Her gaze flicked over him, and this time, her expression softened. “Time will tell.”
And time did tell. Over the course of the following months, George Darcy found himself taking more and more excuses to ride through Lambton. Sometimes he had letters that needed to be carried personally to the curate. Other times it was a delivery of books from the Pemberley library for the schoolmaster. Once, he invented a vague interest in the smithy’s new apprentices, though he had never before cared one whit for horseshoes or tongs.
And yet, Sarah Wickham always seemed to be nearby. Walking with her brother. Carrying baskets from the market. Reading on the stone bench outside the churchyard, her bonnet slipped back just enough to let the sun touch her brow. She never sought him out, but neither did she avoid him—and she never failed to speak plainly when he engaged her.
He had never met a woman quite like her.
She did not flatter. She did not fawn. She listened, and she laughed when he deserved to be laughed at. She had strong opinions and a quiet wit. She knew how to manage a garden and a household, and once he found her soothing a neighbor’ssick child with a mixture she had made herself. Her Catholic faith was clear, but not ostentatious—woven into her habits like thread through linen.
She made him feel seen.
In December, he asked his father for permission to call formally. In January, he asked Lady Amelia for her blessing for their union.
And in March of 1780, George Darcy married Sarah Wickham in the chapel at Pemberley—quietly, reverently, with only family and a few trusted friends in attendance. None of the Fitzwilliams were invited. She wore no jewels, no grand silks—just a simple muslin gown with fine lace and a look in her eyes that made George’s knees nearly give out as she walked down the aisle.
And in the years to come, he would often tell their son Fitzwilliam—named thusly to honor his grandmother’s line, and partly to spite the family that refused to acknowledge her existence— that he fell in love with her when she did not smile at his apology.
Because she had known her worth—and insisted that he earn the right to see it.
∞∞∞
1786 — Longbourn
The library at Longbourn was pleasantly quiet, save for the creak of the old grandfather clock and the occasional wheeze from Mr. Philips, who sat across from Thomas Bennet, a sheaf of papers balanced precariously on his bony knee. A silver tea service sat untouched on the low table between them.
Thomas leaned back in his armchair, booted feet crossed, a glass of port dangling in his fingers. “So,” he said, lazily swirling the dark liquid, “what more do we know of my would-be usurper?”
Mr. Philips adjusted his spectacles and peered down at the top sheet. “William Collins, twenty-six years of age. Son of your late uncle Nathaniel Bennet and his wife Nancy Collins—née Collins as well, the blacksmith’s daughter.”
“Yes, yes, I remember the tale.” Thomas waved a hand. “The spare twin runs off, gets a girl in trouble, and is cornered into a wedding with pitchforks and righteous indignation.”
Philips coughed into his hand. “A succinct summary, sir. The man lives in Wroxford still, in modest lodgings. Works—if you can call it that—at the family blacksmith shop, though it seems he is functionally illiterate. His wife, Sally, is with child. From all reports, the household is… strained.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Strained?”
“She grew tired of his complaining,” Philips said, squinting at his notes, “and urged him to seek what she calls ‘his rightful inheritance.’ The child, it seems, gave her the final push.”
Thomas sighed and took a long sip of port. “So now he appears, like a jackal sniffing at the gates.”
Philips folded the papers neatly. “He has brought his own solicitor today. A Mr. Hartley of dubious repute. I expect they will argue the matter from sentiment, not law.”
There was a sharp knock on the library door.
Thomas rose reluctantly. “Showtime.”
The butler opened the door and announced, “Mr. William Collins and Mr. Hartley, sir.”
William Collins shuffled into the room with a faint air of bravado, his lanky form swallowed by an ill-fitting coat. He was broad of shoulder but round of face, his features a poor imitation of Theo Bennet’s long-remembered handsomeness. His boots were scuffed, and his expression soured the moment he saw Thomas.
Behind him came a portly man with greasy sideburns and an eager smile—Mr. Hartley, no doubt.
“Cousin,” William said, with no warmth whatsoever.
“Mr. Collins,” Thomas returned with equal chill. “Do be seated.”
Once they had arranged themselves, Mr. Hartley launched in. “We come today on a matter of inheritance, sir. My client—being the eldest male descendant of Timothy Bennet, the former master—feels that a claim exists—”
“There is no claim,” Thomas interrupted. “The entail is clear. I am the son of Theodore Bennet, eldest son of Timothy Bennet. The estate passes down the legitimate male line via the eldest son of an eldest son. Your father has no claim on inheritance, especially given that he abandoned the family.”
