Chapter Twenty-Seven
The drawing room at Longbourn was modest, its furnishings slightly worn, but the warmth of the household made it feel more welcoming than any of the grand salons in London.
A fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light across the carpet, and the scent of lemon polish and fresh bread lingered faintly in the air.
Laughter filtered from the hallway as feminine voices rang with excitement somewhere beyond the door, undoubtedly fussing over their unexpected but most welcome visitors.
Earlier, Mr Bennet had ushered Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam into his study for a drink and some gentlemanly discussion before they joined the ladies. Bingley, unable to resist, had gone straight to the drawing room in search of Jane.
“I must confess, sir,” Fitzwilliam had said with a grin, casting an appreciative glance about the book-lined walls, “that I envy your study. It is a rare man who can cultivate wit and wisdom in such a tranquil place. Linden Grange has but a small offering. I am not the reader my cousin is, but I hope to add to my collection.”
Mr Bennet chuckled, steepling his fingers over his waistcoat. “Ah, sir, that is merely what I tell people. In truth, I sequester myself here to escape my daughters’ chatter and—these days—my cousin’s somewhat loquacious conversation. Books are quieter companions, and far less expensive to clothe.”
Their laughter—Fitzwilliam’s warm baritone mingling with Mr Bennet’s dry mirth—had carried them companionably toward the drawing room some minutes later.
Now seated amongst the ladies, Fitzwilliam appeared freshly recovered from the shock of seeing young Tommy and entered into easy conversation with Mr Bennet once more.
It was rare for his cousin to take to someone so quickly, but then again, Mr Bennet’s ironic humour was precisely the sort Fitzwilliam relished.
Darcy sat beside Richard, his posture composed, yet inwardly he was anything but calm.
His eyes were drawn again and again to Elizabeth Bennet, seated with her embroidery, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration as she worked her needle through fine muslin.
Her lips curved faintly at something her sister said, and the sight struck him like a sudden breeze—light, refreshing, and impossible to ignore.
The drawing room’s modest comforts—the worn sofa, the cheerful fire, the murmur of domestic life—should have been unremarkable. Yet in that moment, Darcy could not have imagined a grander setting.
“Miss Bennet,” Bingley said suddenly, stepping forwards with boyish eagerness. “Might I hope for the first, the last, and the supper sets at the ball?”
The room fell quiet for a breath, all eyes turning to the pair.
Jane’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she lowered her eyes, her smile tremulous but genuine. “Yes, Mr Bingley,” she said softly. “You may.”
Lydia’s delighted shriek could be heard even through the parlour doors. Darcy nearly chuckled at the thought of the two younger ladies listening outside doors, desperate to partake of the society of which they were deprived.
Darcy looked away, giving them their moment, and steeled himself. He had waited long enough. He crossed the room and lowered himself onto the settee beside Elizabeth. Her gaze flicked to his, a teasing glint in her eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low, “might I request the honour of your first and supper sets at the ball?”
Her eyes widened slightly, and colour bloomed high on her cheeks, but she rallied with her usual wit. “Why, Mr Darcy,” she said, leaning a fraction closer, “you had best be careful. If you go about claiming the most prized sets of the evening, people might assume you are courting me.”
He met her gaze without flinching, heart hammering. “What if that is precisely what I want them to think?”
Her teasing expression faltered.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, voice gentle but firm, “I should like to know you better—not as an acquaintance, but with sincerity and purpose. Please, will you consent to a courtship? If it reaches its natural conclusion, I will be a very happy man.”
For a heartbeat, she stared at him—searching, weighing. Then, a soft smile curved her lips, her expression shifting to something far more tender.
“I accept,” she said simply. “Though I warn you, I am terribly opinionated and not at all quiet. My father calls me stubborn, too. Can you bear it?”
“I should be disappointed if you were anything but who you are,” Darcy said, the corner of his mouth lifting.
She laughed, and he thought it might be the finest sound in the world.
The conversation moved on, but his focus narrowed. There was one more task to complete, one more step that propriety—and his own sense of honour—required.
He rose and approached Mr Bennet, who had returned to his chair near the fire, now nursing a glass of port. Fitzwilliam raised a brow as Darcy passed but said nothing.
“Mr Bennet,” Darcy began, his voice composed though he felt the weight of every word, “may I request a private moment?”
Mr Bennet’s sharp eyes flicked upward. “Certainly, Mr Darcy. Shall we take a turn about the hall?”
They stepped into the corridor, the cool air a stark contrast to the cosy warmth of the drawing room. Darcy folded his hands behind his back and began.
“Sir, I have just spoken with Miss Elizabeth, and she has agreed to enter into a courtship with me. I come to you now to formally request your permission and blessing.”
Mr Bennet studied him with a long, unreadable gaze. “My daughter is dearer to me than any book in that library. If you hurt her, I shall make you regret it most eloquently.” His brow furrowed, and there was something uncertain and unfathomable in the depths of his gaze.
Darcy inclined his head solemnly. “I understand, sir. You have my word—I mean only the highest respect and the most earnest intentions.”
