Chapter Twenty-Five
“Mr Darcy!”
The voice was bright and effusive—too much so for Darcy’s taste.
A familiar tone pierced the morning air, and he turned, resignation prickling at his spine, Mr Collins, round-faced and eager, greeted him.
Darcy’s brows lifted, but he masked his irritation with a polite smile.
Has he been standing here the whole time?
Darcy concluded he had been so focused on Elizabeth that he had missed the clergyman.
“Mr Collins,” he said evenly, nodding in acknowledgment. “My aunt mentioned you would be visiting Hertfordshire. I had not realised your relations lived so near to Netherfield.”
“Indeed, sir!” Mr Collins beamed, already flushed with importance. “I knew you were in the county as well, but I never imagined we would meet so fortuitously. What a happy coincidence!”
Darcy inclined his head, unsure what was required in response to such exuberance. He hoped—futilely—that the encounter would end quickly. But before he could step back or redirect the conversation, a quiet female voice addressed Mr Collins.
“You know Mr Darcy, cousin?”
It was Miss Mary Bennet who spoke, her arm looped through the clergyman’s with a quiet claim of possession. Darcy had not taken much notice of her before—solemn, bookish—but now her eyes were shining with an intensity that caught him off guard.
Mr Collins turned to her with fondness. “Indeed, Miss Mary. Mr Darcy is the nephew of my patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I had the distinct honour of dining with him on multiple occasions at Rosings Park recently.”
Darcy could not help the faint tightening of his mouth. He struggled with amusement. It seemed Mr Collins had already forgotten some of the lessons Mr Darcy had imparted.
Before Mr Collins could continue, Miss Elizabeth Bennet stepped forwards. “This is a coincidence, is it not? We were just about to show Mr Collins the shops. Would you care to join us?”
There was a flicker in her expression—a measured brightness, perhaps calculated to diffuse Mr Collins’s volume. Darcy’s eyes lingered on her face a moment too long before Bingley interjected with cheerful enthusiasm.
“Of course! I cannot imagine a better use of our time. What say you, Darcy? Fitzwilliam?”
Darcy turned to his cousin, who stood a step behind him, clearly amused by the unfolding scene.
Fitzwilliam already charmed the ladies with his characteristic charm.
“It is a pleasure to be here. I anticipate a very pleasant stay. My estate, Linden Grange, is only a few hours from here. I cannot be more pleased with Hertfordshire—it is so much more wholesome than London.”
He did not miss the way Richard’s eyes lingered a moment on Miss Elizabeth—curious, discerning. Darcy had not spoken of her, not directly, but he wondered now if his cousin had already guessed too much.
The group set off together along the bustling main street.
Mr Collins attached himself firmly to Miss Mary, speaking with great gravity about religious publishers and the importance of moral instruction in youth.
Miss Mary listened with rapt attention, hanging on every word, whilst her sisters followed behind, occasionally glancing at their cousin with varying degrees of amusement and disbelief.
Bingley naturally was at Miss Bennet's side. His face lit with unguarded admiration every time she spoke, and Darcy felt a twinge of discomfort at how easily his friend gave himself over to affection.
Darcy kept to the rear with Richard and Miss Elizabeth. Though she remained engaged in casual conversation with his cousin—smiling, teasing—he was keenly aware of her presence. Every turn of her head, every inflection of her voice, pulled at his attention like a current beneath still water.
He listened as Richard bought a small packet of candied orange peels and offered them around with a rakish grin. Miss Elizabeth laughed as she accepted one, and something in that sound lodged itself in Darcy’s chest.
He said little. He did not trust himself to speak, so uncertain was he of the state of his feelings. The morning was too fine, her smile too disarming, and his own thoughts too entangled.
Mr Collins settled some after the excitement of encountering his patroness's nephews faded. He was solicitous to Miss Mary, and Darcy wondered if the man's interest in the lady leaned towards matrimony.
Once the small purchases were complete—ribbons, sweets, a volume of Cowper for Mary—the gentlemen offered to see them home. The walk back was shorter, quieter. The afternoon sun dipped behind the hills, casting the road in golden light.
Outside Longbourn’s gate, they took their leave. Bingley promised to call soon; Richard tipped his hat with a theatrical flourish that made Mary and Miss Elizabeth smile. Darcy, as always, offered a restrained bow.
