Chapter Fifteen
The carriage ride to Longbourn was not as pleasant as Charles Bingley had hoped. Though the morning sun shone cheerfully through the windowpanes and the autumn breeze was warm for mid-October, Miss Bingley’s voice had made the journey anything but tranquil.
“I cannot understand, Charles, why you are so obstinate in your affections,” she drawled for the third time.
“There were any number of eligible young women of fine breeding and exceptional fortune—Lady Adeline Grant, for example, or Miss Mortimer of Cavendish Square—each would have made an admirable match.”
Bingley, seated opposite her, maintained a light smile, but his voice was firm.
“Their breeding and fortune could not make them agreeable, Caroline. No, I much prefer a woman with a warm heart and lively mind. Miss Bennet may not possess connections or wealth, but in felicity of temper, she is unequaled.”
Darcy, seated beside the Hursts, said nothing but watched Caroline from the corner of his eye as she pursed her lips in disapproval. It was no secret that she had hoped to steer her brother towards a match that would reflect favourably on herself.
Upon arriving at Longbourn, Miss Bennet received them in the drawing room. She greeted them warmly, though Darcy noted at once that someone was missing.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Elizabeth—is she not at home?”
Jane smiled. “She is out walking with our brother and younger sisters. They were full of energy and wished to take advantage of the fine weather.”
Bingley brightened. “Then perhaps we might meet them on a stroll ourselves. Dear Miss Bennet, will you lead the way?”
It was quickly agreed upon. Jane and Bingley stepped out first, followed by Mr and Mrs Hurst. Darcy was left to bring up the rear with Miss Bingley.
“It is far too warm for October,” she murmured as they entered the wooded path along the side of the house. “I shall be glad when we are indoors again. Country walks have such a way of rumpling one’s appearance.”
Darcy offered no reply. His mind was on Elizabeth. As quickly as he could, he made an excuse to move away from Miss Bingley, walking quickly up the path.
They were some way down the path when the sound of laughter broke the stillness. High, childish peals of delight carried on the breeze, and just ahead, a small clearing opened where sunlight danced between the trees.
There, surrounded by three young ladies, was Elizabeth Bennet.
She stood with her hands on her hips, watching a child—perhaps five or six years of age—chase the girls with a blindfold tied about his eyes.
His laugh was infectious, his tiny boots thudding on the grass as he cried, “I shall catch you! Just wait, Lydia! I shall catch you!”
Two of the girls had their hair unbound and skirts short enough to suggest youth—the two youngest Bennet girls, perhaps.
The third was older, skirts brushing her ankles, but she joined in with the same gleeful abandon.
Elizabeth clapped her hands and encouraged the child as he stumbled blindly in circles.
Darcy’s lips parted in surprise. She was radiant—her cheeks flushed, eyes bright, her laughter rising like birdsong. Her hair gleamed in the sun, a few rebellious strands escaping her bonnet.
Suddenly, the blindfolded boy careened towards them. Before anyone could step aside, he barrelled directly into Darcy with a gleeful shout.
“Got you!”
Tiny hands tugged at the blindfold. The cloth fell, and the boy looked up.
Darcy froze.
Time seemed to contract. The boy’s features—broad brow, determined chin, and above all, those unmistakable brown eyes—sent a jolt down Darcy’s spine. His breath hitched. The boy's face seemed hauntingly familiar.
Richard’s eyes. Georgiana’s mouth. That hair—dark gold with a hint of curl.
Recognition struck like lightning. He had seen that face before.
The child blinked up at him, sensing something was wrong. Then, without a word, he turned and darted away, running straight to Elizabeth. He buried his face in her skirts, clutching her as if seeking refuge.
Elizabeth looked up from her charge and met Darcy’s gaze—still, silent, and stricken. In that instant, Darcy read too much. Her arms wrapped protectively around the boy. A flicker of guilt—or fear—passed through her features, gone so quickly he might have imagined it. Surely, I imagined it!
“Thomas,” she said gently, brushing a hand through the boy’s hair. “You must not run into guests.”
The child peeked out, then turned his face back into her gown.
The others caught them up, breaking the tension—Miss Bingley with a frown, the Hursts with mild curiosity. Miss Bennet’s voice was sweet as ever.
“Is it not lovely here in the autumn? The colours have held so well this year.” She touched a flower that still had its petals intact. It was as if she could sense Darcy’s turmoil and sought to find safe ground.
