Chapter Thirty-Five
Darcy lingered in the far corner of the Netherfield library, standing in the shadows near a tall bookcase, feigning deep interest in a heavy folio volume.
In truth, he had read the same sentence five times without comprehension.
He was not there to read, nor to hide, but to steady himself.
The search had been called in to regroup only minutes before, driven indoors at last by failing light and falling cold.
Until then, every able man at Netherfield had been scattered across fields and lanes, hedgerows and footpaths, calling a child’s name into the gathering dusk.
Tommy had not been found. How he wished he had the right to be at Longbourn, to hold Elizabeth in his arms. He longed to comfort her and tell her everything would be well.
Elizabeth herself had never been false. In her wit, her principles, her fierce loyalty to those she loved, she was disarmingly, uncompromisingly real.
She did not cloak herself in artifice; she endured it, bore it, and suffered for it.
To punish her for a deception she did not create, but merely carried, felt not like justice—but cruelty.
Darcy closed the book quietly and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
The hours since the boy’s disappearance had passed in a blur of motion and restraint—organising parties, questioning servants and tenants, riding hard across familiar ground that now felt treacherously vast. He had not allowed himself to dwell on the implications.
Not yet. Darkness demanded pause, not surrender.
Across the corridor, Charles could be heard conferring with his steward, voices low and urgent as arrangements were made to continue the search into the night: lanterns prepared, riders assigned, messages sent to neighbouring farms. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, servants moving quietly, every door opening with cautious haste.
Netherfield had become, in a matter of hours, a place of waiting.
Darcy had just turned from the shelves when a sudden commotion broke the strained stillness. Raised voices echoed from the hall. Footsteps—hurried, uneven. Someone called for the butler. A maid exclaimed sharply in alarm. Darcy was moving before he fully registered the sound.
Then he saw him.
Mr Bennet strode through the front doors as though he had ridden without pause, his coat streaked with mud, his cravat loosened, his hair disordered by wind and haste.
His face was drawn and pale, the careful irony stripped from his expression and replaced by something raw and urgent.
He looked not merely anxious, but undone.
Darcy’s stomach turned cold.
“Mr Bennet,” he said at once, crossing the hall to meet him. “You have come from Longbourn. Is there news? Has he been found?”
The man’s lips pressed into a grim line, and then he spoke. “Wickham. He has taken Tommy.”
Darcy’s breath stopped.
“What?” The word left him hoarse and raw. Darcy felt as though the ground beneath him had tilted. A hot flash of fury and fear rose in his chest, threatening to explode. But he forced himself to stay still. To think. The boy had not wandered off. He had been taken.
Mr Bennet’s distress was evident—not the measured, wry detachment he so often wore, but a naked, gutting panic. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hands shook. The anguish in his face was not feigned. It was not about inheritance or security or estate. It was love.
The boy was truly his.
“We must act,” Darcy said, striding forwards. “Come. Let us confer with Bingley. He will gather his men. Wickham will not escape.”
They hurried down the corridor, and Darcy flung open the door to Bingley’s study. “Charles!”
Bingley looked up, startled at the intrusion. “Darcy?”
“Tommy did not wander off. He was taken,” Darcy said, voice like ice over a flame. “We have no time to lose. We must continue the search immediately.”
Bingley’s reaction was instant. He dropped the lantern in his hands and stood, shouting for his butler before the door had even closed. “Marshall! Send for the grooms! Ready the horses! I want every man available and armed.”
Servants scattered. Doors opened. Boots pounded. The entire household sprang into action as Bingley took charge with a calm urgency Darcy had heard about from Richard's tales of the battlefield.
“We will search the woods first,” Bingley said. “If Wickham has not gone far, we can intercept him before he vanishes.”
It had been hours. Wickham likely had the child hidden by now. If only Richard were here!
The front door opened again. “Darcy?” called a familiar voice. “What on earth is happening?”
It was as if his cousin was summoned by Darcy’s thoughts. He turned just as Richard entered the hall, Georgiana a step behind him. Both carried the dust of travel, and neither expected the chaos that met them. Georgiana looked from face to face, her smile faltering.
