“I believe we are nearly there.”
Miss Bingley had spent the greater part of the afternoon at the window. Mr. Darcy remained shut up in his rooms under the pretence of urgent correspondence, though the number of messengers dispatched since breakfast suggested concerns considerably more serious than ordinary letters.
Earlier that morning Miss Grantley, whose acquaintance with Lady Ashford occasionally produced intelligence worth having, had hinted that Mr. Darcy had formed an attachment. Miss Bingley had rejected the suggestion immediately. Any attachment formed without her knowledge was almost certainly a mistake.
The events of the previous evening had unfortunately done little to support this conclusion. Mr. Darcy had danced with Elizabeth Bennet and with nobody else. He had followed her from the room, and when the carriages were called had not yet returned. Miss Bingley had since employed several hours attempting to account for such behaviour in ways more satisfactory than probable.
Thus, when the Matlock carriage appeared unexpectedly at the gate, she straightened at once.
“Uncle. Aunt. I did not expect you in Hertfordshire.”
“Darcy,” Lady Matlock said, “we must speak with you privately.”
He glanced once toward Lord Matlock before turning to Bingley.
“Might we make use of your study?”
“Certainly, certainly,” cried Bingley at once. “Anything in the house.”
Miss Bingley immediately declared that the drawing room or library were entirely at their disposal if they would prefer greater comfort, but Darcy was already escorting the Matlocks from the room, and Bingley, with his usual easy good nature, saw no difficulty in the arrangement.
Lady Matlock thanked him warmly as they passed into the corridor.
Miss Bingley remained in the drawing room only long enough to resent this thoroughly before following at a more dignified pace, neglecting even to order tea in her irritation. She soon discovered, however, that thick study doors were singularly resistant to investigation.
Inside, Henry wasted no time.
“You will recall I mentioned being named guardian to the person who inherited the Trevelyan estate, and that I was waiting on the will. It arrived yesterday. When I read the name, we came directly.”
Darcy looked at him. “Who is it?”
“Elizabeth Bennet,” Lord Matlock said. “My goddaughter. She lived. She has been alive all this time, and I never knew. We all thought—”
Darcy went perfectly still.
“What.”
“Do you remember the evening before you left for Brinmouth,” Lord Matlock asked, “when I spoke of my sister and her daughter?”
“Margaret,” Darcy said slowly. “Her husband was Philip. Elizabeth told me this morning that she had learned she was not Mr. Bennet’s daughter. Her parents were named Philip and Margaret Bennet.” He stopped abruptly. “God.”
“Yes,” Lord Matlock said quietly. “We believed they all died in the carriage accident.”
Henry explained the rest; Stephen’s letters, the altered guardianship, Alfred’s deception, and the will itself. When he had finished, he regarded Darcy steadily.
“This means, my boy, that you do not require Mr. Bennet’s permission. You require mine.”
Darcy looked at him a long moment.
“Then we must go to her.”
“Now?” Henry glanced toward the darkening window. “Darcy, it is nearly dinner. We may leave first thing in the morning. I know you are anxious, but—”
“We cannot wait until morning. We intended to elope tonight.”
Henry stared at him outright.
“Elope. You were going to elope.” He shook his head once in disbelief. “Fitzwilliam Darcy, I never expected to hear such words from you in my life.”
