24. The Concealed Conclusion
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE CONCEALED CONCLUSION
Elizabeth flexed her hand, the one Darcy had gripped, and brought it to her lips. What had compelled her husband to chase her to the parsonage? Had Apethorpe presented him with papers demanding action? Or was he worried about the question of Wickham’s signature on the registry?
But Mrs. Duntze had witnessed the signing, and Elizabeth had recognized Wickham’s handwriting from the notes he had sent her—secret ones concealed within the pages of the books they borrowed from the circulating libraries.
A blush heated Elizabeth’s cheeks at how charmed she had been, how she had read those notes by candlelight, imagining a future that sparkled with romance and possibility. She noticed Prue’s narrowed eyes, assessing her composure, and she pulled out her fan, flicking it and blinking innocently.
“Why, Prue, I do believe Derbyshire springtime weather resembles my sister, Lydia—weeping rain one hour, blazing fury the next, and entirely indifferent to the comfort of those caught in its path.”
“How like the heroine in The Whispering Gallery,” Miss Entwhistle observed. “She fans herself constantly in moments of emotional distress, though Lady Renwick makes clear the heat is entirely internal—”
“Speaking of distressing heat,” Prue interrupted. “I have been thinking about that registry. Mr. Darcy must have paid that dreadful Wickham to sign. What other explanation could there possibly be?”
Beside her, Georgiana stiffened; Miss Entwhistle’s eyes, by contrast, gleamed with the prospect of fresh scandal.
“Must he?” Elizabeth’s voice was light, carefully so. “I had not realized you were privy to Mr. Darcy’s financial arrangements.”
Prue flushed. “I only meant—”
“You meant to construct a narrative from insufficient evidence. A common affliction among those who confuse speculation with discernment—though I confess myself immune to such lapses, save when reading novels of a certain sensational variety.”
Prue’s mouth opened, then closed without producing a sound. Miss Entwhistle, however, was not so easily deterred.
“In The Ruined Chapel,” she offered, “there is a christening scene where the true father watches from the shadows while a false name is entered in the registry. Lady Renwick writes it with such specificity that one cannot help but believe—”
“That she possessed a vivid imagination and a flair for the improbable?” Elizabeth arched a brow. “I had rather noticed.”
“Oh, but she was drawing from intimate knowledge,” Miss Entwhistle corrected, warming to her subject.
“In The Whispering Gallery, she tells of two brothers—one reserved and honorable, the other charming and reckless. The heroine entertains herself by trifling with their affections, never realizing that the honorable brother suffers in silence while she—”
“That is precisely what must have happened,” Prue cut in.
“Mr. Darcy must have been in love with Lady Amelia—quite hopelessly, of course, as he is far too proper to have acted upon it. But as her devoted friend, he would naturally stand by her when Wickham abandoned her. And then, he compelled his wayward brother to acknowledge the child. When Lady Amelia died, he took Thomas in out of honor and duty. While George gallivants about the seven seas playing at rajah, Fitzwilliam provides the boy a home and a future. It is noble, really, when you think about it.”
Elizabeth hid her wince. This was exactly her theory, but now that she heard it coming from Prue, she wasn’t sure she agreed. It rather made Darcy seem a fool.
Meanwhile, Georgiana sat very straight, chin lifted in a manner that reminded Elizabeth of her brother.
“My brother George was always fond of Little Tom.” Her eyes flashed at Prue.
“He has gone to earn the money needed to raise his child. Meanwhile, we can provide Thomas with a home at Pemberley. That is why Fitzwilliam went to the trouble to marry, hire a nursemaid, and take him in. Not because of a sordid arrangement, but because it was the right thing to do.”
Prue had gone pale. “I did not mean to suggest—”
“You suggested that my brother bribed my other brother to sign a false registry.” Georgiana’s voice did not waver.
“That is a serious accusation, Miss Duntze. It impugns the honor of both men rather grievously. And it is based on nothing more substantial than the gossip of a rector’s wife and the fevered imaginings found within novels. ”
Elizabeth watched her sister-in-law with something approaching awe.
She had not known Georgiana had this in her—this steel, this capacity for cutting rebuke.
The light-hearted girl who played with her little nephew and chattered about music had vanished, replaced by the stalwart daughter of Pemberley, defending her family’s honor.
