The laughter faltered. One or two of the more sober lords cleared their throats.
And then the Prince, still grinning, waved his hand. “Oh, come now, Darcy—do not scowl so. The deed is done, the girl is yours, and the rest of us may go on pretending to be virtuous.”
Bartemius began to protest, but the Prince raised a hand. “It is done,” he repeated.
And in that moment, George Darcy knew two things.
First: he had just signed his name to a life-altering lie.
And second: he would never regret it.
Not if it saved that girl from the fate Bartemius had intended.
Not if it meant protecting her, as Sarah would have done.
∞∞∞
1795—Longbourn
The letter, dated the year prior, arrived on a Wednesday.
It was sealed in a rough hand, the paper bearing the smell of salt and unfamiliar spices. The ink was smudged in places, but the signature at the bottom was unmistakable. Frederick Bennet. Sent from Calcutta.
Thomas read it twice before folding it carefully and placing it inside his coat pocket. He did not speak of it to anyone, not even Fanny.
He sat for a long time in the library, staring out the window while Elizabeth played with building blocks at his feet. At four years old, she was all curls and clever eyes, humming to herself as she sorted colors with surprising precision. She had beenreading simple words for a month already and spoke in full, clear sentences that astonished every neighbor who visited.
She was not like Jane, who had always been placid and sweet. Elizabeth was alert. Eager. Hungry for the world.
Thomas drew the letter out again and reread the most important lines.
I have fallen gravely ill. The physicians offer no hope of long recovery. I have made arrangements with my solicitor, Mr. Mortimer, to deliver a modest settlement in my name to your keeping. It is not much, but if you invest it well, it may one day serve as a dowry for Elizabeth. My final request is that she be given a chance—to marry well, if she wishes, or to live as freely as a lady may. Tell her, someday, that I loved her.
He folded the page again and ran a hand through his hair. It was a generous sum, for a second son—nearly a thousand pounds. It could become more, given time.
But time was precisely the difficulty.
Fanny had delivered their third child—another girl—and her mood had soured with the arrival. She had expected a boy. Hadneededone. Instead, she now cared for their children in fits and starts, alternating between weeping over her nerves and railing at God for her misfortune. Her shrillness—which had temporarily disappeared during her pregnancy—had returned with renewed force, and the household was on edge.
Jane remained sweet and quiet, but Fanny had already begun talking of bonnets and muslin gowns for her future come-out, though she was just six years of age. Elizabeth, curious and bold, had begun asking questions far beyond her four years—questions Fanny declared were impertinent and unbecoming.
It was not a time for reason.
And then, of course, there were the books.
Word had come only a week before that the owner of Netherfield Park—some distant cousin of a marquess—had finally been forced to retrench. He would be returning to London permanently, and his agent had approached Thomas with a quiet offer: the gentleman’s private library, over 400 volumes, including several rare folios, early editions, and annotated works of natural philosophy.
Thomas had envied that collection for years.
He had never before had the opportunity, nor the excuse, to buy more than a single volume or two at a time. But now…
He pulled Frederick’s letter from his coat once more and stared down at the sum.
It was a gift. A trust. But it was also available.
What need had a girl of four years old for such money now? And was it not better to keep her father’s books among kin—preserved, valued—rather than squander that money on an uncertain future?
Besides, Fanny would bear him a son…. eventually. She must.