Darcy could not answer. He could only watch Elizabeth, her expression composed now, though her arms remained around the boy.
An explanation, whatever it was, hovered just out of reach.
He could not move. He could not draw breath as speculation ran rampant through his thoughts.
It was as if the boy had reached into the past and dragged something long-buried into the sunlight. His heart thundered in his chest, the sound loud in his ears. The child’s face lingered in his vision like an afterimage. Those eyes—he knew those eyes. I am being nonsensical, he scolded himself.
Still, he stood rooted, his limbs stiff, his expression frozen into something unreadable. Beside him, Miss Bingley shifted impatiently, but even she seemed aware that something had altered the air.
“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her voice a touch too steady, “allow me to introduce my brother, Thomas Bennet.”
He blinked and tried to speak but failed.
“This is Mr Darcy, Thomas,” she continued, “and Mr and Mrs Hurst, and Miss Bingley. You know Mr Bingley, of course.”
Darcy bowed mechanically, but his gaze never left the child.
Thomas peeked out from behind Elizabeth’s skirts again, those wide eyes brimming with curiosity and confusion. The resemblance struck again—so sharply, so perfectly. He could be my brother…or my cousin. The child looked up, his little fingers fisting in Elizabeth’s gown.
Elizabeth shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, stepping in front of him. A protective movement. Defensive.
“Lydia, Kitty, would you be so good as to take Thomas back to the house?” Her voice was gentle but firm. “I believe Cook promised biscuits if he was good today.”
Kitty frowned. “But—”
“Now, if you please.”
There was a moment’s pause, then Lydia gave an exaggerated sigh and took the boy’s hand. “Come along, Tommy. We shall race you to the back door.”
Thomas hesitated, glancing once more at Darcy before turning away. As he walked off between the girls, he picked up a fallen stick from the grass and began to swing it idly in his left hand, striking leaves as he passed.
Darcy’s breath caught again. Anne used to do that. When she was young and wild, before her health supposedly declined—always swinging twigs, fencing with imaginary foes, laughing when Richard pretended to duel her. And Richard—Richard is left-handed too.
Both had been instructed to use their right hand, but Richard had defied his parents.
Anne’s writing was as awful as Bingley’s because she tried desperately to use her other hand.
Come to think of it, Darcy thought, had not Bingley said he had initially begun to write with his left hand?
Wickham, too, and his mother had been left-handed.
The thoughts came unbidden, unwanted, and faster than he could track. Darcy clenched his jaw.
“Are you well, sir?” Elizabeth asked softly.
He looked at her then—really looked—and saw something flickering in her expression. Composure, yes, but with a glint of apprehension, of fierce protectiveness.
“I—” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me. I thought—”
What did he think? That he had seen a ghost?
Elizabeth’s gaze did not waver. “Thomas is very dear to me,” she said simply. There was no lie in her tone.
He looked after the child’s retreating form until it disappeared into the trees. The laughter had faded, and the air seemed still again—but something had shifted. Permanently.
Darcy barely registered the remainder of the walk.
Elizabeth was civil, but the warmth that had marked their previous interactions was dulled.
She remained close to Jane, her attention pointedly fixed on her sister and Mr Bingley.
When Darcy attempted to engage her—asking if she frequented that path often or whether the boy, Thomas, enjoyed the outdoors—her replies were brief and politely evasive.
“Yes, the path is pleasant,” she said. “We walk often when the weather permits. He is a lively child.”
Her tone was neither cold nor unkind, but Darcy could not shake the sense that a barrier had risen between them. She did not meet his eyes as she once had, and her laughter, when it came, was muted.
By the time they reached the house, Elizabeth excused herself with a curtsy and murmured something about checking on the younger girls. Darcy watched her go, unease gnawing at him.
The Netherfield party returned to their carriage soon after, Bingley in high spirits and Miss Bingley in visible irritation.
“Well,” she said the moment the horses started forwards, “that was one of the most ill-organized social calls I’ve ever endured. Children darting about, hair unbound, dresses muddied—really, Charles, I cannot comprehend your fascination with such people.”
“Caroline,” Bingley said mildly, “you cannot blame the family for enjoying the fine weather as they please. We intruded upon their outing, not the other way around.”
“They were practically barefoot,” she sniffed. “It is no wonder you admire Miss Bennet—she is the only one who managed to maintain any decorum.”
Louisa Hurst yawned and murmured something about “country indulgences.”