Chapter Twenty-Eight
The chance to steal Darcy’s lady was only part of Wickham’s purpose.
A deeper, darker suspicion haunted him—one that had taken root the moment he saw the little boy in Meryton with two of his sisters just the day before.
He had watched the child only briefly, but something about the curve of the chin, the eyes…
it had struck a nerve. More than that—it had struck a memory.
His curiosity needed satisfying.
Wickham began loitering near Longbourn during odd hours—after militia drills had ended, when the estate was quiet and unlikely to host visitors. He kept to the edges of the property, skirting hedgerows and walls, appearing as nothing more than a harmless wanderer admiring the countryside.
One evening, he followed the low stone wall that bordered the estate until it gave way to a well-kept hedge.
Through the branches, Longbourn came into view—its facade peaceful in the fading light.
He paused, noting the stables, a carriage house, and a scattering of outbuildings.
A groom led a sleek bay to pasture, and a maid crossed the yard with a basket balanced on her hip.
He watched her sway for a moment—tempted, but not distracted.
There were more important things to learn.
At the far edge of the property, a modest churchyard began. Its chapel, a simple red-brick structure, bore stained-glass windows that caught the last golden streaks of the afternoon sun. Wickham stepped carefully over a wrought-iron fence, boots crunching softly against gravel and dried leaves.
He wandered through the headstones—older ones first, their inscriptions weathered and difficult to read.
As he moved farther in, the names and dates became clearer, the stones newer.
The name Bennet appeared often, etched in limestone in various forms—generations of the family resting on this sacred ground.
Then he saw it.
A large, polished stone stood apart from the others—well-tended, clearly important. He stepped closer and read:
Sacred to the Memory of Mrs Frances Bennet,
Beloved Wife of Thomas Bennet, Esq.,
who departed this life in childbirth on the 13th of September, 1806, aged 38 years.
Also of her Infant Son, stillborn the same day.
In life united, in death not parted— They sleep in peace until the resurrection morn.
Wickham’s breath caught. He blinked, scarcely able to process the implications before a sudden tap on his shoulder jolted him out of his thoughts. He spun around, every nerve alert.
A clergyman stood there, smiling kindly. “May I help you?” he asked. “I am Mr Johnson.”
Wickham exhaled slowly, adjusting his expression into one of cordial charm. “Wickham,” he said, offering a curt nod. “I recently joined the militia.”
“Yes, I gathered that from your red coat. Are you exploring our lovely area?”
“Hertfordshire is quite beautiful—what I’ve seen of it, at least. I was taking a walk and came across your churchyard. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all,” Mr Johnson replied. “This is sacred ground. All are welcome.”
Wickham turned back to the gravestone, his brow furrowed. “A sad thing. Mrs Bennet and her child…”
“Yes.” The clergyman’s face grew solemn. “A very great loss. She was beloved here—gracious, spirited, a pillar in our parish. Her death in childbirth shook us all. That her son died too… tragic. Though her other son survived.”
Wickham’s eyes narrowed. “Other son?”
“She bore twins. Only one lived. That is young Thomas—the boy who will inherit Longbourn one day.”
Twins.
The word rang in his head like a bell. Of course. Twins. One dead, one alive. How very convenient for a family on the brink of losing their estate to entailment. A tidy explanation—too tidy.
His gaze lingered on the gravestone, suspicion solidifying into near-certainty. “Twins are rare. A miracle, really, that one survived.”
The clergyman nodded, sighing wistfully.
“Yes, the Lord giveth and taketh away. I’ve only ever seen one such case where mother and both children survived.
That same week…” He paused. “There was a carriage accident. Just down the road. Claimed three lives. We never did learn their identities. Mr Bennet was kind enough to arrange their burial here.”
Wickham’s pulse surged.
He swallowed his reaction, masking his rising triumph. “Will you show me?” he asked evenly.
Mr Johnson appeared pleased at the request and beckoned him along. “This way.”
They walked towards the rear of the churchyard, where the grass was longer, and the trees cast longer shadows. Tucked beneath the wide arms of a now-leafless ash tree stood three modest markers.
Wickham stepped closer. The stones read:
John, Coachman.
James, Footman.
A Lady.
So there it was. Anne de Bourgh, reduced to anonymity and buried in a pauper’s grave.
