It would not do to have him blame himself.Shewas at fault. “I lied to you,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice barely audible. “I lied to everyone.”
“Yes, but that is not the most important detail,” he said softly. “You protected a child, and you saved his life.Yougave him a family.”
She stared at him in disbelief, and he offered her a small, almost reverent smile. “I suspected,” he admitted. “So did Richard. The resemblance is blatantly obvious. And now, with what you have revealed… I believe I know the identity of Tommy's mother.”
Elizabeth blinked. “You do?”
He nodded, jaw tightening. “Anne de Bourgh. My cousin. She disappeared five years ago. She vanished without a trace soon after my father died. There were whispers, especially amongst the servants, that she was with child.”
Elizabeth gasped. “Then…then Tommy is—”
“A Fitzwilliam, undoubtedly.” Darcy’s voice hardened. “And I believe Wickham is the father.”
She flinched. “He said he could prove it. That he had letters, a bonnet, other things.”
“Lies,” Darcy growled. “Or fabrications. He might have a token somewhere, though whether it could prove his story is questionable. Wickham deals only in deception and has always known how to twist half-truths into weapons. But that he would use a child—his own child—as a tool for extortion…” His fist clenched. “I will see him ruined.”
Elizabeth broke then, fully and finally. Her face crumpled, and she leaned into him, clutching his coat with white knuckles. “He wants ten thousand pounds,” she sobbed. “And a letter. One that ends us.”
“Never,” Darcy whispered, wrapping her tightly in his arms. “He will never take you from me. I would sooner burn Pemberley to the ground than let that man rob me of you.”
Elizabeth buried her face in his chest. “He will destroy my family’s reputation. He threatened to take the child away.”
“He will do nothing,” Darcy said with terrible calm. “Because you are no longer alone. He has made a grave error, thinking you have no defenders. I am here, Elizabeth. You have me now.”
His hand found her cheek and tilted her face up towards his. Their eyes locked—hers full of fear and desperation, his full of determination and devotion.
“Whatever happens next,” he said quietly, “we face it together.” And then, slowly, tenderly, he bent and kissed her.
It was not a mere kiss—it was a vow—a promise. The potential for passion simmered beneath the surface. She felt it in the way his lips brushed hers, in the strength of his arms around her, in the tears that still clung to her lashes. When they parted, neither moved. They remained forehead to forehead, breath mingling in the crisp air.
“We must go to Longbourn,” he said at last. “Your father must be told. Together, we will form a plan. And if there is any shred of deceit left in Wickham, I shall find a way to crush it.”
Elizabeth gave a watery laugh and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I do not deserve you.”
“You deserve more than I could ever give,” he replied. “But I will spend the rest of my life trying.”
The implication that he wished to make a future with her warmed Elizabeth's heart. They stood together, and arm in arm began the descent from Oakham Mount—no longer as two individuals, but as partners in every way that mattered. Whatever trials lay ahead, they would face them united.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The walk back to Longbourn from Oakham Mount was strangely silent. The urgency of their purpose muted any inclination for small talk, and Darcy kept her close, his hand occasionally brushing against hers as if to remind her he was there—that she was not alone in this. The autumn wind had picked up, sweeping through the trees with a restless murmur that echoed her own unsettled thoughts.
As they approached the house, Elizabeth could see the flicker of lamplight in the parlour window. Through the glass, she caught sight of Jane and Mr Bingley sitting together, their heads bent in quiet conversation whilst Mary read aloud from a book, her voice steady. The scene was peaceful, untouched by the storm Elizabeth carried in her chest.
Darcy touched her elbow lightly. “This way,” he said in a low voice, guiding her around to the side door. They slipped inside unnoticed, moving softly down the hallway towards her father’s study.
Elizabeth paused at the door, her heart pounding. Darcy glanced at her and offered a slight nod, his expression calm but resolute. Drawing a breath, she knocked once and opened the door.
Mr Bennet looked up from his reading spectacles, seated comfortably behind his desk, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Ah, here they are,” he said cheerfully. “Have you come to make an official declaration? Shall I summon Hill to fetch her smelling salts?”
Elizabeth flushed crimson, momentarily speechless. She glanced at Mr Darcy, whose serious expression did not waver.
“I wish the nature of our call were as joyful as you suggest, sir,” he said gravely. “But I am afraid it is not.”
Mr Bennet’s smile faded. He leaned forwards, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “I see. Close the door, Darcy.”
The heavy oak door groaned shut as Darcy obeyed. Elizabeth felt the finality of the sound in her bones. She followed him to the two chairs across from her father’s desk, and they sat side by side.
