Chapter Fifteen #2
Darcy said nothing. He sat rigid, eyes fixed on the shifting countryside beyond the window. His thoughts refused to settle. The boy—Thomas.
Elizabeth’s sudden reserve. Her protective posture. The way the child clung to her. His eyes. The profound likeness. He was around five years old… No; it was too ludicrous to imagine.
Darcy’s mind spun with questions, but none he could ask aloud. And Elizabeth… Elizabeth had not wished to linger. Had not met his gaze once since that moment. Still, the suspicions remained. There was something he was not being told, and he would find out what it was.
Little Thomas’s departure did not help ease Elizabeth’s anxiety.
Mr Darcy’s question about Thomas had made her heart race.
He showed an unusual amount of interest in the lad, but who was she to say what was usual and what was not?
Perhaps he merely meant to be polite. And perhaps the fault was her own—was she on her guard because Mr Darcy was a newcomer?
He looked as if he had seen a spectre or some other aberration.
His expression had shifted the moment Thomas tore the blindfold from his eyes, revealing his cherubic face, flushed with laughter.
Darcy’s mouth had parted slightly, his eyes wide, as though he beheld something long-lost—or deeply feared.
Mr Darcy’s gaze had roved over Thomas’s features, lingering with too much scrutiny for it to be mere curiosity.
His jaw had clenched when the child swung his stick like a make-believe sword, and Elizabeth had seen it: the slight tremble in his hand as he adjusted his gloves, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.
The reason behind the gentleman’s odd behaviour was a mystery, and Elizabeth’s mind whirled as she considered the possibilities.
It was almost as though he knew Thomas—had seen him before.
The notion was absurd. It could not be possible that Mr Darcy knew her brother’s true parentage, unless…
She scolded herself. Proper young ladies did not consider such things.
Yet the look of recognition in his eyes said otherwise.
The moment she could justify the departure, Elizabeth retreated to her room.
She claimed a headache, her excuse accepted without question, and retreated to her bedchamber.
There, lying fully clothed upon her counterpane, she stared into the folds of the canopy overhead, seeking clarity and finding only a crushing weight of doubt.
Who could she turn to with her fears? Not her father.
He had so often dismissed her concerns, waving them off with philosophy or wit.
Yet, he too worried about the possibility of their secret being discovered.
Why else would he consider marrying one of his daughters to an unknown cousin—the rightful heir to Longbourn?
That plan, half-formed and born of desperation, now made grim sense.
There was a soft knock. Jane entered, a vision of gentleness and concern. Her eyes searched Elizabeth’s face as she approached.
“Are you well?” she asked, perching on the edge of the bed with careful grace.
Elizabeth mustered a smile. “I am. It is only a little headache. I shall be fully recovered tomorrow. Do you think Papa would let me take a tray in my room?” She winced inwardly at how flat her voice sounded. She could not face the dinner table. Not tonight.
“He has already directed Hill to see it done,” Jane replied, patting her hand gently.
Elizabeth hesitated, then spoke. “Did you notice Mr Darcy’s reaction when he met Tommy?”
Please, let Jane have noted it too. Let me not be mad. Immediately she rebuked her thoughts. It would be better if Jane did not notice the gentleman’s odd behavior.
But Jane only frowned. “I confess I was fully absorbed in conversation with Mr Bingley. Did he disapprove of a child at play?”
Elizabeth could not even attempt a laugh.
“Did he truly seem upset by our brother’s presence?” Jane’s brow furrowed, her tone shifting from curiosity to concern.
“No, Jane. It was not that,” Elizabeth replied. She opened her mouth to say more, to unburden herself of the fear that had gripped her chest since that very moment. But she could not confide in Jane.
How could she confess the truth? That Thomas was not just their brother, but a child born of secrecy and scandal? That her family’s future hung by a thread spun from half-truths and forged papers?
“I am certain I imagined everything,” she murmured instead.
Jane studied her a moment longer, but did not press. She kissed her sister’s forehead and left, soft as a whisper.
Later, Hill brought up a tray. Elizabeth managed a few bites of bread and stew, but her appetite fled her entirely. When the maid returned to collect the tray, Elizabeth offered a weak smile and nothing more. As the house fell silent and the candles burned low, she tossed restlessly in her bed.
Sleep would not come.
Finally, unable to bear the weight of uncertainty alone, Elizabeth rose. She wrapped her dressing gown about her and stepped into the dark corridor. A sliver of light glowed beneath the master suite door. Summoning her courage, she crossed the hall and knocked lightly.
