“Perhaps it was wrong of me to send Stephen to him. Stephen remembered only the man Sophia made of him.”
Lady Matlockleaned forward.
“And Alfred knew everything. He helped overturn Bennet’s guardianship. He knew about the new will. He knew you were named alongside him.”
“Yes.”
“Then Stephen dies, and instead of informing us about Elizabeth, he lies. Why?”
“I cannot know with certainty. But after Sophia’s death he began living recklessly. I heard rumours of debts, failed investments, expensive habits. The last time I saw him he spoke of some investment with absurd confidence. Later I heard it had collapsed. But he told me he had no cause for concern. Stephen had left him Trevelyan.”
“Are you telling me my brother abandoned my goddaughter for money?”
“He likely convinced himself she was adequately cared for. Stephen’s expectations for a child’s upbringing were never Alfred’s own.”
“No, Alfred never cared much for what he could not see directly before him. Not after Sophia died. Not even his own children.”
The carriage rolled on through the deepening evening.
“If he had not been so selfish, I would have gone to Longbourn the moment I knew and brought her home. I always wanted a little girl. Elizabeth had Margaret, Sophia had Amelia. I could have had my goddaughter. I could have given her everything she deserved.
“And seeing Darcy and Elizabeth together now, so perfectly suited, I cannot help thinking they would have found each other sooner. He might have healed sooner. And she never would have needed healing at all.”
“Deborah—”
“Madeline has told Amelia and me about Elizabeth’s life at Longbourn. The neglect. The cruelty. Stephen saw it coming. He tried to prevent it, and we failed him.”
“You did not fail her.”
“Because it feels very much as though I failed both my sister and my goddaughter.”
“You would have loved her fiercely. That much I know.”
“It is a very fortunate thing my brother is already dead,” Lady Matlocksaid at last, “because at present I find myself capable of alarming violence.”
Despite everything, Henry almost smiled.
“A terrifying prospect.”
“And Ambrose is scarcely better. How could he write letter after letter and never once plainly explain who Elizabeth was? Ward. The girl. As though she were a misplaced parcel rather than a human being.”
“Stephen named her plainly enough,” Henry said. “We were simply too blind to understand what we were reading.”
“And Alfred finished the rest by turning her into a ward, an obligation, a convenient fiction. Between them we managed to lose a child for twenty years.”
“I am only grateful I sent that express withdrawing my permission before Ambrose could act upon it. His last letter said he could not leave Ashcombe for another fortnight.”
“And meanwhile he described Elizabeth as a countrified miss who could be brought up to snuff. I read the letter, Henry. He meant to marry her for the estate, keep her in the country, produce an heir, and continue keeping mistresses in town exactly as his father did.”
“Alfred’s habits appear to have survived him.”
“I once hoped Ambrose would someday find his Sophia,” Lady Matlocksaid. “But he is older now than Alfred was when he married, and infinitely worse.”
“I thought marriage might steady him. A sensible girl, grateful for the elevation, might have done for him what Sophia once did for Alfred.” He shook his head. “But had I known it was Elizabeth, had I known it was someone Darcy loved, I never would have encouraged it.”
“No. You would not.”
The last light had begun to fade.
