Chapter 32
Elizabeth gave a sigh of relief and leaned back onto the soft feather pillows of her bed.
She was finally alone.
At first, she had wanted Georgiana to keep her company so as not to be alone in an unfamiliar house. Within a few minutes, however, Elizabeth had realized just how much she needed to be alone, to contemplate everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
But young Miss Darcy had been unable to understand Elizabeth’s subtle hints. Even when Lady Anne had returned briefly to collect her daughter, Georgiana has lingered, fussing over the arrangement of the pillows and the position of the blankets, her soft concern written plainly across her face.
It was only when Darcy came with a firm voice, telling his sister that she needed to wash up and take some food, that the room at last fell silent.
Nestling back further into the pillows, Elizabeth stared up at the unfamiliar canopy above her head.
Rosings.
Even thinking the word felt strange.
In the span of two days, her entire world had shifted beneath her feet. She knew everything was supposed to change today, but this was certainly not in the way she had expected.
Today… was supposed to be her wedding day.
The realization struck her with sudden force.
That very morning, as she had lain unconscious in a carriage, Jane—hopefully—had been standing in the little church at Meryton, saying her vows with the man she loved.
And Elizabeth was not at her side.
Emotion surged through her, and she pressed a hand to her mouth.
How did it come to this?
Why had her father turned on her so suddenly—so violently? To drug her… to plan to take her away like a criminal… to force her into a marriage with some stranger—
It sounded like something out of one of Lydia’s lurid gothic novels.
Except it had happened.
To her.
A tear slipped silently down her temple into her hair.
Then another.
Soon she could not stop them.
Her chest tightened painfully as the reality of it all settled upon her.
I will most likely never see Longbourn again.
Never again walk down the familiar gravel path beneath the old trees.
Never be married from the small church where she had grown up.
Never hear her mother’s triumphant boasting as she proclaimed to all of Hertfordshire that two daughters were married and a third engaged.
Never sit at a wedding breakfast surrounded by neighbors and friends, laughter and congratulations filling the air.
All those simple, ordinary joys had been stolen from her.
Elizabeth curled slightly into herself beneath the blankets as the grief finally overwhelmed her. She may be in a house full of servants, along with people who risked everything to rescue her, but she had never before felt so alone.
The sobs came suddenly—great, shuddering breaths she could not contain. Her shoulders shook as she pressed her face into the pillow, trying desperately to quiet the sound.
She had always known that marrying Darcy would mean leaving home.
But this—
This felt like exile.
She loved him. She knew he loved her. She would have gone with him willingly—joyfully.
But now everything was broken, and she did not know how to fix it.
Pressing her hands to her face, she willed back the tears that were forming again.
“No, Elizabeth.” Her tone was sharp as she spoke out loud. “That is enough. You must not fall to pieces now.”
“Bravo.”
Elizabeth’s head flew up.
There, standing in her doorway, was the same woman who had lain unconscious on the floor not that long ago. She was tall, with a regal bearing and commanding presence.
And she was unsettlingly familiar.
Like herself and Lady Anne, the woman possessed unfashionably dark hair and striking green eyes, but it was more than coloring that caught Elizabeth’s attention.
There was something in the shape of her face—the set of her mouth, the line of her brow—that stirred an uneasy recognition, as though Elizabeth were looking at a reflection altered by time and experience rather than the sister of her betrothed’s stepmother.
The woman stepped into the room without waiting to be invited and seated herself in a nearby chair.
She said nothing at first—only watched. The intensity of her gaze was such that Elizabeth felt as though she were being measured, weighed, and judged all at once.
Elizabeth straightened despite herself. After a moment, she said, with careful politeness, “Are you well, ma’am?”
The woman inclined her head slightly. “As well as may be expected.”
A pause.
“Do you know who I am?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then said, “I believe you must be Lady Catherine. Lady Anne’s sister… and Mr. Darcy’s aunt.”
Lady Catherine gave a small nod. “Yes, I am she. But I am also more than that.”
A flicker of unease welled in the pit of Elizabeth’s stomach. “I… I do not understand.”
“I am your mother.”
For a moment, Elizabeth simply stared at her.
The words did not seem to make sense.
“I beg your pardon—what?”
Lady Catherine did not look away.
“You are my daughter.”
Elizabeth gave a short, incredulous shake of her head. “That is impossible.”