Oh, how Lady Catherine would weep, scream, and gnash her teeth if she knew.
A slow, cruel smile tugged at the corners of Wickham’s mouth.
He could almost hear the dowager’s shrieking fury in his mind, and he reveled in it.
But beyond the satisfaction, there was a revelation.
The timeline, the proximity. Mrs Bennet’s son had supposedly died, and a child of unknown origin had been quietly raised in his place.
His child, perhaps. The girl—Elizabeth Bennet—had carried a baby that day.
He had assumed the child was dead, abandoning him like the rest of his mistakes.
But what if the Bennets had seen an opportunity?
What if they had claimed the boy, raised him, disguised the truth?
What of the midwife? Surely she had known. But silence could be bought—or buried.
His eyes narrowed in grim determination. “Thank you for showing me, Mr Johnson,” he said smoothly.
The parson nodded, offered a polite farewell, and returned to the chapel.
Wickham left the graveyard with long, purposeful strides, his thoughts a flurry of dark possibilities. He now had leverage. Not only over Darcy—but over the Bennets, over Longbourn itself. He knew something no one else seemed to suspect. And he would use it.
But first… he needed to see the boy. His boy. He needed to be absolutely certain.
“Wickham! There you are, man! Come, we have saved you a seat.” Denny’s voice rang out over the clamor of the inn’s common room, drawing Wickham’s attention as he stepped through the door.
The soldier waved broadly, gesturing to a table where three officers sat clustered over mugs of ale and half-eaten plates.
Wickham forced a smile and made his way over, though every part of him wished to retreat to his quarters and brood in solitude.
His mind was a storm of revelations and suspicions, and the noise and heat of the room grated against his frayed nerves.
But appearances had to be maintained. He could not afford to seem distant, not now—not when familiarity and camaraderie might later yield him favours and information.
Denny pulled out a chair, and Wickham sank into it with a lazy air, the picture of ease.
“Denny, well met. And Carter, Sanderson, how do you do?” he said smoothly, his smile a mask of practised charm. “You all look as though you are celebrating. What is the occasion?”
“Besides the rain?” Sanderson chuckled, nodding towards the window. “Did you see the clouds? It will pour buckets tonight. Maybe the colonel will cancel morning drills.”
“Ha!” Carter scoffed, taking a deep swig from his mug.
“You are young, Sanderson, and far too hopeful. Colonel Forster would march us into a hurricane if it pleased him. No, Wickham,” he added, turning to their newest companion with a grin, “we’re celebrating something far more pleasant than the weather.
Our good colonel has received an invitation—to a ball. ”
Wickham raised an eyebrow. “A ball?” he repeated, feigning just the right note of casual interest.
“At Netherfield Park, no less,” Denny confirmed, lifting his glass. “On the twenty-sixth. All the officers have been invited. Full evening affair. Music, dancing, the prettiest ladies in Hertfordshire—all under one roof. What say you to that?”
A ripple of genuine pleasure passed through Wickham. His expression warmed, and he leaned back in his chair with the languid grace of a man perfectly at ease. “I say,” he drawled, “that is a very fine prospect indeed. Are you a fair dancer, Denny? What of you, Carter? Sanderson?”
The men chuckled, the conversation lightening.
“We have had enough practise to keep from embarrassing ourselves,” Denny admitted with a grin. “And you? With your reputation, I imagine you’re the finest dancer in the room.”
Wickham’s smile widened. “One does one’s best. After all,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “how else is a poor soldier to woo a lady if not through the quadrille?”
The table erupted in laughter and knowing jests, but Wickham’s mind was already straying. Their words blurred together as he sipped from a proffered tankard and turned his gaze towards the hearth, watching the flicker of firelight dance across the tavern walls.
A ball at Netherfield. An elegant gathering teeming with opportunity and danger in equal measure.
The thought of Miss Elizabeth, radiant in candlelight and silk, stirred something primal in him—a mingling of desire and ambition.
She had resisted him at Mrs Philips’s card party, but the war was not lost. A dance.
A single, intimate dance, with the music spinning around them and Darcy forced to watch—yes, that could change everything.
Yet... the thought of Darcy and that blasted cousin of his, Fitzwilliam, stirred unease. Both men were sharp-eyed and suspicious. If they learned what Wickham suspected—if they already knew—then appearing at the ball could be a mistake.
Still, he could not show fear.