They rode in silence for a moment longer.
“I must tell you everything,” Darcy said at last. “Not just about today—but about what I have come to know. About Tommy..and about Anne.”
Richard turned his head slowly. “Go on.”
Darcy began to speak in low, urgent tones. He explained what he and Elizabeth had learned: the valise hidden in the attic, the nameplate with Anne de Bourgh’s initials, the embroidered blanket with the curling L forLewis, mistaken for a T, and the discovery of letters in Anne’s handwriting. It all pointed to one unshakable truth. Tommy was Anne’s child.
Richard's expression was still. “Then the boy is connected tothreewell-known and wealthy families.”
“Almost certainly,” Darcy confirmed. “And Wickham knows it.”
Richard stared off for a long moment, jaw clenched. “We will have to consider what to do about that. But later. First, we get the boy back.”
Darcy nodded, his voice like steel. “Yes. No matter the cost.”
They turned together, eyes sharp, shoulders squared. The hunt for Wickham had begun.
The hut was silent but for the soft rustle of wind through the trees and the occasional whimper from the child huddled in the corner. Wickham sat on a rickety stool near the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest andhis breath visible in the cold air. His back ached. His legs were stiff from crouching in the underbrush for hours. But his mind—his mind was alert, calculating.
He reviewed his preparations for the tenth time that day. The branches and brambles he had dragged into place around the hut formed a thick, concealing barrier. No smoke rose from the crooked stovepipe; they had not used the stove at all. Fire meant detection. Fire meant failure.
He had dragged the brush in overlapping patterns, covering not only the structure but his tracks as well. The old footpath was barely visible now. It had taken two days of careful scouting to find this hut, and another day to secure it as a hiding place. Hidden deep within a forgotten copse of trees, it was the perfect temporary hiding place.
A chill gust of wind slipped in through a crack in the doorframe, and Wickham shivered despite the thick wool coat wrapped around his frame. He had brought two blankets for himself, both worn but serviceable. The boy had only one, which he now lay atop, curled like a frightened animal. Wickham had gagged him to keep him quiet, and tied his hands and ankles to prevent escape. The cords were not tight enough to cause injury—but they were sufficient to serve their purpose.
The child whimpered again, his small frame trembling, the gag muffling his cries. Wickham narrowed his eyes.
“Silence,” he hissed, voice sharp and low. “You are not hurt. You have your coat and that blanket, do you not? Everything is fine.”
Tommy curled tighter into himself, pressing his face into the threadbare edge of the blanket.
Wickham sneered. “Pathetic. If I was raising you, I would be ashamed.” He stood abruptly and paced, his boots thudding softly against the dirt-packed floor. “Whimpering over a little cold and darkness. I would have never lasted a day in the militia if I had been like you.” He turned backto the child, staring down at the small figure with a mix of contempt and detached amusement. “The Bennets have spoiled you—pampered you like some noble brat. No spine. No grit.”
Outside, the sound of distant shouting and rustling through brush reached his ears. Wickham froze, his breath catching in his throat. Men. Searchers.
He crept to the small slit of a window and peered out through the thick curtain of branches. He saw nothing but shifting shadows in the trees, the flicker of movement far beyond the thicket. The voices were too distant to make out the words, but he could hear them—calling the boy’s name.
“Tommy! Tommy!”
The boy stirred at the sound, lifting his head with wide, tear-filled eyes.
Wickham turned swiftly and crouched beside him. “Do not even think of making a sound,” he growled. “They will not find us. This place is hidden better than any smuggler’s hole. No one will stumble across us unless I allow it.”
He stood again, brushing dirt from his coat. The air was dry and biting. Even he could not deny that the temperature had dropped since the morning. The child’s cheeks were red with cold, and he had begun to shake more visibly.
“You think this is bad?” he said aloud, speaking as much to himself as to the child. “You ought to be grateful. This will be over soon. Once I receive what I am owed, I will let you go. Do you hear me? I am not a monster. But I willnotbe cheated again.” He turned and slammed his fist against the side of the stove, the metallic clang echoing through the hut.
“I deserved better. It is I who should have Pemberley. I should have had the respect of society. But the precious, pretentious, priggish Mr Darcy took it all from me.” He paced again, agitated. “Well, no more. When thisis done, I will be wealthy. I will disappear from this godforsaken county, and no one will ever look down their nose at George Wickham again.”
He stopped and looked once more at the boy.
“And you, you little brat—you will be free. But do not think for one moment that you are anything special. Crying like a baby.”
The boy squeezed his eyes shut, trying to disappear into the blanket. Wickham scoffed and returned to the stool, drawing his coat tighter around himself. “Sleep if you can,” he muttered. “Tomorrow, everything changes.” He leaned back against the wall, staring into the darkness, listening for the silence to return.
The front door creaked open, and Elizabeth was already in the hallway before the butler could announce her father’s return. The rest of the family followed in quick succession—Jane, her face pale and taut with worry; Kitty and Lydia, subdued for once; Mary holding a handkerchief tightly in one trembling hand. Even the servants lingered just beyond the staircase, hopeful and afraid.
Mr Bennet stepped inside slowly. His hat trembled in his grasp. Elizabeth had never seen him look so diminished, so worn. His face, usually marked with wry humour or weary patience, was drawn tight and hollow. His eyes, bloodshot and dark-rimmed, scanned the anxious faces before settling on his daughters.
