Chapter Thirty-Three
The walk back to Longbourn from Oakham Mount was strangely silent.
The urgency of their purpose muted any inclination for small talk, and Darcy kept her close, his hand occasionally brushing against hers as if to remind her he was there—that she was not alone in this.
The autumn wind had picked up, sweeping through the trees with a restless murmur that echoed her own unsettled thoughts.
As they approached the house, Elizabeth could see the flicker of lamplight in the parlour window.
Through the glass, she caught sight of Jane and Mr Bingley sitting together, their heads bent in quiet conversation whilst Mary read aloud from a book, her voice steady.
The scene was peaceful, untouched by the storm Elizabeth carried in her chest.
Darcy touched her elbow lightly. “This way,” he said in a low voice, guiding her around to the side door. They slipped inside unnoticed, moving softly down the hallway towards her father’s study.
Elizabeth paused at the door, her heart pounding. Darcy glanced at her and offered a slight nod, his expression calm but resolute. Drawing a breath, she knocked once and opened the door.
Mr Bennet looked up from his reading spectacles, seated comfortably behind his desk, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Ah, here they are,” he said cheerfully. “Have you come to make an official declaration? Shall I summon Hill to fetch her smelling salts?”
Elizabeth flushed crimson, momentarily speechless. She glanced at Mr Darcy, whose serious expression did not waver.
“I wish the nature of our call were as joyful as you suggest, sir,” he said gravely. “But I am afraid it is not.”
Mr Bennet’s smile faded. He leaned forwards, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “I see. Close the door, Darcy.”
The heavy oak door groaned shut as Darcy obeyed. Elizabeth felt the finality of the sound in her bones. She followed him to the two chairs across from her father’s desk, and they sat side by side.
Her father looked between them, concern etched into the lines of his face. “Tell me.”
Elizabeth began, her voice trembling only slightly. “It is Wickham, Papa. He has threatened to expose the truth about Tommy… unless we meet his demands.”
Mr Bennet stiffened in his chair. “Elizabeth! You have confided in Mr. Darcy?”
“I have. He already suspected.” As quickly as she could, she repeated the conversation from earlier.
Mr Bennet sat back, a serious expression on his face. “We will return to that topic later. But Wickham—what demands?”
“He wants ten thousand pounds,” Darcy said flatly. “And a letter from Miss Elizabeth ending our courtship.”
Mr Bennet went pale. “That snake,” he muttered. “That wicked, shameless—” He broke off, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I suppose I should not be surprised. Anyone who is desperate would take advantage of the situation.”
“It is worse than that,” Darcy continued. “I believe I know the child’s true parentage. I believe he is the son of my cousin—Anne de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth watched her father’s reaction with growing unease. He blinked slowly, the colour draining entirely from his face.
“You believe this child is the heir to Rosings?” he asked weakly.
“I believe he is a Fitzwilliam,” Darcy said carefully. “I do not know whether Lady Catherine knows, or if it was kept from her. But Wickham… he knows. And he intends to use that knowledge to ruin you.”
Mr Bennet was silent for a long time. Then he looked at Elizabeth, pain flickering in his eyes. “And what do you expect me to do, Lizzy? Shall we run? Confess all? Send the child away?”
Elizabeth’s voice was barely a whisper. “No, Papa. But we cannot sit idly by. Wickham will not stop.”
Mr Bennet looked at Darcy. “And what would you have us do?”
Darcy’s expression hardened, his voice firm and steady.
“We will beat him at his own game. When he names the meeting place for the money, we will be there. But he will not find you or your daughter. He will find me. I hold debts of his—enough to see him imprisoned. Once he is taken into custody, his threats will hold no power.”
Elizabeth felt something release inside her. The tightness in her chest, the icy grip of fear—it eased. She turned to look at Darcy, her eyes glistening. His jaw was tight, his hands clasped together, but there was no hesitation in his voice. He meant every word.
Mr Bennet stared at him for a long moment. “Why?” he asked finally. “Why are you helping us? We deceived you. Elizabeth deceived you.”
Darcy turned his gaze to her, and the intensity of his look made her breath catch. He then looked back at her father.
“Because,” he said softly, “a man can do no less for the woman he loves.”
Elizabeth’s heart swelled at his words. There was no hesitation, no flattery in his tone—only truth. Her father studied him with new eyes, his expression unreadable.
