25. The Reckoning
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE RECKONING
Darcy gripped the edge of the mantel, not trusting himself.
His entire body ached to follow his wife to the nursery—to share the moment with Little Tom, but he had promised not to trouble her with his presence.
It had to be enough that she still loved the boy—his son—hard as it was to acknowledge his utter humiliation when he could not even prevail upon a woman, heavy with his child, to accept his name.
He seized the poker and set about the fire, prodding the logs, shifting them, and watching the sparks leap as if they, too, sought escape.
Elizabeth would not forgive easily. He had watched her at Longbourn and Netherfield, managing the slights that came her way, her eyes sharp and her lips pursed.
Words barbed just enough to sting, and insults laughed off but remembered.
Elizabeth Bennet did not rage. She retreated and observed, drawing conclusions, testing them, and teasing out the truth.
She did not make rash decisions but waited until she understood precisely how deep the wound ran, and then she decided whether the wound was worth surviving.
He gave the logs a final thrust and replaced the poker on its stand.
Glancing at the door, he again saw in his mind Elizabeth’s icy posture as she left him—head held high, stride even, and chin defiant.
She had not looked back, but she would stay for Thomas.
She had given her word, and he again heard the tone of her voice.
He has claimed me, Fitzwilliam. Whatever else has changed, that has not.
How he wished he had properly claimed his wife, not by the marriage bed, but by the truth. For truth deferred was merely a lie in finer dress. It would break his sister’s heart and dampen the spirits of his entire household, but he would be a coward no longer.
Pulling the bell, he summoned Mrs. Reynolds. And then, he poured himself two fingers of brandy and let the liquid burn down his throat.
He poured a second glass, though he left it untouched on the blotter. When the housekeeper entered, he did not offer the usual pleasantries. He stood by the window, his back to the room, watching the rain reclaim the drive, and invited her to sit.
She took the chair opposite his desk, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her composure remained flawless, yet the set of her shoulders betrayed her—she sensed the fracture. The master of Pemberley did not summon his housekeeper to the library at such an hour.
Darcy turned, leaning back against the heavy mahogany of the desk.
“I will require your discretion to manage the expectations of the staff,” he began. “Ever since I brought Mrs. Darcy home, the household has buzzed about an unseemly secret romance. I have tolerated it, and Mrs. Darcy had found it amusing.”
Mrs. Reynolds gulped, nodding silently as if she, too, had been guilty of entertainment.
“Circumstances have made these speculations untenable, and I will explain the reason.” He took a swallow of brandy.
Mrs. Reynolds fixed her gaze on a distant spot, sparing him the indignity of direct sympathy—a courtesy he found both rare and oddly comforting.
“Master Thomas is my son.”
He expected her to start, or at least to blink, but she only inclined her head, a gesture of professional, iron-clad acknowledgment. It was as though the secret had been a loose floorboard in the nursery all along, and she had simply been waiting for him to finally step upon it.
“I see, sir. Is Mrs. Darcy aware?”
“She is, and she has gone to the nursery.” He set down the glass and took a deep breath.
Mrs. Reynolds had known him since birth, had attended his mother’s final illness and his father’s decline, and she had guided him through his own stumbling assumption of the estate’s responsibilities. “I will need your assistance.”
“The household will have questions,” she said. “There has been… speculation, sir. About Master Thomas’s resemblance to you. About the circumstances of his arrival.”
“I assumed as much.”
“May I ask how you wish me to address such speculation?”
Darcy considered. The servants would talk—that was inevitable. The question was not whether they would discuss the matter among themselves, but whether they could be trusted to maintain discretion beyond the walls of Pemberley.
“Tell them what you judge appropriate,” he said. “I trust your discretion. But I must ask one thing of you, and of them.”
“Sir?”
“Mrs. Darcy is…” He paused, searching for words that would convey the situation without betraying Elizabeth’s private anguish.
“She has received a considerable shock. I would ask that the household be kind to her in the coming days. Discreet. That they not press her with questions, or burden her with their own confusion.”
