Chapter Twenty-Nine
The rain had not stopped for days. From her window seat, Elizabeth Bennet watched the droplets trickle down the panes in winding paths, their rhythm oddly soothing.
The countryside beyond was misted and grey, the trees sagging with the weight of water.
The drawing room was warm, a fire crackling in the hearth, and Jane sat at her embroidery with a faint, contented smile on her face.
Elizabeth sighed and looked away.
“You have been gazing out that window all morning, Lizzy,” Jane said without looking up.
Elizabeth’s lips curled into a half-smile. “Have I? I hardly noticed.”
“Mm.” Jane’s eyes twinkled. “And have you been hoping to see something—or someone—in particular galloping through the rain?”
Elizabeth turned, feigning shock. “Jane Bennet, what a scandalous suggestion.”
Jane lifted her brow. “You do not deny it.”
“There is nothing to deny. Mr Darcy is far too sensible to go riding in weather like this.”
“True,” Jane said, threading her needle with deliberate calm. “But you hoped he might.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms, her expression thoughtful. “It has been three days. I rather miss him.”
Jane glanced up. “His attentions have become quite…pronounced.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed, but teased in return. “His cousin is delightful—such a contrast to Mr Darcy. I like him immensely.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam has charm,” Jane agreed. “But not enough to rival Mr Darcy, I think.”
Elizabeth gave her a mock glare. “If you continue in this manner, I may be forced to find fault with your Mr Bingley.”
Jane laughed, a rare bright sound in the gloom of the day. “Touché.”
At that moment, the rain tapered to a misty drizzle. A shaft of light pierced the clouds, painting a silver line along the horizon.
“There!” Jane stood and pointed. “Go stretch your legs before the rain changes its mind. But for heaven’s sake, stay out of the mud.”
Elizabeth did not need further encouragement.
She retrieved her shawl and bonnet and slipped out into the soft, wet air, the earth damp beneath her walking boots but firm enough.
She walked beyond the gardens and down the lane, enjoying the smell of rain-soaked leaves and rich soil.
The breeze stirred, cool and refreshing.
It was only after she rounded a bend in the lane that she saw him.
“Miss Bennet!” George Wickham stood beneath a large oak, his red coat darkened slightly from dampness. His hat was in his hand, his smile broad.
“Mr Wickham.” Elizabeth’s steps slowed.
“Fortune favours me today.” He approached with a graceful bow. “The sun breaks through at last, and I encounter the loveliest sight Hertfordshire has to offer.”
Elizabeth laughed, but cautiously. “Sir, you are too kind. What brings you so far from Meryton? This is not your usual patrol route, I imagine.”
“Ah,” he said with a touch of drama, “I am but a humble soldier at the mercy of my boots and my whims. A wanderer in search of clearer skies.”
“I see. And did you find them?”
“In part.” He looked at her, dark eyes gleaming. “The clouds parted only when you appeared.” He impatiently brushed at a stray lock of hair that insisted on falling across his forehead.
Elizabeth shifted. There was something familiar about his gaze, but she could not quite place it. “I have seen you at several gatherings recently, Mr Wickham, yet we’ve had little chance to speak.”
“Too little,” he agreed. “Which is why I am grateful for this unexpected opportunity.”
She inclined her head politely, but her instincts stirred. Something in his gaze was too intent, too knowing.
“And how do you find your time here in Hertfordshire?” she asked lightly.
“Pleasant. The society is generous. And the women…” He paused. “Enchanting.”
She did not answer.
“I have watched you,” he said. “You are cleverer than most, Miss Bennet. And certainly, more beautiful.”
“I am flattered, Mr Wickham, but you must know I am engaged in a courtship.”
“Are you?” he asked, undeterred. “Who is the fortunate gentleman?”
“Mr Darcy. He has been very kind. It is a recent occurrence—our courtship becoming official.” She smiled thinly.
“I should have guessed.” Wickham’s smile faded into something quieter. “Wealthy men always have the gift of acquiring things that others—less fortunate men—could only dream of.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “Are you implying something, sir?”
He sighed. “Only that I should have spoken to you sooner. But even now, I cannot be silent. You are the kind of woman a man remembers.”
“I am honoured, Mr Wickham, but I must again remind you—”
“—that you are courting another.” He gave a theatrical shrug. “But what is courtship, Miss Bennet, if not the testing of hearts? Until vows are spoken, there is always a chance.”
Her discomfort sharpened. “You presume a great deal.”
