Chapter 39 #2
Her eyes widened, and a small smile played at the corner of her lips.
“And unless you wish to create another scene,” he continued, his voice low, edged with something far less playful, “you will restrain yourself. For I am very near to throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you upstairs—regardless of whose house this may be.”
Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to blush.
Darcy leaned back slightly, satisfaction flickering through him as he took up his cards once more.
“Shall we continue?” he said, as though nothing at all had passed between them.
Elizabeth drew in a small breath, then straightened. “Yes,” she said, with as much composure as she could gather. “I believe… it would be prudent.”
A moment later, she added more quietly, “Perhaps at separate tables.”
Darcy’s mouth curved, his eyes lingering on her a moment longer than was prudent. “A most sensible precaution, Mrs. Darcy. Though I wish you every success in keeping your mind upon your cards.”
Her answering look promised she had no such intention.
They separated.
For a time, the room settled into something almost orderly. Cards were dealt, tricks taken, Lydia’s exclamations rose and fell, and even Kitty ventured a laugh or two. Conversation resumed, light and unremarkable.
It might almost have passed for an ordinary evening.
Until—
The door bell rang.
The sound cut sharply through the room, and the chatter fell into silence.
Every hand froze.
Every head turned.
“Who could be calling at this hour?” Mrs. Bennet’s shrill tones pierced the stillness.
From the hall came the faint echo of the door opening, voices too low to distinguish—and then footsteps.
Hill appeared in the doorway.
Darcy knew at once that something was wrong.
Her face had gone entirely white.
“Sir,” she said, though her eyes moved uncertainly between them all, “Mr… Mr. Frederick Bennet… and Master Teddy Bennet.”
The words seemed to fall into the room and shatter. Darcy’s head whipped around, searching for Elizabeth. Her eyes met his as her face slowly drained of color.
Across the room, Mr. Bennet’s face was ashen. Lady Catherine, playing across from him, rose unsteadily to her feet.
No one spoke.
No one seemed capable of it.
Darcy took control of the situation, setting his cards aside and rising to his feet. “Show them in, Hill,” he said.
His voice was calm. Deliberate. Something solid in the midst of the shock.
Hill curtsied and withdrew at once. A moment later, the door opened. The gentleman who entered bore so striking a resemblance to Mr. Bennet that, for an instant, Darcy wondered if he were witnessing some trick of the light.
But no—
Time had marked this man differently. His hair was entirely white, his frame leaner, his tanned face lined by years and hardship rather than indolence. And yet—the likeness was undeniable.
At his side stood a young man, near grown, alert and watchful, his gaze moving quickly about the room.
They halted just within the threshold.
“Thomas,” the man said, his eyes falling on the stunned master of Longbourn. “I—”
“Freddy?”
Lady Catherine’s tentative voice stopped the man cold. His eyes widened, and he gaped. “Cathy?” he responded, his voice rough with disbelief. “What the devil are you doing here?”
She did not respond, but only swayed on her feet.
For one suspended moment, it seemed she might recover, but she did not.
And for the second time in Darcy’s memory, Lady Catherine de Bourgh fainted.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth did not move.
She could not move.
The man who had entered the room stood not ten feet from her, and yet it felt as though the distance stretched far beyond that—something unreal, impossible, separating them.
Frederick Bennet.
Her father.
Not the man who had raised her.
But—
Her gaze flicked, almost helplessly, to Mr. Bennet.
Then back again.
The resemblance struck her with such force that it stole the breath from her lungs. Not identical—no—but close enough that there could be no doubt. The same line of the brow, the same shape of the mouth—only altered by time, by hardship, by a life lived very differently.
It was him.
It had to be.
Her thoughts lurched, unsteady, trying to catch up with what her eyes already knew.
And then, there was a boy.
No, not a boy. A young man—fifteen years of age, perhaps.
He stood just behind the older man, his posture alert, uncertain, his gaze moving quickly through the room as though trying to understand it all at once.
Bennet.
The name struck through her mind.
His son?
Her breath caught.
My brother!
Everything seemed to freeze.
