Chapter Sixteen
Darcy brooded for two days. Miss Bingley’s attempts to engage him in conversation were unsuccessful.
If he were honest, he had likely been abominably rude and had completely ignored her on more than one occasion.
Such was his preoccupation, for the sight of that child in the clearing haunted him relentlessly, intruding upon his thoughts whether he sat at his writing desk or stood at the window, staring blankly across the lawns of Netherfield.
The child had to have Fitzwilliam blood.
Darcy would wager Pemberley against the fact, so certain was he.
The resemblance was too strong—the shape of the boy’s brow, the stubborn tilt of his chin, the eyes that had looked up at Darcy with the same solemn, clear gaze he had seen countless times before in his family.
Fitzwilliam’s? His estate was not far from here.
Perhaps they had formed an acquaintance during a posting, or some social call in Hertfordshire.
Could his cousin and one of the Bennet sisters…
No, certainly not. It was preposterous even to contemplate.
Richard was not that sort of gentleman. He was honourable to a fault—just like Darcy.
They had both learned at his father’s knee the cost of carelessness and the value of duty.
Yet the memory of the child’s face refused to leave him.
Little Thomas Bennet looked too much like family.
Darcy raked a hand through his hair, pacing before the hearth.
If not Richard, then… A wild thought took root, one he had pushed away repeatedly, only for it to return with greater persistence each time.
Had the maid at Rosings Park not mentioned, in hushed tones, that Anne might have been in a delicate condition when she left Rosings Park so suddenly?
The whispers he had dismissed as idle gossip now clawed at him, demanding attention. Could the boy be Anne’s child?
No. Darcy clenched his jaw. The Bennets were respectable people, as far as he could tell, despite their modest means and country manners.
They would not attempt to pass another’s child off as the heir to Longbourn, not even for the sake of securing the estate.
Yet he could not dismiss the doubts that wormed their way into his mind, relentless and insidious.
He had only met the family a handful of times, exchanged pleasantries in drawing rooms and at assemblies.
Could he truly say he knew them well enough to vouch for their integrity in this matter?
What had Miss Bingley said of the family, with that sharp-edged delight she took in the misfortune of others?
Mrs Bennet had died in childbirth, along with her son’s twin.
The birth of a son had secured Longbourn’s future just in time.
How that harpy managed to find such details so swiftly upon their arrival in Hertfordshire, he knew not, but the timing was too convenient, too neatly tied to the boy’s existence.
Longbourn’s entail meant a son was vital.
With five unmarried daughters, Mr Bennet would understandably be worried about the state of his affairs and their welfare after his death.
Would that worry be enough to risk perpetuating a fraud against a rightful heir to the estate?
Darcy’s sense of justice warred with his growing unease.
If the child was not the rightful heir, if a deception had been enacted to secure the estate, what was his responsibility?
Was it his duty to intervene, to protect the interests of the rightful heir, whoever that might be?
Yet another thought, quiet and unsettling, whispered in his mind.
The man might have married again, Darcy reasoned.
Since he did not, does that not indicate he had no need—nor any wish to take another wife?
Perhaps Mr Bennet had accepted the situation with quiet desperation, doing what he believed necessary to protect his daughters. Was that truly so unforgivable?
He hardly knew what to think. I need more information. His mind turned over the possibilities again and again, seeking clarity in a tangle of doubts and half-truths.
Darcy was forced to admit defeat for the time being.
There was no way forward without more certainty, and he could not allow himself to act on mere suspicion.
The anniversary of Anne’s disappearance had reopened the old wound in his chest. He closed his eyes, pressing a hand to the bridge of his nose.
Mayhap he could put it aside, at least for the night.
A letter to Richard could not go amiss, but another hesitation caught him.
Richard was to come to Netherfield soon.
It would be better to discuss it in person, to look into his cousin’s eyes and measure his reaction.
Richard would not mock Darcy’s suspicions if faced with the lad.
If the truth was as Darcy feared, then they would know what must be done.
And if it was nothing but shadows and resemblance, they could leave it in the past, where so many other sorrows lay buried.
He looked into the flames, the crackle and hiss a quiet backdrop to his restless thoughts. For now, he would wait. But the image of that child’s solemn eyes would not soon leave him.
The next morning dawned grey and cool, the lingering mist softening the lines of the Netherfield lawns.
After completing estate business, Darcy left the house, intending to meet Bingley at the stables.
He waited in the stable yard, his mount stamping impatiently.
Bingley strode out moments later, a bright grin on his face despite the weather.
“Caroline has decided she will remain behind,” Bingley said lightly as he adjusted his gloves. “She claims she has correspondence to which she must attend.”
Darcy arched a brow. “Correspondence or embroidery?”
Bingley’s grin widened. “Likely both.” His expression turned sheepish as he glanced towards the house. “She was not pleased when I mentioned we would ride out to Longbourn.”
“Your sisters’ disapproval has been evident since your first visit,” Darcy observed, mounting his horse. “They have made no effort to disguise it.”
Bingley swung up beside him with the easy grace of a practised rider. “It would not matter whom I chose. If Caroline and Louisa did not select the lady themselves, they would object.” He turned to Darcy, eyes earnest. “But Jane—Miss Bennet—is worth it, you know.”
“She is,” Darcy agreed.
“She is an angel,” Bingley continued, his voice warm. “So gentle, so kind. And truly, she is a step above what might be expected for the son of a tradesman’s family. Modest dowry aside, she is the daughter of a gentleman.”
Darcy inclined his head, acknowledging the truth in Bingley’s words. “She is well-bred and gracious. And it is clear she cares for you.”
Bingley blinked. “Do you think so? She is always so serene. I can hardly tell what she is thinking.”
Darcy gave a rare huff of amusement. “Bingley, are you blind? She glows whenever you enter the room. I have seen her eyes light the moment you speak her name.”
Bingley’s expression softened, his gaze turning thoughtful as they rode along the lane, the trees arching overhead in a golden canopy of autumn leaves.
“Do you truly believe so? Forgive me. I merely suffer with self-doubt. Why would she want me? A woman of her perfection could command an earl or another peer.”
“I would not say it if it were not true.” Darcy glanced at his friend, seeing the hope there, the quiet yearning. “She does not display her affections in the effusive manner you are accustomed to seeing in society, but her regard is evident to anyone who cares to look.”
Bingley let out a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing as he smiled, a genuine, joyful smile that lifted the corners of his eyes. “Thank you, Darcy. I—I needed to hear that.”
The conversation turned to lighter matters as they continued down the lane, the horses’ hooves muffled against the damp earth.
But beneath the surface, Darcy felt the undercurrent of change.
Bingley’s affection for Miss Bennet was deepening, solidifying into something that would soon be irrevocable.
And as they approached Longbourn’s gate, Darcy found himself strangely grateful that Bingley’s affections were returned with such quiet sincerity.
For in a world where so many alliances were made for advantage and status, there was something reassuring in seeing two people find genuine regard for one another.
They dismounted, handing their reins to a waiting stable boy, and walked towards the house.
Darcy drew in a deep breath, steeling himself.
He had other matters weighing on his mind—questions that would not leave him—but for Bingley’s sake, he would set them aside for now.
Today, he would watch, and he would listen, and perhaps find some measure of peace in the quiet certainty of his friend’s happiness. And maybe find answers of my own.
Darcy hoped to catch another glimpse of the boy whilst they were calling upon the ladies.
It was an urgent feeling, a need to see that he had not imagined the other day.
As Bingley rang the bell, Darcy fidgeted with his gloves, his impatience struggling to break forth.
After what seemed an interminable amount of time, the butler, Mr Hill, opened the door and allowed them inside.
They handed off their things and made their way to the back parlour. It was a pleasant room and perfectly suited for the autumn and winter months. The windows were full west, which meant the occupants could take advantage of the sun’s warmth for longer during the day.
The ladies rose when they entered, and Miss Bennet went to Bingley’s side. He kissed the lady’s hand, and she invited them to sit.