“Only that which I feel,” he said. “And I am a man who follows his instincts.”
She stepped back. “The rain is returning. I must go.”
He bowed low. “Then allow me to say—until we meet again.”
Elizabeth walked away quickly, the first drops falling as she turned the corner. Her mind swirled. What had Mr Wickham truly meant by his words? Was it simply misplaced attraction—or something more?
By the time she reached Longbourn, her boots were muddy and her shawl damp at the edges. She slipped through the back door and climbed the stairs, pausing only when Hill, the housekeeper, called out.
“Miss Elizabeth—this was left for you.” She handed over a folded piece of paper.
“No messenger?”
Hill shook her head. “It was slipped under the front door.”
A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the rain. Slipped. Quietly. Deliberately. Frowning, Elizabeth took it to her room and closed the door. The paper was plain, with no seal or signature. She unfolded it slowly, her fingers stiff, as though already bracing for harm.
A single sentence greeted her:
“I know your secret.” There was no greeting. No name. No threat—because none was needed.
Below it was a sketch in charcoal—a child, small and smiling, with his hair flopped across his forehead in a familiar golden wave.
Her breath caught. The paper trembled in her hands. Her knees went weak, and she sank to the edge of her bed. Tommy. Someone knew. Not suspected. Not guessed. Knew.
Elizabeth stood frozen, the note still trembling in her fingers. Her pulse thundered in her ears, each beat a rising drum of panic. Someone knew. And if one person knows, how long before others did?
Without thought, she bolted from her room, the paper clenched in her hand. Her feet carried her down the hall and towards the one place she instinctively turned in moments of crisis—her father’s study. If this was real—if this was the beginning of exposure—then it could not be borne alone.
She rapped once—sharply—and then opened the door before he could respond.
“Papa—” Her voice cracked. “I must speak with you.” Before this destroys everything.
Mr Bennet, seated at his desk with a book in one hand and a glass of port in the other, looked up in mild surprise. “Lizzy?” His eyes flicked to her pale face, then the crumpled paper in her hand. He set the port aside. “Come in, child. What is it?”
She shut the door and crossed to him, holding the note out with a trembling hand. “This was left for me. At the front door. Hill found it.” Someone walked up to our house. Someone bold enough to taunt us.
Mr Bennet took it without comment, unfolding it with slow precision. His brows drew together as he read. The sketch caught his attention next. A long silence followed. Too long. He sees it. He understands.
“Well,” he finally said, folding the paper once more and laying it flat on his desk. “That is rather troubling.”
Elizabeth stood rigid, her hands clenched at her sides. “Someone knows, Papa. Someone knows the truth about Tommy.” Say it plainly. Do not soften it. Do not pretend this is small.
He met her gaze then, his expression carefully neutral. “Knows, perhaps. But proof is another matter. We were careful.”
Her throat tightened painfully. Careful. Careful enough to survive—until now. “Not careful enough,” she whispered. “Who could have done this? And why now?” And what will they demand?
“Timing is rarely coincidental, my dear. But perhaps someone merely hopes to frighten us.”
“They have succeeded.” Elizabeth’s voice broke. “What do we do?”
Mr Bennet steepled his fingers, his brow furrowing in thought.
“There is nothing they can do with a drawing and a veiled threat. Let them whisper. No one can prove anything, and if we behave as though we have nothing to hide, then there is no scandal to be had.” He leaned back in his chair, sighing.
“Still… perhaps I should encourage Mr Collins to act sooner. The longer Mary is in a courtship, the more opportunity there is for interference. If he proposed—if she accepted—it might offer some protection.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “You would have Mary marry that man just to protect the family?”
“I would have one daughter comfortably situated so that, if the worst occurs, not all is lost.” He fixed her with a piercing gaze.
“You must understand, Elizabeth—only three people know the truth of Tommy’s origin.
One of them is in the Americas. The other two are here in this house.
That secret has survived for more than five years.
We must trust it to survive a little longer. ”
Elizabeth said nothing.
“Now.” He stood and crossed to her, placing a hand on her shoulder and handing her the note. “Go and burn that. Tell no one else. Panic serves no one.”
She nodded, mute. Mr Bennet gave her a faint smile—reassuring, calm.
But as she stepped through the door and gently pulled it closed behind her, she turned back just enough to glimpse her father’s face again—stripped of pretense.
His features were tense, his lips drawn thin, the furrow between his brows deepened. He was more troubled than he let on.
Her stomach churned.