“I have spent years striving to live by reason, by duty,” he went on. “But with you, it is all feeling. And I would not change it. Miss Elizabeth… I wish to know you. Not just as a friend, or a dance partner—but as something more.”
She blinked, stunned by the raw honesty in his words. Their eyes met—his warm and intense, hers shining with wonder.
And then, slowly, reverently, he bent towards her.
His lips touched hers—soft, tentative at first, as if he feared to break the moment. But when she leaned into him, her hands rising to his chest, he deepened the kiss, his other arm wrapping around her back to draw her nearer. It was not a passionate embrace meant to scorch—it was something gentler, deeper. A kiss that promised understanding, patience, and a future built together. When they parted, she remained close, resting her forehead against his.
“I never imagined,” she whispered.
“Nor I,” he murmured. “But I would not trade this for anything.”
They lingered there, held in time, above the world on Oakham Mount—two souls finally beginning the same path forwards.
Darcy had not slept much the night before. Despite the serenity of Netherfield, his thoughts had raced through the hours, looping endlessly around the same concerns—Tommy, Wickham, Elizabeth. Yet when he rose and dressed that morning, something had settled inside him. A decision had been made. He would see this through. The truth, whatever it may be, needed uncovering. And he would stand beside Elizabeth through it all.
The journey to Longbourn was unremarkable, save for the anticipation that thrummed through his veins. Bingley tapped his foot to a tune only he could hear, and Richard gazed out the window, likely mulling over his own suspicions now that he too had seen the boy. The house came intoview, smoke curling gently from the chimney, and the lawn softened with morning frost. Darcy’s heart gave a strange little twist as the carriage turned down the familiar drive.
Mr Bennet greeted them in his usual dry, bemused fashion, whilst Mrs Hill ushered them into the drawing room, where the ladies were already gathered. Elizabeth rose as they entered, her eyes lighting with quiet joy when they met his. It warmed Darcy more than he could say.
The formalities were exchanged, and soon the room filled with pleasant conversation. Darcy found himself standing beside Elizabeth, and their dialogue flowed with an ease that still astonished him. They spoke of books and music, the recent ball, and their mutual enjoyment of the evening.
Richard, ever clever in his timing, leaned across the space between them and said with a casual smile, “Miss Elizabeth, I wonder if young Master Thomas might be available this morning? My cousin has told me about the lad, and I wish to meet him.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Tommy? He’s likely in the nursery with Miss Lane. What prompts your curiosity?”
“Well,” Richard said with a touch of theatrical pride, “I was once a soldier. Boys tend to be rather impressed by uniforms and war stories. I should like to meet him. Perhaps he would enjoy hearing about the Battle of Trafalgar? ”
She smiled. “You may be right. He is endlessly fascinated by soldiers. He made a rather serious request last week to enlist and conquer France.”
At her invitation, Miss Lane was called, and a few minutes later, the governess entered with Tommy in tow. The boy’s cheeks were pink from the brisk air outside, and his golden curls were damp from exertion.
The moment Tommy saw Richard, his eyes widened with curiosity.
“Miss Lane says you are a soldier. Are you really?”he asked, awed.
“I was indeed, young man,” Richard said, kneeling with a dramatic flourish. “Formerly Lieutenant Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, at your service.”
Tommy gasped. “Did you fight in a war?”
“I did. Against Bonaparte’s men, no less.” Richard drew his imaginary sword and swept it dramatically through the air.
The child was captivated instantly.
Darcy could not take his eyes off them. The sight of Richard crouched before Tommy—a miniature version of the Fitzwilliam line, with his gold hair and serious, intent eyes—struck him like a blow. The resemblance, strong before, was now uncanny. It was not just in Tommy’s fine-boned features, but in his expression, the way his brows furrowed in thought, the tilt of his head as he listened.
Elizabeth had stepped aside, watching them fondly. Then her brow furrowed ever so slightly. Did she see it? Darcy studied her closely, trying to read her expression. But in the next moment, her face smoothed again, and she said only, “I fear you have gained a new admirer, Mr Fitzwilliam.”
Tommy was now marching across the carpet with a wooden spoon as a sword and a pillow as a shield, whilst Richard lay “wounded” behind a settee.
“I have met my match,” Richard groaned dramatically.
Tommy whooped with glee and launched himself onto a cushion.
Darcy forced himself to relax, though his mind was still turning. What were the odds that a child—supposedly born to a Hertfordshire gentleman’s wife—could resemble his cousin so thoroughly?
Elizabeth’s voice drew him from his reverie. “It appears I have lost my afternoon to battle.” Her teasing lilt cheered him somewhat.
He smiled faintly. “There are worse fates.”
