Chapter 10
TEN
Elizabeth
The following day, Elizabeth found herself anticipating Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley's next visit with an eagerness she would not have acknowledged aloud. But the following day came and went, and no knock sounded at the door.
By noon, she was forced to admit to herself what she had been denying all morning: the gentlemen would not be calling. They had come without fail before the midday hour during their previous visits. Their absence today was deliberate.
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner settled into a game of cards after luncheon, and the weather proved too fine to remain indoors. Elizabeth, announcing that she now knew Bath well enough to venture out unaccompanied, declared her intention to walk.
Jane, who had been unwell since morning and suspected her courses were imminent, declined to join her.
"Do not stay out too long, Lizzy," Mrs. Gardiner cautioned. "And keep to the main streets."
"I shall be perfectly safe, Aunt. Bath is hardly a wilderness."
Elizabeth set out alone, her steps lighter than they had been all morning simply for being in motion.
Aside from her initial outing with Mrs. Gardiner and their visit to the Pump Room with Jane, she realized this was her first solitary walk in Bath—the first time she had ventured forth without being in the company of Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley and Jane.
The thought brought her up short.
When had she begun to think of him as her companion on these walks? When had his presence become so familiar that his absence felt like a void?
Her mind drifted to his last visit, to the things he had said. She traced backward through the chronology of their encounters in Bath—the fire, the dinner, the walks, the easy conversations that had somehow supplanted the animosity of Hertfordshire and the pain of Kent.
As her thoughts wandered freely, they returned to the conversation she had shared with her sister the previous night. Jane had accused her—gently, of course—of liking him, and Elizabeth had denied it.
But now, walking alone through the Bath streets with only her thoughts for company, she asked herself the same question—and found she could not answer it.
There was no denying that she was not indifferent to him anymore.
That much was certain. But what she felt in place of indifference, she could not name.
Admiration, perhaps, for his kindness to her family.
Respect for his humility in admitting his mistakes.
Curiosity about the man beneath the proud exterior.
And yet—and yet she wished, hoped even, that he would say something. Anything about the Wickham affair that might justify his actions, or at the very least explain them.
The thought that Mr. Wickham might be proven a liar terrified her. It would mean her judgment had been catastrophically flawed. It would mean she had wronged Mr. Darcy in ways she could never adequately atone for.
Elizabeth had walked for more than a quarter hour, so lost in thought that she scarcely noticed her surroundings, when movement caught her eye.
A small girl played in a garden visible through an open gate, chasing a butterfly with a stuffed doll clutched in one hand.
White gauze was wrapped around her other hand, suggesting an injury not yet fully healed.
She laughed as she ran—a bright, musical sound that made Elizabeth smile despite her troubled thoughts.
The girl turned, and Elizabeth's breath caught.
That face. She knew that face.
Realization struck with the force of a physical blow. This was the child from the fire. The little girl Mr. Darcy had carried down the ladder, shielded in his arms while flames raged around them.
She looked well—healthy and whole, with no apparent lasting harm from her ordeal. But there was something else about her face, something oddly familiar that had nothing to do with glimpsing her through smoke and panic. Elizabeth had seen her only briefly during the rescue, and yet—
She could not place why the child seemed so known to her.
Curiosity and sympathy both urged her forward. Before she could think better of it, Elizabeth stepped through the gate and approached the garden.
"Good afternoon," she called softly, not wishing to startle the child.
The girl looked up, her eyes wide and curious. She was perhaps five or six years old, with dark curls that escaped from beneath her small bonnet and a face that would one day be quite pretty.
"Hello," the child said, clutching her doll more tightly.
"I hope I am not intruding," Elizabeth said, coming closer. "I wanted to see how you were faring. I was present when the fire occurred. I saw you rescued."
The girl tilted her head, studying Elizabeth with the frank assessment of the young. "I don't remember seeing you, miss."
"No, you would not. It was all very frightening and confusing, I am sure." Elizabeth smiled gently. "I am new in Bath. I have been here only a short while."
"We've been here forever," the girl declared with a child's sense of time. "Well, not forever. But a long while. Mama says we shall go home soon, but I like it here."
"And how is your hand?" Elizabeth nodded toward the bandage. "Does it pain you much?"
"Not anymore. It hurt terribly at first, but the doctor gave me medicine, and Mr. Darcy brought me sweets to make me feel better."
Elizabeth's heart gave an unexpected leap at the mention of his name. "Mr. Darcy is...a friend of mine. He mentioned he had called to enquire after you."
How strange it felt to call him her friend. And yet, what else could she name him?
The girl's face brightened. "Oh, Mr. Darcy is wonderful! He comes to see us ever so often. He makes sure Mama and I have everything we need. Mama says he's been so good to us, we couldn't manage without him."
Something cold settled in Elizabeth’s stomach. “He…takes care of your needs?” she asked quietly.
She had believed Mr. Darcy’s rescue of the girl and her maid from the fire to be a mere act of passing generosity—nothing more than a gentleman’s momentary kindness toward a struggling household. Never had she imagined he had known them for years.
"Oh yes. He always visits when he can, because mama says he is very busy. And he brings me things—books and toys and sweets. Mama says he's very good to us." The child hugged her doll tighter, then added with the guileless confidence of the very young, "Papa always makes sure we have what we need."
Elizabeth's breath stopped. "Papa?"
"Yes. Papa takes care of everything. Mama says we're ever so fortunate."
The world tilted. "Your...your papa," Elizabeth repeated faintly, trying to understand. "You mean—Mr. Darcy is your—"
"Sarah!"
Both Elizabeth and the child turned toward the voice.
The maid who had been rescued alongside the girl emerged from the house, her arm still bound in a sling but otherwise appearing well. "Sarah, you mustn't bother the lady. Come inside now. It's time for your music lessons."
"Coming!" Sarah called. She turned back to Elizabeth with a bright smile. "It was very nice to meet you, miss. I hope I see you again!"
"And I you," Elizabeth said, though her voice sounded hollow.
She watched the child run toward the house, her doll bouncing in her grip, her laughter trailing behind her like ribbons in the wind.
Elizabeth stood rooted to the spot, her mind racing.
Mr. Darcy visited as often as he could. Provided for their needs. Cared for the mother and child with such consistency that even a five-year-old child thought of him as a father figure.
The mother.
The child.
Dear God.
Was this why he had not called today? Was he here instead, with them? With his—
She could not finish the thought. Could not bear to put words to what the evidence suggested.
Mr. Darcy had a child. Perhaps not a legitimate one, but a child nonetheless. And a woman—the mother—whom he supported, visited, cared for with such devotion that it looked to all the world like—
Like what it likely was. Elizabeth turned and walked blindly back toward the street, her vision blurring at the edges.
She had been such a fool.
All this time, she had been softening toward him. Questioning her judgments. Wondering if perhaps she had misjudged his character, if perhaps he was better than she had believed.
And all the while, he had been maintaining a mistress and a child in Bath. No wonder he came here so often. No wonder he owned property in the city. It was not for business or leisure.
It was for them.
The perfect picture of respectability he had presented—the kindness to her family, the humility in admitting his mistakes, the tender way he spoke of his sister—it had all been a facade. A performance designed to deceive.
And she—God help her—she had been on the verge of believing it. Elizabeth walked faster, desperate to put distance between herself and that garden, that house, that smiling child who knew nothing of the scandal she represented.
She had asked for proof of Mr. Darcy's character. She had wanted him to explain himself, to justify his actions. Well. She had her answer now. And it was far worse than anything Mr. Wickham had ever accused him of.
***
Elizabeth returned to Camden Place with her composure hanging by the thinnest of threads.
Mrs. Gardiner looked up from her cards. "You have returned sooner than I expected, Lizzy. How was your walk?"
"Pleasant," Elizabeth managed. "The weather was fine."
She waited, braced for further questions, but Mr. Gardiner laid down a winning hand with a satisfied air, and Mrs. Gardiner's attention returned to the game. Elizabeth escaped to her bedchamber before anyone could observe the turmoil that must surely be written across her face.
Jane was resting, a cool cloth across her forehead. "You are back early. Did you not enjoy yourself?"
"I simply grew tired of walking."
Elizabeth moved to the window, unable to meet her sister's eyes. She should tell Jane. Should warn her that the man whose friend had just secured her happiness was not what he appeared.
But she did not speak.
Jane would be horrified, certainly. But what then? Would she feel obligated to inform Mr. Bingley? Would their friendship end? And if it did, what would become of Jane's newly rekindled hopes?
For a moment, she wondered if Mr. Bingley knew about the whole affair. She doubted it. Mr. Darcy would have introduced them as a family he assisted, perhaps—some charitable concern. After all, he seemed to wear the mask of benevolence remarkably well.
Elizabeth pressed her forehead against the cool glass.
She knew Mr. Darcy's character now. Knew it with a certainty that made her chest ache.
But spreading such a scandal would serve no purpose save to cause pain.
And if she spoke, Mr. Darcy might retaliate.
He had separated Jane and Mr. Bingley once before with nothing more than a few well-placed words.
What might he do if Elizabeth exposed his most private shame?
She could not risk it.
If Jane benefited from this visit to Bath—if she left with her understanding with Mr. Bingley secured—then it would be worth Elizabeth's silence.
And in another way, it was almost a relief. At least she had closure now about Mr. Darcy's character. No more wondering. No more questioning whether she had misjudged him.
It was, in its own terrible way, a resolution.
Except—
Except that disappointment sat like a stone in her stomach, heavy and cold.
She had wanted to find that Mr. Darcy had changed. Had wanted to discover that his kindness to her family was genuine. That his humility was real. That the man who taught poor children and spoke tenderly of his sister was the truth of him.
She had been ready—almost ready—to forgive him. To set aside her anger over his interference with Jane, her indignation over his insulting proposal, even her doubts about Mr. Wickham's account.
She had been ready to like him.
What a fool she had been.
"Lizzy?" Jane's voice was soft with concern. "Are you quite well?"
Elizabeth forced a smile. "I am perfectly well. Only tired."
Jane shifted on the bed. "The gentlemen did not call today."
"No."
Had he been with them? With his Sarah and her mother?
"Perhaps they had other engagements," Elizabeth said, her voice flat.
"Perhaps." Jane studied her sister. "Lizzy, has something happened?"
"Nothing has happened." The words came too quickly. Elizabeth softened her tone. "I am only tired, as I said."
Jane appeared satisfied and soon drifted into sleep.
Elizabeth remained at the window, watching the Bath afternoon fade into evening.
She had wanted the truth about Mr. Darcy. Well. She had it now.
The cruelest part was that some small, stubborn part of her heart still refused to believe it. Still wanted to find some explanation, some justification.
But there was none. A child did not call a man "Papa" without cause.
Perhaps, tomorrow, she would have to see him again. Would have to sit in the same room, make polite conversation, pretend that nothing had changed.
She did not know how she would manage it.
But she would. For Jane's sake, if nothing else.
She would smile. She would be civil. She would betray no hint of what she knew.
And when they leave Bath, she would forget Mr. Darcy had ever mattered to her at all.
If she repeated the thought often enough, perhaps she might even believe it.