23. The Registry Revelations #3
Elizabeth studied the entry. George Thomas Wickham—Thomas for his father, George for his godfather.
“And Mr. Darcy?” she heard herself ask. “Fitzwilliam Darcy? I should like to see his entry as well. I confess I am curious about the signatures.”
“Whatever for?” Miss Entwhistle asked. “Are you suggesting Darcy’s father did not sign Wickham’s entry?”
“I suggest no such thing,” Elizabeth warned. “And pray do not mention another Lady Renwick plot complication.”
Mrs. Duntze turned the pages once more. “January 1783. Fitzwilliam Edmund Darcy.”
Fitzwilliam Edmund Darcy
Born: 10 November 1782
Father: George Darcy, Esq., of Pemberley
Mother: Lady Anne Darcy, née Fitzwilliam
Godfather: Edmund Fitzwilliam, Viscount Matlock
So, Darcy was the older brother. She confirmed that the signatures for George Darcy were identical.
He had claimed Fitzwilliam as his son but had made himself godfather for George Wickham, yet naming him after himself.
Shouldn’t he have named his own son George?
Instead, the pattern held. The child carried the godfather’s name, either as the first or middle name, yet it does not signify that the godfather was…
No, she was constructing theories with no basis in fact, much like Miss Entwhistle seeing Lady Renwick’s characters everywhere.
Lady Amelia had chosen the name William because she wished to honor her dear friend, the man who had stood as godfather when her own family had disowned her.
It was a tribute. A gesture of gratitude.
For George Wickham would never have signed the registry had Darcy not compelled him.
Darcy had done it for Little Tom and for Amelia, knowing that a blank entry—an unnamed father—was a sentence of social death for both mother and child.
So Darcy had ensured the boy would not bear that shame, and he had bribed a scoundrel to acknowledge his own son.
And when Amelia died, he had taken Thomas in, guarded him, protected him, and loved him as though he were—
As though he were his own child.
“Mrs. Darcy?” Mrs. Duntze was watching her with barely concealed curiosity. “Are you quite well? You have gone rather pale.”
“I am well.” Elizabeth straightened, forcing composure into her features. “Thank you, Mrs. Duntze. This has been most illuminating.”
She closed the registry, her hand lingering on the leather cover. She understood now—the weight of what Darcy had carried, the nobility of what he had done, and the grief he must still feel for a woman who could not love him as he deserved.
“We should return to Pemberley,” she said. “Mr. Darcy will wonder where we have gone.”
“Must we?” Miss Entwhistle had drifted toward the stained glass window, her face rapt. “The light falls exactly as Lady Renwick described—in bars, like a prison of illumination. If I could just sketch the angle—”
“Another time, perhaps.” Elizabeth moved toward the vestry door. “Thank you again, Mrs. Duntze. You have been most helpful.”
“Any time, Mrs. Darcy.” The rector’s wife’s pale eyes gleamed with satisfaction; she had dispensed entertainment, gathered gossip, and would dine out on this visit for weeks.
“Do give my regards to Mr. Darcy. And if you discover anything further about the Apethorpe inquiry, I should be most interested to hear…”
Elizabeth offered a noncommittal smile and gathered her companions toward the waiting carriage.
The footman had just handed Georgiana up when the thunder of hoofbeats shattered the afternoon quiet.
“Elizabeth!”
She turned. Darcy was riding toward them at a pace that bordered on reckless, his horse’s flanks lathered, his coat flying behind him. He pulled up sharply at the churchyard gate, the mare dancing beneath him, and swung down before the animal had fully stopped.
He stood before her, breathless, his cravat askew and hair tousled by the wind. His eyes found hers, and in them Elizabeth saw everything: fear, desperation, and that raw, terrible hope that she would not misunderstand what she had discovered.
I understand, she wanted to say. I know you loved her. I know what you sacrificed, and I do not judge you.
“Mr. Darcy!” Prue’s voice was breathless with barely suppressed excitement. “We were just—that is, we were examining the parish records, and—”
Darcy did not look at her, nor at Miss Entwhistle, who clutched her Lady Renwick novel as if the story had come to life before her eyes. Not even at Georgiana, whose face had blanched, gazing out the carriage window with a mixture of dread and confusion.
His gaze was locked on Elizabeth, and she in turn held his gaze, unable to look away. Whatever he feared she had discovered, she would not condemn him for it. Whatever grief he carried, she would help him bear it.
“Pemberley,” she voiced.
“Pemberley,” he agreed, handing her into the carriage, his grip lingering, not letting her go.
When he finally released her, his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist—accident or intention, she could not tell.
And then he was gone, remounting his horse and racing toward home, as if pursued by a vengeful and relentless fate.