“I will fetch it now,” she whispered, already moving towards the door.
Her slippers barely made a sound as she crossed the floor and hurried up the stairs. A sick mix of dread and anticipation coiled in her belly. She kneltdown and reached far under her bed until her hand closed over the handle. There it was—tucked away like a forgotten secret. She pulled it out and cradled the worn valise in her arms, surprised again by how heavy it felt, not in weight, but in consequence.
She returned to the study with a pounding heart. Darcy rose at once, crossing to take it from her.
“Yes, I recall hiding it in the attic after…after your mother's death,” Mr Bennet said morosely as he cleared space on his desk.
Elizabeth nodded. “In the old trunk Mama used for summer linens. It must have been there since that day.”
Darcy placed the valise gently on the desktop. The worn leather showed its age, the brass fittings dulled and scratched. He undid the latches with care, and the hinges creaked softly as it opened.
Inside was the faint scent of lavender, old paper, and something fainter—familiar.
Darcy’s eyes immediately landed on the brass nameplate affixed inside the lid. He leaned closer, his jaw tightening.
“‘AdB.’” He looked up. “Anne de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth drew a sharp breath. Now that Darcy had said it aloud, the truth rang loudly in her ears.
He reached inside and drew out a small woolen blanket, folded neatly. The embroidery at the corner had faded over time but was still visible:L.d. B.
Darcy’s voice dropped to a hush. “Lewis de Bourgh was Anne’s father. That is his monogram. She must have intended to name the boy after his grandfather.” He gave a low, almost incredulous chuckle. “I can see how you might think it is a T, but it is an L—L for Lewis.”
Mr Bennet studied the letters and shook his head. “We named the boy Thomas David. It just seemed to suit him.”
Darcy looked up, eyes gleaming. “David is Wickham’s middle name.”
Elizabeth’s hand tightened over the edge of the desk. It was all too strange—too coincidental. Names chosen by instinct, rooted in deeper truths none of them had known.
“I never looked closely,” Mr Bennet admitted, pushing a hand through his thinning hair. “I told myself it was better not to dig too deeply. If I did not know, I could not be blamed.” What went unsaid was how hecouldbe blamed for not doing more.
Darcy opened the lower compartment and withdrew a small rosewood writing box. Its velvet lining was worn, but the lock clicked open easily. Inside, bundled in silk, lay several letters tied with a velvet ribbon and a small silver brooch with a pale green stone. Tucked behind a bit of lining that was pulled slightly away from the side of the trunk was a worn book of poems.
“I did not see that,” Elizabeth murmured.
Darcy picked up the little book and opened it to the first page.
A name was scrawled at the top in delicate script:Anne de Bourgh.
There could be no question now.
Darcy turned another page, scanning its contents briefly before closing it again with gentle reverence. “It is hers. We have what we need.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the writing box. “Do you think you might be able to piece together the events of the journal with your knowledge?” She held up another book, offering it to him. He took it, quickly verifying his cousin's handwriting within.
“Perhaps not everything,” Darcy said, “but enough.” He rubbed a hand over his face, expression shocked and incredulous. There was a fleeting look of anger mixed with despair as he continued. "Do you have any idea how long my family has wished for news…to know what happened to Anne? My aunt…she was never the same. She changed for the better, certainly, but losing Anne broke her. The knowledge that this little piece of my cousin survives… She will be at peace at last."
"Will she want to take him?" Elizabeth's voice pitched up in panic.
"It is as I said earlier. We shall worry about that after our problem is resolved." He reached out and took Elizabeth's hand. She felt her heart beat slower just from his touch.
"We have an advantage," Elizabeth said suddenly, sitting up straight. "He thinks Darcy is heading for Pemberley." She explained, and the gentlemen exchanged looks.
"You left out that detail on Oakham Mount." Darcy's words were not condemning but rather speculative. "This could play to our advantage."
Mr Bennet gave a weary sigh. “Wickham gave you two days. I expect we will receive another note with instructions before too long. We shall begin our plan tomorrow. Tonight, you both need rest.” He looked at the valise and the box as though they might burn a hole in his desk. “The truth is there, whether we want it or not.”
Elizabeth’s eyes drifted to Darcy. His expression had grown grave, but there was a strength in it, too—an unwavering resolve.
