Chapter 40
The door to the small parlor was open, and Elizabeth stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene before her. Darcy stood just behind her, his height allowing him to easily see over her head.
Lady Catherine lay upon the chaise, beginning to stir. One hand was clasped—firmly—between both of Frederick Bennet’s, who knelt beside her, his brow furrowed as he rubbed warmth back into her fingers with a familiarity that transcended the years.
Mr. Bennet sat in his usual chair near the fire. Elizabeth had never seen his face so grave. Not merely thoughtful, not dryly amused—but dark. Brooding. There was something else there, too—something she could not immediately name. Fear, perhaps. And anger.
In the far corner sat the young man who had arrived with Frederick, quietly observing the scene.
A small groan echoed in the room, and Elizabeth’s eyes darted back to Lady Catherine, who was attempting to rise.
Frederick dropped her hand and leaned forward at once, gently putting pressure on her shoulder. “Cathy—do not attempt to rise just yet. You must give yourself a moment—”
She snorted and shoved his hands away with surprising force. “Do not be ridiculous. I am not some wilting daffodil.”
Elizabeth had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
Frederick, however, did not restrain himself.
“That’s my girl,” he said, a grin breaking across his face.
Lady Catherine’s eyes flashed.
“I am not your anything,” she snapped. “Not now. Not after you have seen fit to remain alive and yet never return.”
The words landed.
Hard.
Frederick’s expression sobered at once. “Cathy… I—” He stopped, then inclined his head slightly. “You are right to be angry. I owe you an apology.”
She said nothing, and her expression did not soften.
“But I confess,” he went on, looking about the room with clear confusion, “I do not understand why you are here. At Longbourn, of all places.”
Lady Catherine drew herself up a little higher against the cushions. “That,” she said coolly, “is none of your concern. The more pressing question is why you are here.”
Mr. Bennet spoke then, his tone dry but edged. “Lady Catherine makes an excellent point.”
Frederick turned toward him.
“The last letter I received from you,” Mr. Bennet continued, “informed me that you were dying. As I received no further word, I concluded that you had done so. If you have been alive all this time, I should like to know why you did not return—and why you have chosen to do so now.”
Elizabeth stepped fully into the room. “I should like answers to those same questions myself.”
All eyes snapped to her, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Frederick Bennet stared at her. His gaze moved over her face with growing intensity, as though searching for something—recognition, perhaps—until at last he said, slowly, “Is this… Elizabeth?”
He looked between Mr. Bennet and Lady Catherine.
Elizabeth did not wait for them to answer. “I am,” she said, crossing the room and taking a seat upon the small sofa.
Darcy settled beside her without a word, his presence steady and reassuring at her side.
Frederick’s gaze returned to Lady Catherine. “Does she know—”
“That you sired me?” Elizabeth cut in, her tone even. “Yes. I do.”
There was a flicker of something—shock, perhaps—across his face, but she did not pause.
“I am also aware that Lady Catherine gave birth to me,” she continued. “Which may, in a purely technical sense, make you my parents. But in every way that signifies—both in the eyes of the law and in my own—my parents are those who raised me. Who sacrificed for me. Who gave me a home.”
She held his gaze.
“So you will forgive me if I do not adopt new titles so readily. From my point of view, you are my uncle—the brother of my father. And Lady Catherine is my husband’s aunt.”
Lady Catherine gave a sharp nod. “Which is precisely as it should be.”
Frederick exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I do not understand this. None of it. This is not—” He broke off. “This is not what I had imagined.”
“What?” Mr. Bennet drawled. “Did you expect us to slaughter the fatted calf and celebrate the return of the long-departed prodigal?”
Frederick opened his mouth—
Elizabeth raised her hand.
“Enough.”
The single word, though not loud, carried through the room.
“We shall make no progress if we continue in this manner,” she said. “Snatching at pieces of the story and arguing over each one in turn will only lead us in circles.”
She drew in a breath, steadying herself.
“I suggest,” she continued, “that we proceed in a more orderly fashion. My uncle has been absent the longest, and therefore has the most explaining to do. Let us hear his account in full. Afterward, we may supply our own.”
“Good girl,” Darcy murmured in her ear, and she felt his lips brush her cheek.
She squeezed his hand in return, casting him a quick, saucy glance that belied the gravity of the moment.
Then she turned her attention back to the man before her.