He turned with his cousin towards their waiting horses, but could not resist one last glance back. Miss Elizabeth stood at the gate, hand lightly resting on the iron latch, her face unreadable.
Darcy did not know what it meant. Only that he would be thinking of it long after they had returned to Netherfield.
“Out with it.”
The door shut with a soft thud, and Richard dropped unceremoniously into the armchair opposite Darcy.
The sitting room between their adjoining bedchambers was quiet save for the low crackle of the hearth and the rustle of pages as Darcy closed his book—though he had not truly been reading for the last quarter hour.
“I do not know what you mean,” Darcy replied stiffly, setting the book aside with deliberate care.
Richard gave a scoff. “You know precisely what I mean. Don’t play coy—it doesn’t suit you. You like Miss Elizabeth. I daresay you never took your eyes off her the entire walk through Meryton.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, tamping down the twitch of discomfort behind his brow. “You are mistaken.”
Richard only grinned, rubbing his hands together as though preparing for a celebratory toast. “Mother will be beside herself with glee. She’s been harping on about wanting one of us married before her hair turns completely grey. I suppose she will not care which of us delivers.”
“I am not courting Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said flatly, though his tone lacked conviction even to his own ears.
“But you would like to, would you not?” Richard leaned forwards with a gleam in his eyes. “Come now, Darcy. She is comely, clever, and the daughter of a gentleman. What obstacle remains?”
Darcy hesitated, jaw tightening. There were many obstacles, all tangled in memory and suspicion, and none that could be easily explained. He studied the shadows dancing across the hearthrug for a long moment before speaking.
“You will think I am mad.”
Richard’s brows lifted, his expression expectant but not mocking. “I already do. Speak anyway.”
So he did.
Darcy unfolded the entire series of doubts that had grown like thorns in his mind since his arrival in Hertfordshire—how the boy resembled someone he dared not name at first, the fragments of conversation, the subtle evasions.
How Miss Elizabeth’s tenderness towards the child had struck him not just as sisterly, but as fiercely maternal.
Or how the child’s appearance—his golden hair, the cut of his brow—had arrested him with familiarity. None of it made sense unless…
He swallowed. “If the child is not a Bennet, then they are knowingly depriving Mr Collins of his inheritance.”
Richard straightened in his chair, the warmth in his expression cooling to something more serious. “You believe that Thomas Bennet—that child—is related to the Fitzwilliam line?” His tone was more incredulous than accusatory, but still firm. “Darcy, that’s a staggering conclusion.”
“Is it?” Darcy stood, crossing the room to pour a brandy from the decanter on the sideboard.
He turned the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight.
“I considered… alternatives. A seduction of one of the Bennet daughters. Even Mrs Bennet, before her death. But your father—my uncle—has always been consumed with bloodlines and propriety. I cannot imagine you, or the Viscount, engaging in such dishonour. So I thought again.”
He turned back, his voice quieter now. “That leaves only Anne.”
Richard blinked, stunned. Darcy could see the calculations spinning behind his cousin’s eyes.
“You remember the maid,” Darcy continued. “She said Anne had not had her courses. We all suspected… but we accepted the quietness that followed as proof that nothing came of it. What if we were wrong?”
“But if the Bennets have the boy…” Richard’s voice was taut. “Where is our cousin? What could have happened to her? And how would they conceal such a thing for so long?”
Darcy did not answer at once. His heart was pounding in his chest too loudly.
“Disguise of any sort is my abhorrence,” he said at last, more to himself than to Richard.
“If I am to court Miss Elizabeth—if I am to love her—how can I do so whilst suspecting her of such a deception? What kind of man would I be if I ignored these doubts?”
Richard snorted softly and shook his head. “You are asking the wrong question, cousin. The question is not whether you can court her in spite of your doubts. It is whether those doubts matter if you already care for her.”
Darcy sat again, the weight of the evening settling across his shoulders. “I do care for her,” he admitted. “She is witty and bright. There is a fire in her spirit that is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. And her eyes…” He trailed off, a small smile betraying him. “She is perfection.”
Richard laughed and leaned back, satisfied. “There it is. I knew you were a lovesick fool. And make no mistake, cousin—we are all fools in love.”
Darcy sighed, caught between irritation and reluctant agreement.