“Assuredly, sir.” Mrs. Reynolds’s voice carried a warmth that had not been present before. “Mrs. Darcy has been nothing but gracious since her arrival. The staff is already quite devoted to her, and they will protect her.”
“I will speak to Georgiana. She will be… troubled and disappointed. If she requires comfort in my absence, if the knowledge distresses her—”
“I shall look after her, sir. As I always have. Some have perhaps grown a trifle too familiar of late, and I shall see that their boundaries are strictly reaffirmed.”
“Do not be overly harsh, but see that they remember their place.”
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Yes.” He rose, signaling that the formal portion of their meeting had concluded. “I shall be departing for London tomorrow morning. Estate business that cannot be delayed. I expect to return within the week, but if circumstances require a longer absence, I shall send word.”
“Then I wish you safe travels, sir.” She stood, jangling her keys.
“And one more thing.” He stopped her at the door.
“Mrs. Darcy holds full authority over the running of Pemberley. Every key, every invoice, every scrap of correspondence—all of it belongs to her. She is the mistress of this house, and I trust her with every confidence I possess. You will not deny her any request, nor are you to look to me for confirmation of her orders.”
Mrs. Reynolds bowed her head. “Mrs. Darcy has our full loyalty, sir. We shall care for her as we cared for Lady Anne.”
Georgiana sat at the pianoforte, her back to the door.
Once, her fingers had marched dutifully through scales; now, her playing shimmered with feeling, each note coaxed into life as if the instrument itself had grown a soul.
Darcy lingered at the threshold, chest tight.
He had left her to finishing school and the safety of routine, only to return and find a young woman—one with opinions, attachments, and a depth of feeling he had not accounted for while London offered its distractions.
She would be hurt, not by the fact of Thomas’s parentage or even the scandal.
She had been concerned about George’s prospects and had kept her opinions of Lady Amelia to herself.
But she had always trusted Darcy to be the gentleman.
She had believed him above the indiscretions of Wickham, and for this, she would be sorely crushed.
The sonata concluded with a held breath, and Georgiana looked up from the keys, opening her eyes and then registering his presence with a small gasp.
“Brother! I did not expect you so… Is everything well?”
Darcy entered the room, closing the door behind him with a care that made Georgiana’s smile falter.
She knew that gesture. She had seen it before every difficult conversation of their shared history—before he had told her of their father’s death, before he had explained the nature of Wickham’s debt, and before he had informed her of his intention to marry a woman she had never met.
“What is wrong?” Her voice dropped. “Did Elizabeth… You weren’t angry with her, were you? She wished to visit the rectory, and Prue is our friend.”
“I am not angry with Mrs. Darcy, nor you.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I apologize for the fright I gave you and your friends this afternoon. I was… distressed.”
“The Apethorpe meeting! Is it about Little Tom? Are they going to take him away from George?”
He crossed to the window seat and settled opposite her. “I will be going to London tomorrow morning. Both for estate business and to address the issues Edward Apethorpe raised. But there is something else I must tell you—a matter I should have been honest about from the start.”
Color rose on Georgiana’s cheeks. “Brother, you are frightening me.”
“I know.” He forced himself to hold her gaze. “I am sorry for that. I am sorry for a great deal, as it happens.”
His sister swallowed hard, folding her hands in her lap, and waited.
“It concerns Thomas, but it is not a calamity. Only…” The words he had rehearsed seemed paltry now. “Elizabeth already knows.”
“Does it have something to do with the registry? What they said? That you bribed George to sign it? But oh, Fitzwilliam, George is not so dishonorable as you suppose. He is misunderstood.”
Darcy held up his hand. “George was not the dishonorable one in this situation. It was me.”
“How?”
“Thomas is not George’s son. He is mine.” He let the words flood, not stopping for a breath. “I had George sign in my place. Compelled him, and paid him.”
Georgiana’s hands flew to her mouth with a startled cry. “But I don’t understand. Fitzwilliam, how can Thomas be your son? Are you adopting him?”
“No, he is the son of my body. Mine and Lady Amelia’s.”
“You kissed her?” His sister shot to her feet. “When you weren’t married to her?”
He lowered his gaze to his boots and nodded.
