The child who called her Lizba, who built walls instead of towers, who had claimed her heart long before she knew whose son he truly was.
“I am going to the nursery,” she said, not turning around. “He will be waking from his nap, and he does not like to wake alone.”
“Elizabeth—”
“He has claimed me, Fitzwilliam,” she said more softly, almost to herself. “Whatever else has changed, that has not.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE RECKONING
Darcy grippedthe edge of the mantel, not trusting himself. His entire body ached to follow his wife to the nursery—to share the moment with Little Tom, but he had promised not to trouble her with his presence. It had to be enough that she still loved the boy—his son—hard as it was to acknowledge his utter humiliation when he could not even prevail upon a woman, heavy with his child, to accept his name.
He seized the poker and set about the fire, prodding the logs, shifting them, and watching the sparks leap as if they, too, sought escape.
Elizabeth would not forgive easily. He had watched her at Longbourn and Netherfield, managing the slights that came her way, her eyes sharp and her lips pursed. Words barbed just enough to sting, and insults laughed off but remembered. Elizabeth Bennet did not rage. She retreated and observed, drawing conclusions, testing them, and teasing out the truth. She did not make rash decisions but waited until she understood precisely how deep the wound ran, and then she decided whether the wound was worth surviving.
He gave the logs a final thrust and replaced the poker on its stand. Glancing at the door, he again saw in his mind Elizabeth’sicy posture as she left him—head held high, stride even, and chin defiant. She had not looked back, but she would stay for Thomas. She had given her word, and he again heard the tone of her voice.He has claimed me, Fitzwilliam. Whatever else has changed, that has not.
How he wished he had properly claimed his wife, not by the marriage bed, but by the truth. For truth deferred was merely a lie in finer dress. It would break his sister’s heart and dampen the spirits of his entire household, but he would be a coward no longer.
Pulling the bell, he summoned Mrs. Reynolds. And then, he poured himself two fingers of brandy and let the liquid burn down his throat.
He poured a second glass, though he left it untouched on the blotter. When the housekeeper entered, he did not offer the usual pleasantries. He stood by the window, his back to the room, watching the rain reclaim the drive, and invited her to sit.
She took the chair opposite his desk, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her composure remained flawless, yet the set of her shoulders betrayed her—she sensed the fracture. The master of Pemberley did not summon his housekeeper to the library at such an hour.
Darcy turned, leaning back against the heavy mahogany of the desk.
“I will require your discretion to manage the expectations of the staff,” he began. “Ever since I brought Mrs. Darcy home, the household has buzzed about an unseemly secret romance. I have tolerated it, and Mrs. Darcy had found it amusing.”
Mrs. Reynolds gulped, nodding silently as if she, too, had been guilty of entertainment.
“Circumstances have made these speculations untenable, and I will explain the reason.” He took a swallow of brandy.
Mrs. Reynolds fixed her gaze on a distant spot, sparing him the indignity of direct sympathy—a courtesy he found both rare and oddly comforting.
“Master Thomas is my son.”
He expected her to start, or at least to blink, but she only inclined her head, a gesture of professional, iron-clad acknowledgment. It was as though the secret had been a loose floorboard in the nursery all along, and she had simply been waiting for him to finally step upon it.
“I see, sir. Is Mrs. Darcy aware?”
“She is, and she has gone to the nursery.” He set down the glass and took a deep breath. Mrs. Reynolds had known him since birth, had attended his mother’s final illness and his father’s decline, and she had guided him through his own stumbling assumption of the estate’s responsibilities. “I will need your assistance.”
“The household will have questions,” she said. “There has been… speculation, sir. About Master Thomas’s resemblance to you. About the circumstances of his arrival.”
“I assumed as much.”
“May I ask how you wish me to address such speculation?”
Darcy considered. The servants would talk—that was inevitable. The question was not whether they would discuss the matter among themselves, but whether they could be trusted to maintain discretion beyond the walls of Pemberley.
“Tell them what you judge appropriate,” he said. “I trust your discretion. But I must ask one thing of you, and of them.”
“Sir?”
“Mrs. Darcy is…” He paused, searching for words that would convey the situation without betraying Elizabeth’s private anguish. “She has received a considerable shock. I would ask that the household be kind to her in the coming days. Discreet.That they not press her with questions, or burden her with their own confusion.”
