Chapter 14 Documents and Doubts #2
“The current Mr. Darcy was deeply affected,” Blythewood observed. “Only eight years old, but old enough to understand that Uncle John and Aunt Rose would never return. I believe the loss shaped his character considerably—made him more serious and protective of those he cares for.”
Elizabeth felt another stab of guilt about deceiving such a man.
Their conversation was interrupted by a commotion in the outer office—masculine voices, the sound of boots on wooden floors, and a familiar tone that made Elizabeth’s heart skip uncomfortably.
“Mr. Darcy,” Blythewood’s clerk announced, and Fitzwilliam Darcy appeared in the doorway, drawing Elizabeth’s gaze against her will.
“Blythewood, I hope I do not intrude—” He stopped short upon seeing the ladies. “Mrs. Wickham. Miss Bennet. What a delightful coincidence.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Martha said, rising to curtsy. “How fortuitous. Miss Bennet has been learning about her aunt from Mr. Blythewood.”
“Indeed?” Darcy’s attention focused on Elizabeth with that intensity she was beginning to recognize. “And has your research proven fruitful?”
“Very much so,” Elizabeth replied, acutely aware of how the cramped office seemed to shrink with his presence. “Mr. Blythewood has been wonderfully informative about Rose and John’s life together.”
“They were remarkable people,” Darcy agreed. “I have often wished I had been old enough to know them better.”
“Perhaps,” Blythewood suggested, “you might share your recollections with Miss Bennet? A child’s perspective could add a valuable dimension to her biographical work.”
Elizabeth saw something flicker across Darcy’s expression—interest, certainly, but also something more complex.
“I would be honored to contribute what little I remember. Since Miss Bennet is coming to Pemberley for tea, she might speak to the older servants. Their recollections might prove invaluable.”
Martha’s eyes brightened with unmistakable delight. “How generous of you, Mr. Darcy! Miss Bennet would surely benefit from such firsthand accounts.”
Elizabeth felt caught between longing and terror.
To see Pemberley, to speak with those who had known her parents, to walk through the halls that should have been her childhood home—the opportunity was precious beyond measure.
But to do so as Darcy’s guest while plotting to claim his inheritance seemed almost unbearably deceitful.
“That would be extraordinary,” she said carefully. “Though I would not wish to impose upon your household.”
“It would be no imposition whatsoever,” Darcy assured her, his smile transforming his usually serious features. “Family connections should be honored, and I confess myself quite interested in your project. I’ve already informed my housekeeper to expect you.”
After arrangements were finalized, Martha bustled Elizabeth back into the carriage.
“I have my misgivings,” she declared as they set off for St. Michael’s church in Kympton. “Mr. Darcy’s obvious interest and the invitation to Pemberley seem too convenient. He may be testing us, wondering why a distant Bennet relation suddenly appears, making inquiries.”
“I’m afraid it may be awkward,” Elizabeth said. “Especially if his father had a hand in the murders.”
Martha’s expression shifted, her earlier certainty giving way to hesitation.
“I—I couldn’t know for certain, you understand.
Everything was so tumultuous that night.
” She twisted her handkerchief between her fingers.
“The smoke was thick, the figures mere shadows. I only suspected William because of the height and bearing of the man giving orders.”
Elizabeth studied the older woman carefully. “You were quite convinced earlier.”
“William did act strangely after his brother’s death,” Martha continued, avoiding Elizabeth’s gaze. “He became reclusive, dismissed several longtime servants without explanation. The guilt weighed on him, I believe. But as for definitive proof…” Her voice trailed off.
“If you harbor doubts about his involvement, why raise such suspicions against his son?” Elizabeth pressed.
Fear flickered across Martha’s face. “The current Mr. Darcy might—” She stopped abruptly, glancing toward the carriage window as if concerned about being overheard.
“Might what?” Elizabeth prompted, a chill running through her.
“I don’t know what he knows of that night,” Martha whispered. “Whether his father confessed before dying, whether he inherited not just the estate but knowledge of how it came to him.”
“Then we should question him and ascertain what he knew of his grandparents’ settlement,” Elizabeth reasoned. “Or whether there was any inheritance given to his baby cousin.”
“That would be wise,” Martha admitted. “He may have heard his parents speak about it. The servants who knew your parents might also provide crucial information, perhaps even identify the real culprits. John was having a dispute with the butler—there were tensions below stairs that I never fully understood.”
Elizabeth noted the deflection with growing suspicion. First, William Darcy was definitely involved, but now possibly the butler? Martha’s story seemed to shift with the wind.
“We shall proceed carefully,” Elizabeth decided, unwilling to abandon an opportunity for both her curiosity and justice’s sake. “For now, let us focus on the parish records. Concrete evidence must take precedence over speculation.”
The journey to Kympton passed in relative silence, Elizabeth’s mind too full for idle conversation.
The parish church of St. Michael’s stood on a gentle rise overlooking the village—a solid Norman structure with a square tower and weathered gravestones clustering around its walls like forgotten sentinels.
