Chapter 42
Elizabeth’s cheeks were wet with tears as Frederick sat back in his seat, his gaze fixed upon the fire as though he saw not the present, but all that had come before it. She could not even begin to imagine the weight of what he had endured: the years of absence, the quiet sacrifices, the loss.
From the stillness in the room, she knew she was not alone in the thought. No one spoke. No one seemed inclined to break the fragile hush that had settled over them all.
At least Jane is not here, she thought, her heart tightening. She would not bear this well.
The reflection came unbidden, but it brought with it a small measure of relief. Jane’s tender heart would have suffered under such a tale, and Elizabeth was grateful, for perhaps the first time in her life, that her sister had been absent.
And Lydia… and Kitty, too.
Elizabeth almost smiled through her tears at the thought. Neither of them would have remained quiet so long, nor listened with such solemn attention. There would have been whispers, interruptions, exclamations ill-timed and ill-considered.
This, naturally, led to thoughts of her last sister, and she scowled slightly.
I would rather have Kitty and Lydia here with their laughter than endure Mary’s moralizing over the matter.
She would probably say something along the lines of Anya’s death being the sins of the parents falling on the heads of their children.
But Mary was now Mrs. Collins.
Mr. Collins… who is now no longer Papa’s heir!
Elizabeth let out a small, strangled sound, shattering the silence in the room.
It had escaped her before she could stop it. She pressed her hand to her mouth, as though to contain it, but it only grew, bubbling up inside of her, and she nearly choked.
Darcy turned to her at once. “Elizabeth, are you unwell?”
She tried to answer.
Truly she did.
But the question, the concern in his voice, the solemnity of the moment—all of it pressed upon her at once, until the laugh broke free again, sharper now, edged with something almost wild.
Now all eyes were on her.
Her husband placed an arm around her shoulders, and she could tell that his concern had only deepened.
And that, inexplicably, only made things worse.
“Can you imagine,” she continued, her voice catching between laughter and breath, “Mary’s face—when she discovers that her husband shall not inherit Longbourn after all?”
The image struck her afresh.
And she dissolved entirely.
Darcy looked thoroughly alarmed.
Elizabeth saw it.
And laughed harder still.
“Elizabeth.” He tried to calm her. “Perhaps a glass of wine? Or…”
He looked around helplessly. Across the room, Mr. Bennet gave a low chuckle.
“Do not distress yourself so, Darcy,” he said, with a glance at his son-in-law. “You will find that women are prone to a touch of hysteria once married. Consider Mrs. Bennet.”
Darcy’s expression was one of pure horror.
Elizabeth caught sight of it, and then lost all her composure entirely.
“Shall—shall I ring for—Hill to—to bring me Mama’s—smelling salts?” she gasped out.
Mr. Bennet shook his head and rose to his feet.
He crossed the room and clapped Darcy on the shoulder.
“My dear boy, I am only teasing you,” he said mildly.
“This is a perfectly natural response. On those rare occasions when a woman is overcome by both physical and emotional fatigue, such an outburst is to be expected.”
Darcy blinked.
“I see,” he said, though he very clearly did not.
“As something of an expert,” Mr. Bennet continued, with a trace of dry humor, “having raised five daughters, I have found that the best remedy is sleep. A great deal of it. One does far better to address such matters in the morning, when the mind has had time to put things in order.”
Darcy frowned slightly. “I had always understood that one ought never to go to bed distraught, but that it was best to sort things out.”
Mr. Bennet waved a hand. “Nonsense. In my experience, cooler heads prevail after a night’s rest. The mind continues its work, even when we do not attend to it directly.”
Elizabeth managed, at last, to draw in a steadying breath.
“I believe,” she said through hiccupping gasps, though her voice had begun to settle, “that I must agree.”
She looked toward Lady Catherine, who, though recovered, did not appear inclined for further exertion.
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth added, “we should return to Netherfield.”
Frederick straightened. “It has been a long day for us,” he said, nodding towards Teddy, who was half-asleep in the corner. “I have arranged a room for us at the inn in Meryton; we will return their directly.”
Mr. Bennet shook his head at once. “Nonsense. Longbourn is as much your home as mine—more so, perhaps, given that the young man there is now its heir.”
