“Lizzy, dearest—what has happened?” Jane whispered, her voice strained but calm, as always.
Elizabeth could not speak at first. She pressed her face against her sister’s shoulder, sobbing in great gulps of air. Her words, when they finally came, were fractured and desperate.
“He—he took him, Jane. Tommy. Our brother is gone. He left a note…”
Jane held her tighter, rubbing her back in slow circles, murmuring soothing sounds even as her own body stiffened with dread.
Elizabeth dared not say more. The old habit of secrecy wrapped itself around her tongue like a vice, choking back the truth. She could not tell Jane that Tommy was not truly their brother. That he had been found in the carriage wreckage. That she had kept this secret—even from her sister—for five long years. The guilt pressed against her chest like an iron band.
“He’s just a little boy,” Elizabeth whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking. “Just a boy…”
“I know, my love, I know,” Jane said, and though she remained outwardly calm, Elizabeth could feel her sister’s heartbeat hammering where they were pressed together. “Come, let us get you inside. You need rest, warmth, and tea.”
“I can not—” Elizabeth shook her head violently. “Not whilst he is out there.”
Jane stood, gripping her arm firmly. “You will not help him like this, Lizzy. You will help him best by being strong. Come with me now.”
Somehow, she allowed herself to be led. Her legs felt like water, her hands numb, but Jane’s presence steadied her, pulling her back from the precipice. They entered through the side door and passed through the hall, where a few maids paused to curtsy, their faces drawn with worry. No one asked questions. They had all heard the shouting, seen the wild searches, and noticed the air of panic that had taken hold of the estate.
Jane guided Elizabeth into the parlour and eased her into a chair by the fire. The room, usually so familiar and cosy, now felt foreign and too bright, as though it were pretending a normalcy that no longer existed. Outside, she could hear the rush of voices—a footman’s sharp tones, Mr Hill calling for riders, Mrs Hill sending for the apothecary, though what good he could do Elizabeth could not imagine.
Jane poured a cup of tea, her fingers shaking as she held the pot. “Drink this. Please. Just a little.”
Elizabeth obeyed only because it seemed to ease Jane’s own distress. She raised the teacup to her lips and took a small sip. The liquid scalded her tongue, and she barely tasted it.
“Where is Papa?” Jane asked gently, brushing a curl from Elizabeth’s forehead.
Elizabeth stared into the cup. “He—he rode off. As soon as he read the note.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I do not know where. He did not say.”
Jane turned towards the window, her expression growing taut with worry. “Did the note say where to go?”
Elizabeth only shook her head. The silence hung heavy in the room. All around them, the house moved with unnatural urgency—doors opening and closing, boots echoing across the flagstone floors, the hushed murmur of prayers offered beneath breaths. The Bennets’ world had tilted, and no one could set it right.
Guilt curled like a serpent in Elizabeth’s chest.This is my fault. I should have told Darcy everything sooner. I should have insisted Tommy be kept closer.She sighed internally.I should have done so many things differently.
Jane knelt before her, both hands cradling Elizabeth’s face. “We will find him, Lizzy. We must hold onto hope. Do you hear me?”
Elizabeth gave a faint nod, though her lips quivered. Hope. It was the only thing they had left.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Darcy lingered in the far corner of the Netherfield library, standing in the shadows near a tall bookcase, feigning deep interest in a heavy folio volume. In truth, he had read the same sentence five times without comprehension. He was not there to read, nor to hide, but to steady himself. The search had been called in to regroup only minutes before, driven indoors at last by failing light and falling cold. Until then, every able man at Netherfield had been scattered across fields and lanes, hedgerows and footpaths, calling a child’s name into the gathering dusk.
Tommy had not been found. How he wished he had the right to be at Longbourn, to hold Elizabeth in his arms. He longed to comfort her and tell her everything would be well. Elizabeth herself had never been false. In her wit, her principles, her fierce loyalty to those she loved, she was disarmingly, uncompromisingly real. She did not cloak herself in artifice; she endured it, bore it, and suffered for it. To punish her for a deception she did not create, but merely carried, felt not like justice—but cruelty.
Darcy closed the book quietly and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The hours since the boy’s disappearance had passed in a blur of motion and restraint—organising parties, questioning servants and tenants, riding hard across familiar ground that now felt treacherously vast. He had not allowed himself to dwell on the implications. Not yet. Darkness demandedpause, not surrender.
Across the corridor, Charles could be heard conferring with his steward, voices low and urgent as arrangements were made to continue the search into the night: lanterns prepared, riders assigned, messages sent to neighbouring farms. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, servants moving quietly, every door opening with cautious haste. Netherfield had become, in a matter of hours, a place of waiting.
Darcy had just turned from the shelves when a sudden commotion broke the strained stillness. Raised voices echoed from the hall. Footsteps—hurried, uneven. Someone called for the butler. A maid exclaimed sharply in alarm. Darcy was moving before he fully registered the sound.
Then he saw him.
Mr Bennet strode through the front doors as though he had ridden without pause, his coat streaked with mud, his cravat loosened, his hair disordered by wind and haste. His face was drawn and pale, the careful irony stripped from his expression and replaced by something raw and urgent. He looked not merely anxious, but undone.
Darcy’s stomach turned cold.
“Mr Bennet,” he said at once, crossing the hall to meet him. “You have come from Longbourn. Is there news? Has he been found?”