The rector, Mr. Hanley, welcomed them with polite curiosity. Martha explained that Miss Bennet was researching her family history, particularly her aunt Rose, who had married into the Darcy family.
“The parish registers are quite complete,” he assured them, leading them to a side room where leather-bound volumes lined the shelves. “Marriages since 1730 are in this volume, and baptisms in these three.”
With trembling fingers, Elizabeth turned the pages of the marriage register, scanning the elegant script for her parents’ names.
And there it was—John Henry Darcy and Rose Elizabeth Bennet, married on the twelfth of October, 1787.
She traced the entry with her fingertip, a tangible connection to the parents she had never known.
The baptismal record proved equally revealing—Elizabeth Rose Darcy, daughter of John and Rose Darcy, baptized January 3rd, 1791. Her birth date was recorded as November 1st, 1790.
“November first,” Elizabeth murmured. “So that is my true birthday.”
“Yes,” Martha confirmed. “You came into the world as the first frost touched the gardens at Pemberley.”
Seeing her name inscribed in the rector’s careful script was like opening a window to heaven. Proof, in official records, that not only did she exist, but that she was the legitimate daughter of John and Rose Darcy.
“Might I have copies made?” she asked, her voice unsteady with emotion.
“Certainly, my dear lady. Family records should be preserved.” Mr. Hanley arranged for his clerk to prepare certified copies, which Elizabeth accepted gratefully.
“Such beautiful handwriting,” Martha observed, examining the documents. “These will serve your purposes admirably.”
“Thank you, Reverend Hanley,” Elizabeth said as he handed her the documents. “These are invaluable to my research.”
“Always pleased to assist the family,” he replied with a slight bow. “The Darcys have been generous patrons of St. Michael’s for generations.”
The Darcys. Elizabeth suppressed a shiver at hearing herself inadvertently included in that illustrious lineage. Someday soon, she hoped, the connection would be acknowledged openly.
As they settled back into the carriage for the return journey to Rose Cottage, Elizabeth carefully placed the precious documents in her reticule. The parish records confirmed her parentage and birth, but they were only part of the proof she needed.
“Mrs. Wickham,” she ventured, “would you be willing to provide a signed statement confirming that you rescued me as an infant and delivered me to Longbourn? Such testimony from the person who saved me would be invaluable to establishing my claim.”
Martha’s expression changed, a sudden wariness entering her eyes. “That depends. Do you have the locket?”
“The locket?” Elizabeth repeated, confused.
“Rose’s locket,” Martha said sharply. “The gold pendant with the miniatures inside—one of Rose, one of John. I placed it around your neck before taking you to Longbourn.”
Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “I’ve never seen such a locket. Mr. Bennet never showed it to me.”
Martha’s lips thinned. “How convenient. Perhaps you’re not who you claim to be after all.”
“But the parish records—”
“Prove that Elizabeth Rose Darcy was born, not that you are her.” Martha’s voice had taken on a calculating edge that set Elizabeth’s nerves on edge. “I cannot risk my neck to provide a statement until I am certain. We also need to see the settlement documents and confirm that your name appears.”
“Mr. Blythewood said only Darcy heirs can view those documents,” Elizabeth reminded her, frustration mounting.
Martha’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Perhaps Mr. Darcy himself could be convinced to request a review with his solicitor. A pretty young woman like yourself… men can be quite susceptible to feminine charms when skillfully deployed.”
Elizabeth stared at Martha, appalled by the suggestion. “You expect me to manipulate Mr. Darcy into revealing information that would ultimately dispossess him?”
“I expect you to use every advantage at your disposal,” Martha replied coolly. “After all, what do you have to lose? You’re already deceiving him about your identity.”
Elizabeth fell silent, her mind whirling with confusion. Martha had been so helpful, so seemingly eager to assist—but now she appeared to be withholding crucial testimony until certain conditions were met. Conditions Elizabeth wasn’t sure she understood.
“I have little money at present,” Elizabeth said carefully, “but once my inheritance is secured, I would be most generous to those who helped me claim what is rightfully mine.”
Martha waved a dismissive hand. “Money is the least of my concerns. First, we must establish beyond doubt that you are Elizabeth Rose Darcy. Then, we must determine who murdered your parents. I have no intention of stepping forward only to find myself in the line of fire.”
Elizabeth studied the older woman, noting the calculation in her eyes. Martha was playing some deeper game, holding back crucial information and support for reasons that remained unclear.
“I thought you said William Darcy was behind the murders,” Elizabeth reminded.
“I said I suspected him,” Martha corrected. “But suspicion is not proof, and I have lived long enough to value caution over bold action.”
The carriage turned down the lane leading to Rose Cottage. Elizabeth gazed out the window, her initial elation at discovering the parish records now dampened by growing uncertainty. Martha Wickham had saved her life and preserved the knowledge of her true identity for twenty years—but to what end?
Elizabeth pondered these thoughts as they prepared for tea at Pemberley.
Her father had always warned her that benevolence rarely came without expectation of return.
“Nothing in this world is freely given, Lizzy,” he would say with that wry twist of his lips, “especially when the gift is precisely what you most desire.”