“It is the truth.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, more firmly now, though her pulse had begun to race. “My mother is Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn. I have lived there my entire life.”
Lady Catherine’s expression did not change. “You have lived there,” she said. “But that does not make it the place of your birth.”
Elizabeth’s hands tightened in the bedclothes. “This is absurd.”
“Is it?” Lady Catherine asked quietly.
“Of course it is! I am Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn!”
“Indeed, you are Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn—but your father is not Thomas Bennet.”
“What?”
Lady Catherine’s gaze did not waver. “He was Frederick Bennet—your father’s younger brother, and the man who carried you away to keep you safe.”
Silence stretched between them.
Elizabeth’s voice came quieter now. “If this… if what you say is true—then why?”
Lady Catherine leaned back slightly in her chair, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on the head of her walking stick.
“Because my father would not allow me to marry your father.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
“My father?” she repeated faintly.
“Frederick,” Lady Catherine said. “Freddy, as I called him.”
Something in her voice changed at the name—something softer, older. “We loved one another. Deeply. Foolishly, perhaps—but entirely.”
Elizabeth shook her head slightly, trying to follow. “That is not possible,” she said. “You are—Lady Catherine. And he—whoever he was—”
“He was not suitable,” Lady Catherine said sharply. “Not in my father’s eyes. Not in my brother’s. And so, we were forbidden.”
Her jaw tightened. “We married, nonetheless. In a Catholic ceremony.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened.
“And when I conceived,” Lady Catherine continued, “the truth came out.”
The room seemed to grow colder. “My father was furious. My brother worse. I was sent away until you were born, then married to Lewis de Bourgh.”
“But if you were married—”
“It was not considered legal. Besides, your father had no idea where I was at first. It was hopeless—until one night, he showed up on a ladder outside my window. My brother’s men had found him and beaten him, but he still managed to sneak onto the property.
He begged me to leave with him then with him. ”
“So why did you remain?”
Lady Catherine sighed heavily. “By the time your father found me, you had already been born. If I had left then, run away with you, they would have followed us, killed Freddy, and sent you to a workhouse. I could not allow that.”
Elizabeth felt a chill run through her. “No,” she whispered.
“I sent you away with him before they could act,” Lady Catherine said. “It was the only way to keep you both safe. I named you Elizabeth, after Freddy’s mother.”
Elizabeth pressed her hand to her temple. “Then how—how did I come to Longbourn? How did I become—”
“Thomas Bennet’s child?” Lady Catherine’s mouth tightened. “That, I am afraid, I do not know the answer to. I never saw you or your father again. ”
Elizabeth looked at her, searching her face, trying to reconcile the woman before her with everything she had ever believed about herself.
“This is madness,” she said faintly. “It must be.”
“And yet,” Lady Catherine said, her voice low and steady, “your father has just tried to prevent your marriage at any cost, no?”
Elizabeth stilled.
“And he named my family as the reason,” Lady Catherine continued. “Did he not?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, and the memory came rushing back.
Elizabeth simply cannot marry Fitzwilliam Darcy. I will not allow it. I would rather her hate me forever than be connected to that family.
Her heart began to pound. “Why?” she whispered. “Why would he say such a thing?”
Lady Catherine held her gaze. “Because he knows exactly who you are: my daughter.”
Silence fell. Elizabeth sat very still, her world shifting beneath her once again. For the first time since awakening, she felt something colder than fear begin to take hold.
Doubt.
∞∞∞
Darcy had eaten quickly—far more quickly than was his usual habit—and with very little attention paid to what was on the tray before him.
The moment he had finished and his valet had pronounced him decent for company, he made his way back to the Rose Room. When he neared it, however, his footsteps slowed as he heard Lady Catherine speaking to Elizabeth.
“…because he knows exactly who you are: my daughter.”
Darcy did not pause to consider. He pushed through the half-closed door and demanded, “What on earth is going on?”
Both women turned.
Elizabeth sat upright in the bed, pale but composed in a way that immediately told him something was very wrong. Lady Catherine remained seated, her posture as rigid and commanding as ever.
Darcy closed the door and crossed the room in three swift strides. Ignoring propriety, he sat on the bed at Elizabeth’s side. “Elizabeth—” His voice softened, his eyes searching her face. “Are you well?”
“I… do not know,” she admitted faintly.