“I know.”
“I’m not sure you do. Catherine has always believed that she should have had charge of this family after I died. She expected Fitzwilliam to marry Anne, and she expected to control Pemberley through her daughter. Your marriage ended that possibility, and she has never forgiven it, and she will not rest until she has found a way to undo it or to punish you for it.”
“She can’t undo my marriage.”
“She can make your life difficult. She has connections, influence, the ear of people who matter. And she now believes, wrongly, that Fitzwilliam has a bastard child, which she will use againsthim if it suits her purpose. The accusation does not need to be true to do damage. It only needs to be repeated in the right drawing rooms.”
Elizabeth felt cold. She had been so focused on her anger, on the injustice of Catherine’s accusation, that she had not thought clearly about the practical danger. Catherine was not merely spiteful. She was strategic.
“What do I do?”
“Tell Darcy. Tell him what Catherine said, and let him deal with his aunt. He will be angry, and his anger will be useful, because it will force Catherine to defend herself rather than attack you. And while she is defending herself, you may find an opening to ask your questions again.”
Elizabeth nodded. She would tell Darcy tonight. She would tell him what Catherine had accused, and watch his face, and let his anger do its work. And somewhere in the chaos that followed, she would find out what Lady Catherine knew about the death of George Darcy.
But first, she had to make sure Nana and her minions did not burn down the blue rooms.
Chapter Twenty
ShetoldDarcythatevening, after the household had retired.
They were in their sitting room, the fire burning low. Elizabeth sat in the chair opposite him and said, without preamble, “Your aunt came to me yesterday with information she believed I ought to have. She told me that William Cooper is your child.”
Darcy set down his glass. Carefully, as though he did not trust what his hand might do if he were not precise about it. “She said what?”
“She said the boy is yours. That you fathered him on Sally Wilson, that you have been supporting the family to conceal it, that you took me to visit them without telling me the truth. She said it with great sympathy. She felt it was her duty.”
The colour left his face first, then returned, darker. He did not speak for several seconds.
“How did she know about the boy?”
“I don’t know. But she knew about the farm, the financial support, even our visit today. She knew the boy’s name, knew he is fair-haired. Someone told her, Darcy. Someone in this house has been reporting to her.” Nana had said it, and Elizabeth had known at once that she was correct.
He stood. He walked to the fireplace and stood with his back to her, one hand on the mantelpiece. She watched the tension move through his shoulders.
“She accused me,” he said, “of fathering a child on a seventeen-year-old girl. A girl whose family has depended on me for their livelihood.”
“Yes.”
“She said this to you. To my wife.”
“Yes.”
He turned around. His face was rigidly controlled, but his eyes were not. “She insulted you. She insulted Sally. She insulted Mr Wilson, his family, the man who married Sally and raised that boy as his own. She took every decent thing I have done for that family and made it filthy.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, for the third time, because there was nothing else to say. She had never seen Darcy angry, not like this. The rage burning in his eyes reminded her uncomfortably of George Darcy’s, whenever he spoke of Wickham.
“And she has a spy in my household.”
“She must. There is no other way she could have known.”
Darcy left the room. Elizabeth heard his footsteps on the stairs, quick and hard, then silence.
Mrs Reynolds came to Elizabeth’s parlour the following morning, before breakfast.
“Mr Darcy has asked me to determine how Lady Catherine obtained her information,” she said. She looked as though she had not slept. “I have been thinking about it most of the night, ma’am, and I believe I know.”
“Who?”
