“Papa—” Her voice cracked. “I must speak with you.”Before this destroys everything.
Mr Bennet, seated at his desk with a book in one hand and a glass of port in the other, looked up in mild surprise. “Lizzy?” His eyes flicked to her pale face, then the crumpled paper in her hand. He set the port aside. “Come in, child. What is it?”
She shut the door and crossed to him, holding the note out with a trembling hand. “This was left for me. At the front door. Hill found it.”Someone walked up to our house. Someone bold enough to taunt us.
Mr Bennet took it without comment, unfolding it with slow precision. His brows drew together as he read. The sketch caught his attention next. A long silence followed.Too long. He sees it. He understands.
“Well,” he finally said, folding the paper once more and laying it flat on his desk. “That is rather troubling.”
Elizabeth stood rigid, her hands clenched at her sides. “Someone knows, Papa. Someone knows the truth about Tommy.”Say it plainly. Do not soften it. Do not pretend this is small.
He met her gaze then, his expression carefully neutral. “Knows, perhaps. But proof is another matter. We were careful.”
Her throat tightened painfully.Careful. Careful enough to survive—until now.“Not careful enough,” she whispered. “Who could have done this? And why now?”And what will they demand?
“Timing is rarely coincidental, my dear. But perhaps someone merely hopes to frighten us.”
“They have succeeded.” Elizabeth’s voice broke. “What do we do?”
Mr Bennet steepled his fingers, his brow furrowing in thought. “There is nothing they can do with a drawing and a veiled threat. Let them whisper. No one can prove anything, and if we behave as though we have nothing to hide, then there is no scandal to be had.” He leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Still… perhaps I should encourage Mr Collins to act sooner. The longer Mary is in a courtship, the more opportunity there is for interference. If he proposed—if she accepted—it might offer some protection.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “You would have Mary marry that man just to protect the family?”
“I would have one daughter comfortably situated so that, if the worst occurs, not all is lost.” He fixed her with a piercing gaze. “You must understand, Elizabeth—only three people know the truth of Tommy’s origin. One of them is in the Americas. The other two are here in this house. That secret has survived for more than five years. We must trust it to survive a little longer.”
Elizabeth said nothing.
“Now.” He stood and crossed to her, placing a hand on her shoulder and handing her the note. “Go and burn that. Tell no one else. Panic serves no one.”
She nodded, mute. Mr Bennet gave her a faint smile—reassuring, calm.
But as she stepped through the door and gently pulled it closed behind her, she turned back just enough to glimpse her father’s face again—stripped of pretense.
His features were tense, his lips drawn thin, the furrow between his brows deepened. He was more troubled than he let on.
Her stomach churned.
Elizabeth returned to her room in a daze. Once the door was locked, she cast the note into the fire, watching until it was nothing more than blackened ashes. Then, as though the weight of the past five years had returned in full, she stood and crossed the room, collapsing on her bed, face buried in her pillow, and wept. All the fear, all the guilt, all the shame that had been dormant resurfaced—fresh and sharp. She had sworn to protect Tommy, to keep him safe, and to love him as her own. But now someone knew. Someone threatened the fragile peace they had built. And she did not know how long it would hold.
The fire in the library crackled quietly, providing a steady warmth against the grey skies outside. Rain still lashed at the windows in sweeping gusts, but Darcy barely noticed. He sat in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, a letter in his hand—Georgiana’s delicate handwriting unmistakable on the thick paper.
His heart lifted. It had been weeks since her last correspondence, delayed, no doubt, by weather or the inefficiency of the post. He opened it carefully, the scent of rosewater drifting faintly from the folded paper.
My dearest Brother,
What a joy it was to receive your last letter. I read it twice over and smiled so much that Mrs Annesley said my face might freeze that way! You will be glad to know that I am well. Truly well. My spirits are much improved—so much so that Mrs Annesley says I am becoming quite the chatterbox. Imagine that!
My studies continue steadily. I have made particular progress in Italian and am reading Dante (with some help). My pianoforte practise is much more enjoyable now that I feel less anxious. I have finally mastered the Mozart sonata you once played for me in the blue salon—I wish you could hear me now. Mrs Annesley insists I perform it at Christmas.
Speaking of Christmas, may I come to Netherfield this year? I should like to see you, and I miss Richard terribly. Has he arrived yet? You said he would come soon. Tell him I expect a proper letter next, not merely a postscript in yours.
You mentioned a certain Miss Elizabeth Bennet in your last letter. Your words were brief, but they painted a most intriguing picture. You wrote of her wit and her ‘fine eyes,’ if I recall correctly. I should like to meet her very much.
Give my warmest regards to Mr Bingley, and tell him I am pleased to hear about his success in Hertfordshire. And Richard—tell him if he teases you too much, I shall scold him personally.
Yours always, Georgiana
Darcyfinished reading and allowed himself a rare, unguarded smile. Georgiana’s humour was returning. Her melancholy had lifted. It brought him a profound sense of relief.