“Where is everyone going? Why all the shouting?”
Darcy opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. He turned to his cousin with a grim face. “Tommy has been taken. By Wickham. We have been searching all afternoon.”
Richard froze.
Georgiana went pale. “No…” she whispered.
And then she crumpled to the floor.
Darcy caught her before she hit the flagstones, cradling her gently in his arms. She was unconscious, her breathing shallow, her limbs limp. “Call for Mrs Nicholls!” he bellowed. “Bring smelling salts—hurry!”
A maid scurried forwards, and with Bingley’s help, Georgiana was carried to a nearby sitting room. The door was closed behind them as a footman was sent to summon the physician.
Darcy stood just outside, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.
The sight of Georgiana collapsed—his sister—his charge—broke something inside him.
A fresh wave of guilt swept over him. He and Richard spent time ascertaining her welfare, ensuring she was settled with Mrs Annesley before they departed.
A groom brought his and Richard’s horses, and they mounted.
Richard gripped the reins and addressed Darcy. “Did you know?”
Darcy nodded slowly, ashamed.
“And you said nothing?”
“I asked myself the same question when I woke this morning,” Darcy replied, his voice hollow.
“I thought I could control the situation—that we could confront Wickham quietly, without involving others. Clearly, I was incorrect.” He turned his horse towards the woods, intending to begin a search of his own.
Richard cursed under his breath and dragged a hand through his hair. “You should have told me the moment you knew he was here. You should have told someone. Good heavens, was he at the ball?”
Darcy met his cousin’s eyes, pain etched across his face. “Yes. I saw him only for a moment—and from a distance. He avoided detection until he wished for me to see.”
They rode in silence for a moment longer.
“I must tell you everything,” Darcy said at last. “Not just about today—but about what I have come to know. About Tommy..and about Anne.”
Richard turned his head slowly. “Go on.”
Darcy began to speak in low, urgent tones.
He explained what he and Elizabeth had learned: the valise hidden in the attic, the nameplate with Anne de Bourgh’s initials, the embroidered blanket with the curling L for Lewis, mistaken for a T, and the discovery of letters in Anne’s handwriting.
It all pointed to one unshakable truth. Tommy was Anne’s child.
Richard's expression was still. “Then the boy is connected to three well-known and wealthy families.”
“Almost certainly,” Darcy confirmed. “And Wickham knows it.”
Richard stared off for a long moment, jaw clenched. “We will have to consider what to do about that. But later. First, we get the boy back.”
Darcy nodded, his voice like steel. “Yes. No matter the cost.”
They turned together, eyes sharp, shoulders squared. The hunt for Wickham had begun.
The hut was silent but for the soft rustle of wind through the trees and the occasional whimper from the child huddled in the corner.
Wickham sat on a rickety stool near the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his breath visible in the cold air.
His back ached. His legs were stiff from crouching in the underbrush for hours.
But his mind—his mind was alert, calculating.
He reviewed his preparations for the tenth time that day. The branches and brambles he had dragged into place around the hut formed a thick, concealing barrier. No smoke rose from the crooked stovepipe; they had not used the stove at all. Fire meant detection. Fire meant failure.
He had dragged the brush in overlapping patterns, covering not only the structure but his tracks as well.
The old footpath was barely visible now.
It had taken two days of careful scouting to find this hut, and another day to secure it as a hiding place.
Hidden deep within a forgotten copse of trees, it was the perfect temporary hiding place.
A chill gust of wind slipped in through a crack in the doorframe, and Wickham shivered despite the thick wool coat wrapped around his frame.
He had brought two blankets for himself, both worn but serviceable.
The boy had only one, which he now lay atop, curled like a frightened animal.
Wickham had gagged him to keep him quiet, and tied his hands and ankles to prevent escape.
The cords were not tight enough to cause injury—but they were sufficient to serve their purpose.
The child whimpered again, his small frame trembling, the gag muffling his cries. Wickham narrowed his eyes.
“Silence,” he hissed, voice sharp and low. “You are not hurt. You have your coat and that blanket, do you not? Everything is fine.”
Tommy curled tighter into himself, pressing his face into the threadbare edge of the blanket.