And waited.
∞∞∞
India—1793
Frederick Bennet set down the pen with a shaking hand that no longer obeyed him as it ought. His shaky signature was all his solicitor, Mr. Mortimer, had required in order to post the letter he dictated.
The paper lay before him, the ink still drying—his final words, if he judged the matter rightly. He had written as plainly as he could, though even that had taken more strength than he possessed. Money enclosed. Instructions given. Elizabeth provided for, as far as he was able.
It was done.
He leaned back against the rough pillow of his cot, the world swimming unpleasantly about him. Heat pressed in from all sides—thick, suffocating, relentless. His skin burned, yet he could not stop the trembling that shook him. His teeth chattered even as sweat soaked through his shirt.
Fever.
They called it jungle fever.
He had seen what it did.
He had seen men stronger than himself brought low in a matter of days.
He closed his eyes.
Perhaps it would be quick.
Perhaps…
He did not know how much time had passed whilst he lingered in the suffocating darkness.
At times, he thought he heard voices. Once, he even wondered if he was being carried somewhere, but his mind and body did not have the strength to analyze the observation before he was once again submerged in obscurity.
But then… a touch.
Cool.
So cool it felt almost like mercy.
Something brushed across his brow, wiping away the sweat. A cloth, dampened, passed again and again, steady and careful. He tried to open his eyes, but they would not obey him. His limbs felt heavy, distant, as though they no longer belonged to him.
A voice murmured near him.
Soft.
Unfamiliar.
He could not make out the words.
Something touched his lips—a spoon. Broth, thin but warm, was coaxed into his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, though he did not remember deciding to do so.
The cool cloth returned.
Again.
And again.
Time lost its meaning.
There was only heat and cold, pain and drifting, the uneasy sense of falling and rising without ever quite reaching either end. At times he was aware of voices, of movement, of hands that lifted him, turned him, steadied him.
Always the same presence.
Always that same gentleness.
Once, he thought he heard singing—low and soothing, though the words escaped him.
Then darkness again.
It might have been a day.
It might have been a week.
He did not know.
Until—
He woke.
Truly woke.
The world resolved slowly, as though emerging from a thick fog. The air was still warm, but no longer suffocating. The pounding in his head had lessened, though it lingered still, dull and insistent.
He turned his head.
And saw her.
She sat beside him, a bowl in her lap, her hands steady as she stirred whatever it held. At the movement, she looked up.
Their eyes met.
She was young—no more than a few years past girlhood—and there was something about her that did not fit easily into any expectation he had known.
Her skin was too light to be native, yet not of the clear fairness of England.
Her features held a softness that was unfamiliar, her dark eyes watchful and kind.
She hesitated only a moment before rising and coming nearer.
“You are awake,” she said.
Her voice was gentle.
Her English—careful, but practiced.
Frederick frowned faintly, his thoughts slow to gather. “Where…?”
She reached for the cloth and touched it once more to his brow. The coolness was no less welcome now than it had been in his fever.
“You must not speak too much,” she said. “You have been very ill.”
He tried again. “How long—?”
“Many days,” she said simply.
He let his head fall back.
Alive.
He was alive.
It was some time—days, perhaps—before he was strong enough to ask questions with any persistence.
The answers came not from her, but from another. Shortly after he awoke for the first time, a woman wearing a habit approached his bed. Her manner was composed, her expression kindly but reserved as she spooned broth into his mouth.
“You are recovering well,” she said, her English spoken in a thick Portuguese accent.
Frederick inclined his head slightly. “I am in your debt, madam.”
“You are in God’s care,” she replied. “We are merely His instruments.”
The words drifted through the fog of his mind, half-heard, half-understood.
Frederick tried to respond, but his tongue felt thick, unmanageable. The effort exhausted him, and he slipped back into darkness before he could form the question that pressed upon him.
When next he woke, it was to the now-familiar sensation of cool cloth against his brow.
Not the nun.
The girl.
She did not speak at first, only continued her quiet work, wiping away the sweat that gathered almost as quickly as it was removed. When she noticed his eyes open, she paused, just briefly.
“You should rest,” she said softly.
“Where…” he managed, though the word rasped unpleasantly.
She hesitated.
Then, as though recalling some instruction, she set aside the cloth and rose.
“I will fetch Sister Mary Francis,” she said.