Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Elizabeth
Elizabeth had slept poorly the night before.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Sarah's bright smile.
Papa always makes sure we have what we need.
The words echoed endlessly in her mind, accompanied by images of Mr. Darcy—respectable, principled Mr. Darcy—maintaining a secret household as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
There was no other reason a child would call a man who visited frequently Papa. None that made any sense.
Elizabeth's anger burned hotter with each passing hour. He had proposed to her. Had stood in that parsonage and declared his love, his struggles against his better judgment—all while keeping a mistress and child hidden away in Bath.
Had he thought to continue the arrangement after they married? Or had he planned to discard them once he had secured a wife of proper breeding?
And now—now he had the audacity to act as though he were reformed. To apologize for his mistakes with Jane and Mr. Bingley. To speak humbly of his faults. To present himself as a changed man worthy of her good opinion.
All while visiting them. While playing father to a child born of his own recklessness.
He should have told her in Kent. Should have admitted it during that dreadful proposal when he was cataloging all the reasons their marriage would be a degradation. Should have at least had the decency to mention that he already had responsibilities that would make any union impossible.
But he had said nothing.
Thank God I refused him then.
Here, in Bath, she had been ready to forgive him. Ready to believe he had changed. Perhaps, already feeling something more than mere civility and admiration toward him.
What a fool she had been.
By morning, her eyes were gritty with exhaustion and her head ached dully. Jane had noticed, of course, and asked if she was quite well. Elizabeth had blamed the Bath water, the change in routine—anything but the truth.
The gentlemen did not arrive at their usual hour. Ten o'clock came and went. Eleven. By noon, Elizabeth had convinced herself they would not come at all—that perhaps Mr. Darcy had sensed her coldness at dinner and decided to spare them both the discomfort of another meeting.
She told herself she was relieved.
But when half-past twelve brought the sound of a knock at the door, her heart gave a traitorous leap.
The maid showed the gentlemen into the parlor. Mr. Gardiner rose from his chair to greet them warmly, shaking hands with both Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.
"Gentlemen! We were beginning to think you had been detained by business."
"Forgive our lateness," Mr. Bingley said with his usual cheerfulness. "Darcy had a matter to attend to this morning that took longer than anticipated."
Elizabeth's eyes went immediately to Mr. Darcy. He looked tired—more tired than he had at dinner the previous evening. There were shadows beneath his eyes that had not been there before, and a tightness around his mouth that suggested he, too, had not slept well.
She told herself she did not care.
Mrs. Gardiner welcomed them graciously, offering refreshment which they politely declined. Jane colored prettily when Mr. Bingley greeted her, and Elizabeth noted with some satisfaction that at least her sister's happiness remained secure, even if her own peace of mind had been shattered.
"Miss Bennet," Mr. Bingley said, turning to Jane with barely contained eagerness, "I wonder if you might still be amenable to visiting the new circulating library? The weather is remarkably fine, and I understand they have acquired several new volumes from London."
Jane smiled—that soft, genuine smile that transformed her entire countenance. "I should like that very much, Mr. Bingley."
"Excellent! And you, Miss Elizabeth?" He looked at her with hopeful expectation. "Surely you would enjoy seeing the new collection as well?"
Before Elizabeth could answer, Mr. Darcy spoke quietly. "If Miss Elizabeth is willing, of course. We would not wish to impose."
His eyes found hers—cautious, searching. Elizabeth felt a surge of bitter anger. How dare he look at her like that? As though he were the injured party?
But Mrs. Gardiner was already encouraging her to fetch her bonnet, and Jane was looking at her with such hopeful eyes that Elizabeth could not bring herself to spoil her sister's happiness.
"Very well," she said, her voice flat.
***
They stepped out into the mild Bath afternoon. Mr. Bingley and Jane walking ahead in easy conversation, while Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth followed more slowly, their silence companionable but taut with unspoken thought.
For several minutes, neither spoke. Elizabeth kept her eyes fixed on the pavement before her, acutely aware of Mr. Darcy's presence beside her but unwilling to acknowledge it.
"The library is not far," he said at last. "Just past the Abbey."
"I am familiar with Bath's geography by now, sir."
The sharpness in her tone made him fall silent again.
They walked on. Ahead, Jane laughed at something Mr. Bingley said—a light, musical sound that seemed to mock Elizabeth's dark mood.
"Miss Elizabeth," Mr. Darcy began again, his voice careful, "I hope Bath continues to agree with you. The city can be overwhelming."
It was carefully done—polite enough to sound vague, yet his eyes held a question she refused to answer.
"I find it agreeable enough," she replied coolly.
He said nothing more for the remainder of the walk to the library.
***
The library proved to be a handsome building with large windows and a cheerful blue door.
Inside, Mr. Bingley immediately began pointing out volumes to Jane, asking her opinion on this novel or that collection of poetry.
Jane responded with her customary grace, and soon they were deep in discussion.
Elizabeth moved toward the shelves of natural philosophy and travel narratives, desperate for something to occupy her hands and eyes. She was examining a volume on the flora of the Lake District when Mr. Darcy's voice came from beside her.
"You enjoy reading."
It was not a question.
"Most people do, Mr. Darcy."
"Not in the way you do." He kept a proper distance, his hands clasped behind his back. "I have observed that you do not simply read for entertainment. You engage with texts. Question them. Allow them to challenge your thinking."
Despite herself, Elizabeth felt a flicker of surprise at his observation. But she tamped it down.
"I find it easier to connect with people who love books," he continued quietly. "They tend to be more thoughtful. More willing to see beyond surface appearances."
The irony of that statement nearly made Elizabeth laugh aloud.
"How fortunate for you," she said coldly, returning the book to its shelf. "To have such discerning criteria."
She moved to another section. He did not follow, for which she was grateful.
They spent another quarter hour in the library before Mr. Bingley declared he had found the perfect novel for Jane. The happy couple led the way back out into the afternoon sun, chattering about the merits of various Gothic romances.
Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy followed once more in tense silence.
They had walked perhaps ten minutes when Mr. Bingley announced that he wished to show Jane a particular shop window display they had passed earlier. The couple stopped, Jane looking at the millinery with genuine interest while Mr. Bingley pointed out various ribbons and bonnets.
Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy stood a few paces away, an uncomfortable silence stretching between them.
It was then that Elizabeth could no longer contain herself. The words escaped before she could stop them, low enough that only he could hear.
"Tell me, Mr. Darcy—do you find it difficult, maintaining such careful separations between your different lives?"
He turned to her, confusion evident in his expression. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your respectable life here, dining with families like ours." She kept her voice quiet but sharp. "And your other responsibilities. The ones you keep hidden."
Understanding—and horror—dawned in his eyes. "Miss Elizabeth, I do not—"
"I know about Sarah," she said barely above a whisper, the words bitter on her tongue.
All color drained from his face. "You know—"
"I met her, Mr. Darcy. Sarah. And the maid.
The ones you rescued from the fire." She kept her voice low but each word was edged with steel.
"The little girl was very forthcoming about your frequent visits.
How well you provide for them. How Papa—" Her voice caught. "How Papa takes care of everything."
Mr. Darcy's face went white. He glanced quickly toward where Jane and Mr. Bingley remained absorbed in their window shopping, then back to Elizabeth. When he spoke, his voice was low and tight with barely controlled emotion.
"What are you saying?"
"I am saying that I know the truth." Elizabeth had to will herself not to raise her voice, not to draw Jane and Mr. Bingley's attention. "She called you Papa, Mr. Darcy. Her own words. What else am I to understand from that?"
For a long moment, he only looked at her. Then his eyes widened, comprehension breaking over his features—followed swiftly by a flicker of horror, as though he had only just understood her meaning.
"You believe Sarah is my child."
It was not a question. Elizabeth's silence was answer enough.
For a long moment, he simply stared at her. Then he said, very quietly, "She is not. She is Wickham's."
The words struck Elizabeth like a physical blow. She swayed slightly, and Mr. Darcy reached out instinctively, perhaps intending to steady her, but withdrew his hand at once.
“What?”
He did not step closer, and when he spoke, his voice was low enough that no one else could have heard.