The room.
The air.
Her very thoughts.
Until Lady Catherine swayed, and collapsed.
The world rushed back in all at once.
Voices—movement—confusion.
Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose, fluttering into panic. “Oh! Good heavens—what has happened? Lady Catherine! Oh, pray do not let her expire in my drawing room—!”
Jane was already moving. “Quickly, this way,” she said, her tone calm, steady. “The small sitting room. It is warmer, and there is a chaise—”
Lady Anne was at her sister’s side, pale but composed, and Bingley hovered, eager and uncertain.
Frederick Bennet did not hesitate. He stepped forward, bent, and lifted Lady Catherine into his arms with surprising ease.
Jane turned to lead the way, but Frederick cut her off. “No,” he said shortly. “I remember.”
And before anyone could respond, he was already striding from the room. “Teddy.”
The young man started, then hurried after him at once.
Mr. Bennet followed, almost running, leaving the rest of them to stare at one another.
Darcy’s voice came at her side. “Elizabeth, are… are you well?”
She turned to him.
Or rather, she tried to, but she could not focus. Everything still felt… distant. As though she were observing the scene rather than standing within it.
Unreal.
“I—” She stopped.
His hand came to her arm, steadying. “Perhaps it would be best if we returned to Netherfield. You need not—”
“No.”
The word came sharper than she intended, but it served its purpose. It cut through the haze. Through the confusion, grounding her.
Elizabeth drew in a deep, steadying breath. “No,” she repeated, more firmly. “I am not leaving.”
There was something in her voice that convinced Darcy she was once again in command of herself. He gave her a brief nod, and she straightened and turned to the rest of the people in the room.
“Bingley,” she said, turning at once, her tone composed and decisive, “pray escort my sister, Lady Anne, and Miss Darcy back to Netherfield. I believe they would be more comfortable there.”
Bingley blinked, then nodded. “Yes, of course. Certainly,” he said, before rushing out to order the carriage.
“Kitty. Lydia,” Elizabeth continued.
Both girls looked at her.
“Upstairs.”
Lydia drew breath, clearly prepared to object, but then Elizabeth looked at her.
That was all she needed to do.
Lydia closed her mouth. “Come along, Kitty,” she muttered, rising at once.
They went.
Elizabeth turned.
“Hill,” she said.
The housekeeper stepped forward immediately.
“Have Cook prepare strong tea. And send a maid to attend my mother—she is to be taken upstairs at once.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had been hovering in a state of agitation, allowed herself to be guided away with surprising docility.
Jane lingered behind. “Lizzy, should we not—”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“No. Too many people will only distress Lady Catherine further. You know her—she will not thank us for fussing.”
Jane hesitated, but her reserved nature caused her acquiesce. “Very well, Lizzy.”
Within moments, the room had emptied.
Silence returned.
Elizabeth stood very still, her hands trembling. She pressed them together.
Darcy’s voice came again, quieter now. “Elizabeth… if you would rather not—”
She shook her head before he had even finished speaking.
“No,” she said, more quietly than before, but with far more control. “No, I will not leave.”
Her pulse was still racing, her thoughts still reeling from the sight of that man—Frederick Bennet—standing where he had no right to be, alive when he had been mourned by a brother and a lover, real when he had been nothing more than a story.
But beneath the confusion, beneath the shock, something steadier was taking hold.
Resolve.
She lifted her eyes to Darcy’s, and though there was still emotion there, still the echo of everything she was struggling to process, her voice did not falter.
“I have spent my entire life not knowing the truth,” she said. “And when at last I was given some portion of it, I was told it was finished—that there was nothing more to discover.”
Her fingers tightened slightly against one another.
“And now he walks into this room as though the past eight months—no, the past twenty years—have been nothing at all.”
Darcy said nothing, but his presence beside her—solid, unwavering—gave her the strength she needed.
“I have questions,” she continued, more firmly now. “Too many to ignore. And I will not be sent away again without answers.”
She drew in one more breath.
“And someone,” she added, with quiet, unmistakable resolve, “is going to give them to me.”