34. Two Gentlemen #3
“My children would be Bennets?” The notion settled in him with a peculiar disquiet.
He was a Darcy—had always been, from the gallery portraits of William the First, through George Darcy who loved a Bennet girl, to his own father, who courted his mother by Pemberley’s stream.
“The name Darcy,” he said, tasting the weight of it, “is not merely a word. It is my father’s voice.
It marks my mother’s grave. It is the name the tenants have looked to for generations. ”
“I know,” Bingley’s voice softened, “but the name Bennet is not without its significance. It is Elizabeth’s family.
It is the truth of the blood that has run through Pemberley’s halls for generations, unknown to all.
It is the truth, Darcy. And I believe you would see your children carry truth rather than a lie. ”
Behind him, one of the spaniels barked sharply. A pheasant burst from the undergrowth, its wings thundering, and neither man raised his gun.
“Elizabeth’s father once told me,” Darcy said, “that I would have to woo her. That I would have to earn her regard, not presume it.” He met the open, earnest face of the man who had been his friend for a decade.
“He was right. I did not deserve her then, nor do I fully now. Yet she has chosen me, and I cannot honor that choice by living a falsehood.”
“Then you accept?”
“Yes, the names follow the blood.” The words felt strange in his mouth—strange and heavy and right. “My children will be Bennets. Yours will be Darcys. And we will share Pemberley and Netherfield, as you proposed, dividing our time between them. Let the estates be companions, not rivals.”
“The solicitors will earn their fees untangling this,” Bingley observed. “But if we are agreed in principle, the law will follow.”
“And our wives?”
“The sisters will approve.” Bingley’s grin returned. “Jane, I am certain, will restore the Longbourn entail to Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet will consent too, as he will not dishonor Alice Bennet and her sacrifice.”
“Neither of us changes in our lifetimes,” Darcy said slowly. “I remain Darcy. You remain Bingley. The change comes through our children who would have been raised in both locations, and neither would be strange to them.”
“Neither Elizabeth nor Jane wished to be far from Longbourn, but they can both grow to know Pemberley, along with me. While we are at Netherfield, you will be close to Longbourn, and our children will be raised together, as Bingleys, Darcys, and Bennets.”
“Very well, