A clergyman stood there, smiling kindly. “May I help you?” he asked. “I am Mr Johnson.”
Wickham exhaled slowly, adjusting his expression into one of cordial charm. “Wickham,” he said, offering a curt nod. “I recently joined the militia.”
“Yes, I gathered that from your red coat. Are you exploring our lovely area?”
“Hertfordshire is quite beautiful—what I’ve seen of it, at least. I was taking a walk and came across your churchyard. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all,” Mr Johnson replied. “This is sacred ground. All are welcome.”
Wickham turned back to the gravestone, his brow furrowed. “A sad thing. Mrs Bennet and her child…”
“Yes.” The clergyman’s face grew solemn. “A very great loss. She was beloved here—gracious, spirited, a pillar in our parish. Her death in childbirth shook us all. That her son died too… tragic. Though her other son survived.”
Wickham’s eyes narrowed. “Other son?”
“She bore twins. Only one lived. That is young Thomas—the boy who will inherit Longbourn one day.”
Twins.
The word rang in his head like a bell. Of course. Twins. One dead, one alive. How very convenient for a family on the brink of losing their estate to entailment. A tidy explanation—too tidy.
His gaze lingered on the gravestone, suspicion solidifying into near-certainty. “Twins are rare. A miracle, really, that one survived.”
The clergyman nodded, sighing wistfully. “Yes, the Lord giveth and taketh away. I’ve only ever seen one such case where mother and both children survived. That same week…” He paused. “There was a carriage accident. Just down the road. Claimed three lives. We never did learn their identities. Mr Bennet was kind enough to arrange their burial here.”
Wickham’s pulse surged.
He swallowed his reaction, masking his rising triumph. “Will you show me?” he asked evenly.
Mr Johnson appeared pleased at the request and beckoned him along. “This way.”
They walked towards the rear of the churchyard, where the grass was longer, and the trees cast longer shadows. Tucked beneath the wide arms of a now-leafless ash tree stood three modest markers.
Wickham stepped closer. The stones read:
John, Coachman.
James, Footman.
A Lady.
So there it was. Anne de Bourgh, reduced to anonymity and buried in a pauper’s grave. Oh, how Lady Catherine would weep, scream, and gnash her teeth if she knew. A slow, cruel smile tugged at the corners of Wickham’s mouth. He could almost hear the dowager’s shrieking fury in his mind, and he reveled in it.
But beyond the satisfaction, there was a revelation.
The timeline, the proximity. Mrs Bennet’s son hadsupposedlydied, and a child of unknown origin had been quietly raised in his place.His child, perhaps. The girl—Elizabeth Bennet—had carried a baby that day. He had assumed the child was dead, abandoning him like the rest of his mistakes. But what if the Bennets had seen an opportunity? What if they had claimed the boy, raised him, disguised the truth?
What of the midwife? Surely she had known. But silence could be bought—or buried.
His eyes narrowed in grim determination. “Thank you for showing me, Mr Johnson,” he said smoothly.
The parson nodded, offered a polite farewell, and returned to the chapel.
Wickham left the graveyard with long, purposeful strides, his thoughts a flurry of dark possibilities. He now had leverage. Not only over Darcy—but over the Bennets, over Longbourn itself. He knew something no one else seemed to suspect. And he would use it.
But first… he needed to see the boy.His boy.He needed to be absolutely certain.
“Wickham! There you are, man! Come, we have saved you a seat.” Denny’s voice rang out over the clamor of the inn’s common room, drawing Wickham’s attention as he stepped through the door. The soldier waved broadly, gesturing to a table where three officers sat clustered over mugs of ale and half-eaten plates.