“Come in,” came her father’s voice.
Inside, Mr Bennet sat by the fire, spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, a book in his lap. He looked up and blinked in surprise.
“Why, Lizzy! I thought you were abed and sound asleep. Come, join me.”
She took the seat beside him, the warmth of the hearth doing little to ease the chill that had settled into her bones.
“You look as though you have the weight of the world upon your shoulders,” he observed, his tone gentler than usual. “Tell me, what has occurred to put you in such a state?”
She told him everything—every look, every flicker of recognition in Mr Darcy’s face.
“Papa, it was as if he knew Tommy—like he recognised him! Is it possible—”
“Do not invite trouble,” Mr Bennet said sharply.
She fell silent.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “I can see why you might think there is cause for concern. But we have enough evidence to settle any questions. Do nothing to create suspicion. It is vital that you treat Mr Darcy the same as before he met your brother. You must give him nothing of which to be suspicious.”
“I know, Papa,” she said softly, standing. But her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “How can you be so sanguine about the situation? Does the burden of this secret not gnaw at you constantly? How can you pretend as though nothing is amiss?” A sob escaped her. “If only I was as strong as you.”
Mr Bennet did not reply.
Elizabeth turned and slipped from the room, back into the darkened corridor. She returned to her chamber and lay awake for hours, watching shadows shift across the ceiling, haunted by the thought of what might come.
When she finally slept, it was uneasy. And when she awoke, her soul felt heavier than before.
The scent of fresh bread and warm tea drifted through the breakfast room, mingling with the gentle clink of cutlery and china. Morning sunlight spilled in through the tall windows, gilding the edges of the tablecloth and bathing the room in a deceptive calm.
Elizabeth sat in her usual seat, a slice of buttered toast cooling on her plate, untouched.
Her fingers curled around her teacup, but she made no move to raise it.
Around her, the Bennet household carried on with the usual morning bustle—Kitty and Lydia whispering and giggling over something, Mary nose-deep in a volume of poetry even as she sipped her tea, Jane murmuring a gentle rebuke to Lydia about her posture.
Miss Lane resumed Jane's reminder as she returned from upstairs, sewing basket in hand.
Across from her sat Tommy, his legs swinging beneath his chair, his little hands clutching a jam-smeared crust with great enthusiasm. Strawberry preserves painted his mouth in a messy grin, and he hummed to himself between bites, utterly content in his small, boyish world.
Elizabeth watched him, her heart aching with a tenderness so fierce it stole her breath.
Would he hate them one day? Would the sweetness in his gaze vanish if he learned the truth? And would he feel betrayed? Certainly not unwanted. They loved Tommy desperately. But a child born in secrecy, raised in deception—what future could such a beginning yield?
She swallowed hard and reached for her tea, forcing her hand to remain steady.
“You are very quiet this morning, Lizzy,” Jane observed gently, her voice soft enough not to draw the others’ attention.
Elizabeth managed a smile. “I did not sleep well,” she replied truthfully. “It lingers with me.”
Jane reached across the table to squeeze her hand, her eyes full of concern. Elizabeth offered a reassuring squeeze in return, but her gaze drifted back to Tommy.
What if Mr Collins came and suspected the truth?
What if he took offense at their years of deceit and brought attention to the situation?
It would be humiliating…perhaps even ruinous.
The entail might be enforced retroactively.
Could the estate be stripped from them? Would Tommy be sent away—declared illegitimate and cast aside like a mistake?
No, she would not allow it.
Her eyes stung, but she blinked rapidly and took a deep breath.
Tommy caught her looking and gave her a toothy grin, waving his crust at her like a sword. “I am a knight, Lizzy! See?”
She laughed softly, despite the knot in her chest. “Indeed, Sir Thomas the Brave. Defender of jam and toast.”
He beamed at her, and Elizabeth felt something shift in her chest—something deep and immovable. She would protect him. No matter what it cost her. He was her brother in every way that mattered. He was innocent. Joyful. Pure.
A firm certainty settled in her chest. He was worth every lie they had told. And he was worth every truth she might someday have to reveal.
She forced herself to eat a bite of toast and nodded along as Jane asked a question about the day’s errands, but her thoughts remained half a world away, already turning over plans and possibilities. If their secret was ever uncovered, she would not let Tommy suffer for it.
He would not face this world alone. Not whilst she still had breath to defend him.