Chapter Sixteen #2
“We were just about to call for tea,” she said, taking a seat next to her suitor.
Darcy glanced around for a seat, taking one as close to Miss Elizabeth as possible.
As they settled themselves, the two youngest girls vacated the room.
Another sister sat at the piano. She looked to be of an age with Elizabeth. Which sister is she? he wondered.
Longbourn’s parlour was warm with the glow of late morning light filtering through the windows, the scent of rose water and autumn air mingling as Elizabeth poured for their guests.
Jane sat near Mr Bingley, her gentle smiles and soft laughter drawing warmth into the room.
Kitty and Lydia hovered near the door for a time, whispering and glancing towards the gentlemen with curious eyes, until their governess shooed them away.
Mary eventually left the pianoforte and sat with a small book in her lap, though she watched the proceedings with quiet interest.
Elizabeth made small talk with Mr Darcy, asking after his sister, and to her mild surprise, he reciprocated, clearly surprised she had recalled that he had one, before inquiring politely about the health of the household and their impressions of the autumn weather thus far.
“It has been uncommonly mild,” Elizabeth said, setting down her cup, “though I find the leaves turning, regardless.”
“Indeed,” Mr Darcy replied. “Pemberley’s woods are a riot of colour by this time. My sister has always loved walking there during the autumn.”
Elizabeth smiled, trying to keep the conversation light, but she noted the careful reserve in Mr Darcy’s expression, as if he was weighing every word.
After a moment of silence, he asked, “And your sisters, Miss Bennet? I trust they are well? Your brother too? I trust he was not too disappointed to return indoors the other day.”
The question was innocuous, polite, but Elizabeth felt herself grow more guarded, a subtle tension drawing her shoulders back.
“They are well, I thank you. Mary—our studious sister—has been practicing the pianoforte diligently and has recently taken to studying astronomy. She feels quite accomplished in her reading and often shares her thoughts with us, especially on Sunday evenings. She sits there.” Elizabeth gestured to where her next in age sister sat.
“She is old enough to be out but prefers to wait until Jane is married before fully engaging in society.”
Mr Darcy nodded, glancing briefly towards Mary, who looked up with mild interest before returning to her book.
“Kitty and Lydia are full of energy,” Elizabeth continued, her tone carefully cheerful.
“They have been quite taken with walking to Meryton of late and visiting our Aunt Philips. Lydia has declared she will be the belle of our little town when she comes out, whilst Kitty is determined to remake a new bonnet she purchased in the village.”
A small smile touched Mr Darcy’s lips. “And Miss Bennet?” he asked, nodding towards Jane, who was deep in quiet conversation with Bingley, her cheeks faintly pink with contentment.
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “Jane is our angel. She is kindness itself, always seeing the best in everyone. She has been helping our housekeeper with the management of the household since our mother passed, and she does so with patience and grace.”
Mr Darcy watched her closely. She noted his scrutiny, but would not capitulate to his unspoken enquiry. There was one sibling conspicuously unmentioned, and she deliberately left him out of it, hoping her companion would not ask after him anymore.
“And your brother?” Mr Darcy asked carefully, keeping his tone light.
So much for that. Elizabeth stilled, her fingers tightening around her teacup for the briefest moment before she set it down. Her gaze met his, cautious yet steady. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice soft, “my mother died giving birth. I am very protective.”
There was a pause, the weight of unspoken words settling between them, but she did not elaborate, though she sensed he wished she would.
His own expression softened, a rare vulnerability flickering across his features. “I understand,” he said quietly. “My mother also died in childbirth. She passed, bringing my sister Georgiana into the world.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lightened, the guardedness in her posture easing just slightly, and for a moment, there was a shared silence between them—a recognition of loss, unspoken yet deeply felt.
“I am sorry,” she said softly.
“As am I,” he replied.
Elizabeth left out that another babe had died that same day.
Something told her Mr Darcy’s interest in Thomas was more than just a passing fancy.
Though it seemed improbable, she wondered if he somehow had a connection to the mystery lady who had died that day in the carriage accident.
If he did, well, the consequences could be detrimental.
He cannot prove anything, she reasoned as the conversation shifted to other things.