A beat passed. Then Mr Bennet’s mouth twitched. “Well then, I shall content myself with seeing if you can match her wit. If you can survive her tongue, you may just deserve her.”
Darcy’s lips curved. “I shall endeavour not only to survive but to thrive.”
Mr Bennet chuckled. “Go on then. You have my permission. But do not forget—Elizabeth is nobody’s fool. You will have to earn her heart every day.”
Darcy nodded, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him.
As he returned to the drawing room, Elizabeth looked up, meeting his eyes across the room.
He gave a slight nod, and her expression softened.
It would seem my heart has chosen for me, he mused.
Discovering the truth about Tommy would have to come later.
The night air at Netherfield was heavy with the scent of wood and damp soil. The house had quieted, the Bingley sisters having retired after an evening of conversation and card games, and Mr Hurst having vanished with a faint excuse about needing to “read something terribly dull” before bed.
Darcy, Bingley, and Fitzwilliam remained in the drawing room, now dimly lit with only a few candles flickering in wall sconces and the remnants of the fire glowing faintly in the grate. The conversation had drifted from horses to politics and now hovered somewhere in the realm of personal matters.
Bingley poured himself another glass of wine and gestured with the decanter. “Darcy? Fitz?”
Darcy shook his head, still nursing his first glass. Fitzwilliam accepted.
He took a sip and leaned back, stretching his legs out before him. “Charles,” he said casually, “what do you know of the Bennets’ situation? I confess I have heard only hints and pieces.”
Darcy stilled, his gaze shifting to his cousin. He could feel the tension in his spine—the subtle tightening that came whenever someone edged too close to the matter of young Thomas.
“Oh,” Bingley said, clearly unaware of any gravity, “I know a fair bit. My housekeeper heard some from theirs, and I gathered more from Miss Bennet and the Lucases. It is no secret in the neighbourhood.”
Fitzwilliam’s brows lifted. “Do tell.”
Darcy’s eyes remained fixed on the fire, but every muscle in his body had gone taut.
“Well,” Bingley began, “Mrs Bennet died in childbirth. About five years ago. Tragic thing, really. She was carrying twins—two boys. The other child did not survive the delivery, and neither did she.”
Darcy’s hand tightened slightly around the glass.
“The boy who survived—Tommy—he is a sweet child, clever, well-mannered, if a bit shy. It nearly destroyed the family, especially Mr Bennet. Apparently, he doted on his wife. The girls are terribly protective of their brother—especially Miss Elizabeth. Took on the role of mother and sister all at once.”
“I see,” Fitzwilliam said slowly. “And there was no question about the boy’s parentage? No mention of it being…odd?”
Bingley blinked. “None at all. He is the youngest Bennet, everyone says. A miracle child. Everyone recalled Mrs Bennet’s excitement at having conceived after so long. The entail over the estate was a constant worry, or so Jane tells me.”
“I can imagine,” Fitzwilliam said, glancing briefly at Darcy. “An uncertain future is a terrifying prospect.”
The pause that followed was heavy with unspoken things.
Darcy finally set his glass down and met Fitzwilliam’s gaze. His cousin’s eyes were sharp now, the easy humour of earlier replaced by thoughtful calculation.
They traded conversation for some minutes after, and then Bingley stood, stretching, and bid the others goodnight. Finally, they were alone.
“You see it now, do you not?” Darcy said quietly.
Fitzwilliam nodded. “The resemblance is uncanny. That boy looks like a Fitzwilliam.”
Darcy did not speak. He could not—not yet. But Fitzwilliam leaned forwards, elbows on knees.
“I understand your…distress now. That boy is a Fitzwilliam. I would wager my entire estate on it. He looks just like a miniature of me that my mother keeps in her room.”
“It is clear why the family would lie, is it not?”
“The entail.” Fitzwilliam’s pronouncement was solemn and serious.
Darcy finally stood and moved to the hearth, one hand braced on the mantel. He stared down into the dying coals, the flickering embers casting shadows along his jaw.
“I thought perhaps one of the girls had borne him,” he said quietly. “Or… perhaps Mrs Bennet had conceived by someone else. But the timing never sat right. And now, hearing of the twin and the death… I wonder…”
“You think he is Anne’s,” Fitz reiterated their conversation from earlier, voice pitched low.
Darcy gave a single nod.
“But how?” Fitz whispered. “How would Anne’s child end up here? In the care of a country family… as their own? Would Mr Bennet even agree to such a thing?”
“That’s the mystery,” Darcy said. “And I mean to solve it.”
Fitzwilliam stood and crossed to him. “We need to speak to someone who knows. Miss Elizabeth, perhaps. Or Mr Bennet.”
Darcy shook his head. “Not yet. Not until we have more. If I confront Elizabeth and am wrong…”
“You risk losing her,” Fitz said simply.
Darcy said nothing.
The clock on the mantel chimed the hour.
Midnight. He turned back to the fire. The mystery was no longer just a shadow at the edge of his thoughts—it was real, urgent.
And it threatened to tangle everything he cared about, most especially Elizabeth.
Suspicion was not certainty—and Darcy despised himself for how closely the two now brushed.