“Miss Darcy is quite right,” Elizabeth said. “We have been carried away by speculation. My husband is an honorable man, and I will not sit in his carriage listening to theories that suggest otherwise.”
Prue’s eyes filled with tears, her voice trembling. “I did not mean… I was only trying to understand.”
“I know.” Elizabeth softened her voice, though her stomach was churning. She had started this by proposing the expedition and asking questions of the registry. Whatever speculations that emerged, she had no one to blame but herself.
“I should not have examined the registry at all,” she continued. “I was curious about the signatures—nothing more. Because of our Lady Renwick readings, we have all allowed our imaginations to run ahead of the evidence.”
“The signatures?” Miss Entwhistle perked up. “Oh, but forgeries are everywhere in Lady Renwick’s novels. In The Midnight Tower, the villain forges the hero’s signature on a marriage certificate, and the heroine must prove—”
Elizabeth allowed the conversation to flow past her, nodding at intervals, her mind racing far from the present company.
Georgiana had defended both brothers. Both.
She had spoken of “brother George” with affection, had insisted he was fond of Thomas, and had attributed his absence to financial circumstances rather than abandonment.
She believed that Wickham cared about Little Tom but was unable to raise him, and that Darcy had stepped into the breach.
But… If Wickham was fond of Thomas, and if he had signed the registry willingly, using a flourish and a jest to cover an uncomfortable moment, why would he tell Jane that he had done it for Darcy’s sake? Why speak of a debt owed, a service rendered, and a price yet to be extracted?
And why had Darcy ridden to Kympton with the haunted eyes of a Gothic hero, as if some dreadful secret pressed upon him? His grip on her hand had been nearly painful, his palm damp, the ache of release suggesting he feared she might never permit him such intimacy again.
Such conduct did not belong to a man merely assisting a friend.
Elizabeth turned the puzzle over in her mind, seeking a pattern that would hold. If Darcy’s only object was to provide Thomas a home, why send Wickham to India, separating father and son? Why marry a country nobody to supply the boy with a mother, unless—
The thought was so terrible that Elizabeth shoved it away before it could fully form.
No. That was impossible. The registry clearly stated what it stated.
Wickham had signed as the father, and Darcy had stood as godfather.
Whatever other secrets might remain between them, they simply could not be that dark or that terrible. Could they?
“…and the forgery was discovered only when the ink faded differently than it ought to have done,” Miss Entwhistle was expounding with literary authority. “Lady Renwick was very precise about the chemistry of it. One cannot help but admire her research.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth murmured in distracted agreement, though she had absorbed none of the technical explanation about ink chemistry.
Georgiana caught her eye, unease passing between them. The conversation had strayed into dangerous waters and might not be easily contained.
What do you know? Elizabeth wanted to ask her sister-in-law. What are you afraid of?
But she could not ask, not here, not with Prue still sniffling into her handkerchief and Miss Entwhistle enthusiastically rhapsodizing about Lady Renwick’s wicked plot twists. Not when any question might spark fresh speculation.
The carriage rounded the final bend leading to Pemberley, and Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat.
Darcy stood at the entrance. Waiting for her.
He had changed his coat; his posture was rigid, hands clasped behind his back, his stormy countenance carved in stone. He had been watching for her, counting the minutes.
What did you think I would discover? she wondered. What are you so afraid of?
The footman opened the carriage door. Prue and Miss Entwhistle descended first, murmuring hasty farewells and retreating toward the drawing room. Georgiana followed, pausing to press her brother’s hand before disappearing into the house.
And then it was only Elizabeth, standing on the gravel drive, meeting her husband’s eyes across ten feet of carefully maintained silence.
“Mrs. Darcy.” His voice was too formal. Controlled.
“Mr. Darcy.” She matched his tone, though her heart was pounding. “I trust your meeting with the Viscount was productive?”
His eyebrows raised fractionally, perhaps surprised that she had the wherewithal to ask him questions.
“We should speak privately.” He did not offer his arm, and she did not move toward him.
“I imagine we should.” She moved past him, and they entered the house in silence.
He selected the library and shut the door before moving to the window, his back to her.
Elizabeth was no longer sure what comfort, if any, he wanted from her—whether he was angry she had gone to Kympton or fearful of her discoveries. That he cared deeply for Amelia Apethorpe was not up for questioning—whether as a devoted friend or thwarted lover, and so she waited.