now hovered somewhere in the realm of personal matters.
Bingley poured himself another glass of wine and gestured with the decanter. “Darcy? Fitz?”
Darcy shook his head, still nursing his first glass. Fitzwilliam accepted.
He took a sip and leaned back, stretching his legs out before him. “Charles,” he said casually, “what do you know of the Bennets’ situation? I confess I have heard only hints and pieces.”
Darcy stilled, his gaze shifting to his cousin. He could feel the tension in his spine—the subtle tightening that came whenever someone edged too close to the matter of young Thomas.
“Oh,” Bingley said, clearly unaware of any gravity, “I know a fair bit. My housekeeper heard some from theirs, and I gathered more from Miss Bennet and the Lucases. It is no secret in the neighbourhood.”
Fitzwilliam’s brows lifted. “Do tell.”
Darcy’s eyes remained fixed on the fire,but every muscle in his body had gone taut.
“Well,” Bingley began, “Mrs Bennet died in childbirth. About five years ago. Tragic thing, really. She was carrying twins—two boys. The other child did not survive the delivery, and neither did she.”
Darcy’s hand tightened slightly around the glass.
“The boy who survived—Tommy—he is a sweet child, clever, well-mannered, if a bit shy. It nearly destroyed the family, especially Mr Bennet. Apparently, he doted on his wife. The girls are terribly protective of their brother—especially Miss Elizabeth. Took on the role of mother and sister all at once.”
“I see,” Fitzwilliam said slowly. “And there was no question about the boy’s parentage? No mention of it being…odd?”
Bingley blinked. “None at all. He is the youngest Bennet, everyone says. A miracle child. Everyone recalled Mrs Bennet’s excitement at having conceived after so long. The entail over the estate was a constant worry, or so Jane tells me.”
“I can imagine,” Fitzwilliam said, glancing briefly at Darcy. “An uncertain future is a terrifying prospect.”
The pause that followed was heavy with unspoken things.
Darcy finally set his glass down and met Fitzwilliam’s gaze. His cousin’s eyes were sharp now, the easy humour of earlier replaced by thoughtful calculation.
They traded conversation for some minutes after, and then Bingley stood, stretching, and bid the others goodnight. Finally, they were alone.
“You see it now, do you not?” Darcy said quietly.
Fitzwilliam nodded. “The resemblance is uncanny. That boy looks like a Fitzwilliam.”
Darcy did not speak. He could not—not yet. But Fitzwilliam leaned forwards, elbows on knees.
