"Sarah!"
Both Elizabeth and the child turned toward the voice.
The maid who had been rescued alongside the girl emerged from the house, her arm still bound in a sling but otherwise appearing well. "Sarah, you mustn't bother the lady. Come inside now. It's time for your music lessons."
"Coming!" Sarah called. She turned back to Elizabeth with a bright smile. "It was very nice to meet you, miss. I hope I see you again!"
"And I you," Elizabeth said, though her voice sounded hollow.
She watched the child run toward the house, her doll bouncing in her grip, her laughter trailing behind her like ribbons in the wind.
Elizabeth stood rooted to the spot, her mind racing.
Mr. Darcy visited as often as he could. Provided for their needs. Cared for the mother and child with such consistency that even a five-year-old child thought of him as a father figure.
The mother.
The child.
Dear God.
Was this why he had not called today? Was he here instead, with them? With his—
She could not finish the thought. Could not bear to put words to what the evidence suggested.
Mr. Darcy had a child. Perhaps not a legitimate one, but a child nonetheless. And a woman—the mother—whom hesupported, visited, cared for with such devotion that it looked to all the world like—
Like what it likely was. Elizabeth turned and walked blindly back toward the street, her vision blurring at the edges.
She had been such a fool.
All this time, she had been softening toward him. Questioning her judgments. Wondering if perhaps she had misjudged his character, if perhaps he was better than she had believed.
And all the while, he had been maintaining a mistress and a child in Bath. No wonder he came here so often. No wonder he owned property in the city. It was not for business or leisure.
It was forthem.
The perfect picture of respectability he had presented—the kindness to her family, the humility in admitting his mistakes, the tender way he spoke of his sister—it had all been a façade. A performance designed to deceive.
And she—God help her—she had been on the verge of believing it. Elizabeth walked faster, desperate to put distance between herself and that garden, that house, that smiling child who knew nothing of the scandal she represented.
She had asked for proof of Mr. Darcy's character. She had wanted him to explain himself, to justify his actions. Well. She had her answer now. And it was far worse than anything Mr. Wickham had ever accused him of.
***
Elizabeth returned to Camden Place with her composure hanging by the thinnest of threads.
Mrs. Gardiner looked up from her cards. "You have returned sooner than I expected, Lizzy. How was your walk?"
"Pleasant," Elizabeth managed. "The weather was fine."
She waited, braced for further questions, but Mr. Gardiner laid down a winning hand with a satisfied air, and Mrs. Gardiner's attention returned to the game. Elizabeth escaped to her bedchamber before anyone could observe the turmoil that must surely be written across her face.
Jane was resting, a cool cloth across her forehead. "You are back early. Did you not enjoy yourself?"
"I simply grew tired of walking."
Elizabeth moved to the window, unable to meet her sister's eyes. She should tell Jane. Should warn her that the man whose friend had just secured her happiness was not what he appeared.
