Mr. Bennet’s expression was one of resignation. “No,” he said, more quietly now. “It is clear there is little I may do.”
There was something in his voice, something weary, that struck unexpectedly at Elizabeth’s heart. Despite everything he had done, it hurt her to see him so defeated.
Darcy’s hand remained firmly around hers as they entered the house. Servants scattered as they came in the front door, causing Lady Catherine to raise an eyebrow and shake her head in disgust.
“Vultures,” she muttered. “I ought to sack the lot of them.”
“Then who would bring you your nightly cordial?” Richard asked in a teasing voice.
Lady Catherine glared at him.
“What?” Richard spread his hands innocently. “If Elizabeth can make a joke, why can I not find the humor in the situation as well?”
“Because she has more sense than stuffing in her head,” Lady Catherine retorted, though a small smile crept across her face.
She led the company past the main drawing room and into a smaller salon that was more private and contained.
“Before we begin, I think we are all in need of sustenance,” Lady Catherine said, ringing the bell.
“My wedding cake was not sufficient to soothe your nerves?” Richard jested.
“I think I would much rather have a stiff drink than tea,” Mr. Bennet said.
“You and me both,” retorted Lady Catherine.
Elizabeth giggled, and Mr. Bennet glared at her.
“I am sorry, Papa, but it is clear that my wit has come from more than just the Bennet line.” Her face fell slightly. “I… I suppose I ought not to call you that anymore.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Catherine said. “He gave you a home. He raised you. He loved you. That means more than any blood connection. Or would you say that Lady Anne is not your husband’s mother? Or that my Anne is not my daughter.”
Elizabeth looked at Mr. Bennet, whose face lit with gratitude.
“Thank you, my lady,” he said hoarsely. “I have always considered Elizabeth as my own daughter. In fact, I had nearly forgotten that she was not the babe my wife gave birth to all those years ago… until I heard Mr. Darcy’s first name.”
A light scratching sounded from the door, and the room fell silent as a maid came in, bearing a tray filled with tea and scones. The company looked at one another in awkward silence until the girl had curtsied and left, closing the door behind her.
“Now, shall we begin?” Elizabeth asked brightly, faking a cheer she did not feel.
“I am not entirely certain how to,” Mr. Bennet said.
“I believe it is best to begin at the beginning,” Elizabeth said, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “Perhaps you might tell us about your brother—my father. I had no notion of his existence until Jane mentioned him some weeks ago. You have never spoken of him.”
Mr. Bennet did not immediately answer.
He stood near the hearth, his usual ease entirely absent, his expression drawn in a way Elizabeth had never seen before.
“It is… painful,” he said at last. “And I had hoped never to be obliged to speak of it. I feared—” he glanced toward Lady Catherine, then away again “—that if the truth were known, it would bring danger as well as scandal. The Fitzwilliams are not… a family to be trifled with.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a small, sharp twist.
“Well,” she said quietly, though there was a firmness beneath it, “it seems the truth has found us regardless. So, I beg you—tell us. How did all of this come about?”
Mr. Bennet exhaled slowly and sank into a chair, as though the telling itself were a burden.
“My brother,” he began, “was very unlike me. Frederick was… restless. Ambitious. He went away to school, and afterward intended to go into trade with your Uncle Gardiner.”
Elizabeth listened, her pulse beginning to quicken.
