"Tell me, Mr. Darcy—do you find it difficult, maintaining such careful separations between your different lives?"
He turned to her, confusion evident in his expression. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your respectable life here, dining with families like ours." She kept her voice quiet but sharp. "And your other responsibilities. The ones you keep hidden."
Understanding—and horror—dawned in his eyes. "Miss Elizabeth, I do not—"
"I know about Sarah," she said barely above a whisper, the words bitter on her tongue.
All color drained from his face. "You know—"
"I met her, Mr. Darcy. Sarah. And the maid. The ones you rescued from the fire." She kept her voice low but each word was edged with steel. "The little girl was very forthcoming about your frequent visits. How well you provide for them. How Papa—" Her voice caught. "How Papa takes care of everything."
Mr. Darcy's face went white. He glanced quickly toward where Jane and Mr. Bingley remained absorbed in their window shopping, then back to Elizabeth. When he spoke, his voice was low and tight with barely controlled emotion.
"What are you saying?"
"I am saying that I know the truth." Elizabeth had to will herself not to raise her voice, not to draw Jane and Mr. Bingley's attention. "She called you Papa, Mr. Darcy. Her own words. What else am I to understand from that?"
For a long moment, he only looked at her. Then his eyes widened, comprehension breaking over his features—followedswiftly by a flicker of horror, as though he had only just understood her meaning.
"You believe Sarah is my child."
It was not a question. Elizabeth's silence was answer enough.
For a long moment, he simply stared at her. Then he said, very quietly, "She is not. She is Wickham's."
The words struck Elizabeth like a physical blow. She swayed slightly, and Mr. Darcy reached out instinctively, perhaps intending to steady her, but withdrew his hand at once.
“What?”
He did not step closer, and when he spoke, his voice was low enough that no one else could have heard.
"Her mother is Miss Catherine Dobson. She was the daughter of one of our housekeepers at Pemberley." His voice remained low, meant only for her ears. "Wickham seduced her when she was barely seventeen. Promised her marriage. Then abandoned her the moment she told him she was with child."
Elizabeth felt the world tilt beneath her.
"Of course, Wickham denied it totally, but I knew she wasn’t lying. However, the shame was too much for her family to bear in Derbyshire. Everyone knew who she was, knew her family. The whispers would have destroyed what remained of her life." His jaw clenched. "I helped her leave. Arranged lodgings here in Bath where she could claim to be a widow. Most believe it. I provide for them because it is the least I can do. I didn’t do it for Wickham, but for his father who served mine faithfully for years, and because that child deserves to eat and be clothed regardless of how she came into this world."
"But she called you Papa," Elizabeth whispered.
"Because I am the only male figure in her life who has shown her kindness. She is five years old, Miss Elizabeth. Too young to understand the complexities of her situation." His voice softened. "If it brings her comfort to think of me as a father, I willnot deny her that small solace. When she is older, Catherine will explain. But for now, I will not take even that from her."
Elizabeth pressed her hand to her mouth, unable to speak.
Ahead, Mr. Bingley was calling to them, saying they should continue on before the afternoon grew too late.
Mr. Darcy offered Elizabeth his arm—proper, distant. She took it because to refuse would draw attention.
They walked on, maintaining appropriate appearances while Elizabeth's mind reeled.
After a few moments, when Jane and Mr. Bingley had pulled ahead once more, Elizabeth found her voice.
"Why did you not tell me this before?" she managed. "At your dinner yesterday, when I—why did you say nothing?"
"How was I to know you had met them?" His voice was carefully controlled. "That you had drawn such conclusions? This is hardly a story one shares in casual conversation, Miss Elizabeth. It involves the ruin of an innocent girl and the depravity of a man you have been led to believe is the victim of my cruelty."
"Wickham," she breathed.