“And what then?” Mr Bennet asked. “What happens after Wickham is gone?”
Darcy’s voice gentled. “We will speak of that when the time comes. But my intentions, sir, are entirely honourable.”
Mr Bennet leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, there was a subtle shift in his demeanor. “Very well,” he said. “We shall do as you suggest.”
Mr Darcy leaned forwards, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes steady on Mr Bennet. “Is there any way to know for certain? Some physical proof that might confirm our suspicions about the child’s parentage?”
Elizabeth glanced instinctively at her father. Their eyes met. For a moment, the air was still between them.
“The valise,” Mr Bennet said softly.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She sat straighter. “I—I have it.”
Both men turned to her in surprise.
She stood quickly. “I found it in the attic a few weeks ago.
It was tucked in a trunk at the far—buried and difficult to reach.
I only went looking for it after…well, after Darcy's reaction to Tommy unsettled me. And when I hid it beneath my bed, I could not bring myself to tell anyone. I did not know what was inside and was curious. After my initial investigation, Jane had her megrim at Netherfield Park. I never finished going through the contents. I think I was afraid of what it might mean.” Her voice faltered. “It has been under my bed since.”
Mr Bennet opened his mouth as if to protest but then closed it again, merely nodding. Darcy said nothing at all—just watched her with calm attentiveness.
“I will fetch it now,” she whispered, already moving towards the door.
Her slippers barely made a sound as she crossed the floor and hurried up the stairs.
A sick mix of dread and anticipation coiled in her belly.
She knelt down and reached far under her bed until her hand closed over the handle.
There it was—tucked away like a forgotten secret.
She pulled it out and cradled the worn valise in her arms, surprised again by how heavy it felt, not in weight, but in consequence.
She returned to the study with a pounding heart. Darcy rose at once, crossing to take it from her.
“Yes, I recall hiding it in the attic after…after your mother's death,” Mr Bennet said morosely as he cleared space on his desk.
Elizabeth nodded. “In the old trunk Mama used for summer linens. It must have been there since that day.”
Darcy placed the valise gently on the desktop. The worn leather showed its age, the brass fittings dulled and scratched. He undid the latches with care, and the hinges creaked softly as it opened.
Inside was the faint scent of lavender, old paper, and something fainter—familiar.
Darcy’s eyes immediately landed on the brass nameplate affixed inside the lid. He leaned closer, his jaw tightening.
“‘AdB.’” He looked up. “Anne de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth drew a sharp breath. Now that Darcy had said it aloud, the truth rang loudly in her ears.
He reached inside and drew out a small woolen blanket, folded neatly. The embroidery at the corner had faded over time but was still visible: L.d. B.
Darcy’s voice dropped to a hush. “Lewis de Bourgh was Anne’s father. That is his monogram. She must have intended to name the boy after his grandfather.” He gave a low, almost incredulous chuckle. “I can see how you might think it is a T, but it is an L—L for Lewis.”
Mr Bennet studied the letters and shook his head. “We named the boy Thomas David. It just seemed to suit him.”
Darcy looked up, eyes gleaming. “David is Wickham’s middle name.”
Elizabeth’s hand tightened over the edge of the desk. It was all too strange—too coincidental. Names chosen by instinct, rooted in deeper truths none of them had known.
“I never looked closely,” Mr Bennet admitted, pushing a hand through his thinning hair. “I told myself it was better not to dig too deeply. If I did not know, I could not be blamed.” What went unsaid was how he could be blamed for not doing more.
Darcy opened the lower compartment and withdrew a small rosewood writing box.
Its velvet lining was worn, but the lock clicked open easily.
Inside, bundled in silk, lay several letters tied with a velvet ribbon and a small silver brooch with a pale green stone.
Tucked behind a bit of lining that was pulled slightly away from the side of the trunk was a worn book of poems.
“I did not see that,” Elizabeth murmured.
Darcy picked up the little book and opened it to the first page.
A name was scrawled at the top in delicate script: Anne de Bourgh.
There could be no question now.
Darcy turned another page, scanning its contents briefly before closing it again with gentle reverence. “It is hers. We have what we need.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the writing box. “Do you think you might be able to piece together the events of the journal with your knowledge?” She held up another book, offering it to him. He took it, quickly verifying his cousin's handwriting within.