“But… I know George kisses women, and he…”
“I went beyond kissing,” Darcy had to admit. “I need to tell you, since Mother is no longer around, but kissing is only the start. It has to do with not letting a man touch you in ways that could… What I did resulted in a child—an illegitimate one—like George.”
“But you could have married her! Did you not love her? Prue said—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Forgive me. That means the rumors are true. That you had a secret love, and it was not Elizabeth. It was she—Lady Amelia.”
Darcy could not raise his head. Every word was like coals heaping over his head. And then, Georgiana’s fists connected with his shoulders, and the wail from her mouth was like the keening of an injured beast.
“Brother. How could you? And poor Little Tom.” She flung herself at him.
“You made him low-born, and you pushed George away so you could have him to yourself. And you married Elizabeth on a lie! And I have been missing George and calling Little Tom my half-nephew and telling Elizabeth every tiny bit that I imagined resembled George.”
“I am sorry.”
She clutched his coat, shaking in his arms. “You let me believe a lie. You must have hurt Elizabeth badly. I saw her running from the library. She wouldn’t even stop when I called to her. I thought you unleashed your anger…”
“I would never be angry with her.”
“Then why did you do it? Why?” Her sobs made speech nearly impossible, and Darcy found his own voice caught fast.
“I was afraid.” He held her close to his chest. “I wished for a family, for a wife who would accept me, even with my mistakes, and so, I couldn’t tell her, because when I brought her to Pemberley, I did not know how much I loved her already, and once she was here, every time I thought to tell her, I had more to lose, because my love grew faster than what I was willing to risk. ”
She lifted her face, eyes still wet. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, that is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“It is the truth. Not an excuse.”
“No. It is not. But a silly truth, that your love grew faster than your lies could keep up. Perhaps you are right.” She wiped her eyes, a glimmer of a smile beneath the glistening on her cheeks.
“You were quite the Gothic hero appearing at the rectory. All dark, brooding, foreboding, but your eyes… the way you looked at Elizabeth, like she was Heaven and Hell combined, and you could not distinguish which. Miss Entwhistle and I—”
“Please, Georgie, no more about Miss Entwhistle and her romantic speculations.”
“But Fitzwilliam, if you aim to win Elizabeth back—”
“I will win her by fixing everything. I will go to London and find George, whether he is on board a ship or back in town. He will sign papers relinquishing his paternity, and then I will replace the registry entry, pay any penalties, and officially claim Thomas as mine.”
“And Elizabeth?” Goergiana’s brow arched. “She will not be so easily won over. I know that much. But George and I will help you, and I am assured that the household will—”
“I have told Mrs. Reynolds there is to be no more romantic speculation or matchmaking attempts,” Darcy spoke firmly.
“I will need you to be Mrs. Darcy’s friend, a true friend, and be considerate of her feelings and moods.
No pressing her for commitments or declarations. She is hurt. Angry and disappointed.”
“So am I, but I know she loves you. She didn’t marry you for money.”
“She did.” Darcy’s lips twisted into a wry smile.
“I offered a physician for her father, Longbourn’s debts paid, and a new roof over their heads.
She hated me while I was in Hertfordshire.
She saw all my faults and reminded me of them, and now, I have only added to them.
Grievous faults and a complete lack of character. ”
“Then you don’t know women as well as you think.
” Georgiana had the gall to giggle. “She listed everything she disliked about you precisely because she could not stop thinking about you, and when she came to Pemberley, she, too, found herself falling in love faster than her wit and supposed disinterest could keep up. So, Fitzwilliam, you really should read Lady Renwick’s novels as instruction. George did.”
“Yes, I am aware.” He didn’t tell her that Lady Amelia was Lady Renwick. She would know soon enough when Elizabeth opened the cabinet.
“Then have a safe trip,” Georgiana said, her spirits somewhat renewed. “And tell George I still want one of those Kashmiri shawls, flowered in gold and red.”
He kissed her on the cheek and departed the music room, stepping out onto the terrace where he could look up at the windows of the family wing. A single candle burned in her sitting room, and he stared at the flickering light, drawing the sole comfort that she had not yet left Pemberley.