Even if Mr Darcy suspected Thomas’s origins were not what the Bennets had declared, he had no way to disprove the tale.
No matter her mental reassurances, Elizabeth’s conscience weighed heavy, and her heart ached for the deception.
Having always been an honest and forthright creature, the disguise, in which she was an active participant, made her feel tainted.
She knew her fears were likely irrational, as were her father’s, but such things were rarely rational.
What did she fear most? It was losing her brother, surely. But the fear of scandal, and her father’s fear of legal trouble also filled her with unreasonable anxiety.
The conversation moved on, Jane’s laughter breaking the quiet as she called out something teasing to Mary, but for a brief instant, Mr Darcy and Elizabeth shared a look that went beyond small talk and polite inquiry, a fleeting connection born of shared sorrow and the quiet resilience it had forged within them.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves should have soothed Darcy into quiet contemplation, but his mind would not be still.
The fields of Hertfordshire slipped past in blurred shades of green and gold, yet his thoughts remained fixed on the conversation in the Longbourn parlour, on Elizabeth Bennet’s measured words and the quick flicker of guardedness in her eyes when he had asked about her brother.
She had spoken readily of her sisters, each description coloured with affection—Mary’s studious nature, Lydia and Kitty’s youthful exuberance, Jane’s quiet grace.
But when he had mentioned her brother, the hesitation had been unmistakable.
The brief tightening of her fingers on the teacup, the way her gaze had held his, steady yet defensive, before she had offered that soft, carefully chosen phrase: “Forgive me. My mother died giving birth. I am very protective.”
She had not lied. He could see the truth in her eyes, the lingering pain of that loss, a grief not unlike his own. He could not fault her for her protectiveness, nor for keeping her brother close to her heart, away from the prying curiosity of near strangers. And yet…
Darcy’s hand tightened on the reins, the leather creaking under his gloved fingers.
There was something more, something unspoken, that clung to her words like a shadow.
The boy, Thomas Bennet, had not been mentioned by name, and there had been no mention of the twin who had died alongside Mrs Bennet.
No idle details about the boy’s interests or temperament, as there had been for her sisters.
Nothing but that brief, strained sentence, offered like a shield.
Why no mention of the other child? Darcy’s mind would not release the question, no matter how he tried to reason it away.
It was possible, of course, that the grief of losing a mother and brother in childbirth would cast a long shadow over the surviving child’s life, making the family reluctant to speak of the day.
It was possible that Elizabeth’s protectiveness was simply that—a sister’s fierce love for the only brother amongst a household of sisters.
And yet, at least some of what Miss Bingley had said, however spitefully delivered, was correct.
The Bennets’ situation was precarious. The entail made a son vital to the security of the estate, and the birth of a male heir at such a critical moment could not be dismissed as mere chance.
Miss Bingley had prattled on about the Bennets’ lack of fortune, the necessity of securing their futures, the foolishness of Bingley’s attachment to Miss Bennet.
Darcy had dismissed much of her talk as the petty complaints of a woman grasping for control.
But in this, in the blunt practicality of her observation, there was a truth that Darcy could not ignore.
What lengths would a family go to in order to secure their home, their daughters’ futures, their livelihoods? He could not say.
The boy’s face rose in his mind again, solemn eyes that mirrored Georgiana’s, the stubborn tilt of a Fitzwilliam chin, the soft, unguarded laughter of a child at play that now seemed impossibly weighted with unspoken implications. Could he truly dismiss it all as a coincidence?
Bingley’s contented sigh drew Darcy’s attention. The younger man was lost in thoughts of Miss Bennet, a soft smile on his face as he gazed out at the passing countryside. Darcy envied him in that moment, envied the simplicity of his hopes, the certainty of his affections unclouded by suspicion.
Darcy leaned back, closing his eyes briefly.
His sense of duty warred with the reluctant affection that Elizabeth Bennet had begun to stir within him.
He could not ignore what he had seen, nor could he in good conscience accuse a family—her family—without certainty.
And so, he would wait, and he would watch, and he would guard his suspicions until Richard arrived.
For now, all he could do was show patience, even as the questions gnawed at the edges of his mind, and the memory of Elizabeth’s guarded eyes refused to leave him.