Her father.
Not the man who had raised her.
But—
Her gaze flicked, almost helplessly, to Mr. Bennet.
Then back again.
The resemblance struck her with such force that it stole the breath from her lungs. Not identical—no—but close enough that there could be no doubt. The same line of the brow, the same shape of the mouth—only altered by time, by hardship, by a life lived very differently.
It was him.
It had to be.
Her thoughts lurched, unsteady, trying to catch up with what her eyes already knew.
And then, there was a boy.
No, not a boy. A young man—fifteen years of age, perhaps.
He stood just behind the older man, his posture alert, uncertain, his gaze moving quickly through the room as though trying to understand it all at once.
Bennet.
The name struck through her mind.
His son?
Her breath caught.
My brother!
Everything seemed to freeze.
The room.
The air.
Her very thoughts.
Until Lady Catherine swayed, and collapsed.
The world rushed back in all at once.
Voices—movement—confusion.
Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose, fluttering into panic. “Oh! Good heavens—what has happened? Lady Catherine! Oh, pray do not let her expire in my drawing room—!”
Jane was already moving. “Quickly, this way,” she said, her tone calm, steady. “The small sitting room. It is warmer, and there is a chaise—”
Lady Anne was at her sister’s side, pale but composed, and Bingley hovered, eager and uncertain.
Frederick Bennet did not hesitate. He stepped forward, bent, and lifted Lady Catherine into his arms with surprising ease.
Jane turned to lead the way, but Frederick cut her off. “No,” he said shortly. “I remember.”
And before anyone could respond, he was already striding from the room. “Teddy.”