Having been awakened by the conversation, Teddy’s eyes widened at being the center of attention. For the first time, Elizabeth truly looked at the young man who was her half-brother.
His eyes are the same as mine.
Though their appearances were somewhat dissimilar—he must favor his mother, as she did hers—he possessed the same deep, striking green eyes that had stared back at her in the mirror for her entire life.
She turned to face Frederick and realized for the first time that he, too, was similarly favored.
Her breath caught, just slightly, and she studied his face, suddenly very curious to know what other traits and featured she had inherited from him.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Darcy settled her cloak about her shoulders with quiet care, his touch grounding, familiar. He then crossed to Lady Catherine, offering his arm and assisting her to rise.
Elizabeth turned back to Mr. Bennet. “Shall we return in the morning, then?”
He shook his head. “Longbourn is ill-suited to such discussions. Too little privacy, and too many ears inclined toward listening. It would be better if we come to you.”
Elizabeth glanced toward Darcy, then nodded. “I believe I can safely say that Jane would be more than willing to extend her hospitality and give us the space we require.”
“Yes, both she and her husband are very obliging creatures,” Mr. Bennet said dryly. “I expect, at this rate, to find them one day ruined by their own generosity, having pressed coin into every servant’s hand until nothing remained for themselves.”
At her father’s words, an image rose unbidden to her mind:
Jane, all softness and propriety, attempting to maintain the appearance of perfect composure even as she crouched—quite improperly—beside a door, a glass held with delicate care against the panel.
Lady Anne, with far less success at concealment, bent beside her, whispering earnest cautions about discretion while not withdrawing in the least. Georgiana hovered just behind them, torn between horror at the impropriety and a very real desire to hear every word, her hands clasped tightly as she leaned in despite herself.
And Bingley—poor man—would be stationed somewhere near the hall table, pretending to examine a vase with intense interest while clearly straining to catch whatever fragments of conversation might reach him.
She nearly snorted and would have blushed at the unladylike noise, but her dignity was somewhat preserved by a loud hiccup.
Darcy’s eyes widened slightly, clearly uncertain what had prompted it.
Mr. Bennet only smiled. “Best be on your way,” he said. “The sooner you have her settled and asleep, the sooner she will return to herself.”
Elizabeth did not argue.
She allowed Darcy to guide her from the room, her hand resting lightly in his, her thoughts still too full to sort, too tangled to unravel.
By the time they reached the carriage, the exhaustion she had been holding at bay began to take hold in earnest. She leaned against him as they set off, the steady motion of the carriage lulling her further still.
Voices faded.
Thoughts dimmed.
And though she was dimly aware of their arrival at Netherfield—of being led inside, her maid changing her into her night shift—it was all distant, softened by weariness.
The moment her head touched the pillow, she knew nothing more.
∞∞∞
Darcy woke slowly, though the instant awareness that followed banished any lingering desire for sleep. For a few moments, he did not move.
Elizabeth lay beside him, still fast asleep, her head resting against his shoulder, one hand curled lightly against his chest as though even in sleep she sought the reassurance of his nearness.
The remnants of the previous day lingered in the faint traces of tears upon her lashes, though her expression now was peaceful—untroubled in a way that felt almost at odds with all that had transpired.
He tightened his arm about her slightly, careful not to wake her, then looked down at her sleeping in his arms.
It was a strange thing, he thought, that so much chaos could culminate in such quiet.
Only hours ago, everything had been—no, was—in a state of utter disarray. Scandal, uncertainty, revelations that would have shaken even the most composed household. And yet here she was, asleep in his arms as though the world had righted itself.
But it has not.
The thought came with unwelcome clarity, and with it, the full return of his reason.
Darcy exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting to the canopy above them as his mind began its relentless work.
What are the facts?
Darcy’s brow furrowed slightly as he considered the matter.
Frederick Bennet’s existence alone altered everything, but the question of his status was of far greater importance.
Had he ever been officially declared dead?
If so, the legal complications would be considerable.
Property, inheritance, identity—none of it would be easily resolved.
But if no such declaration was ever made…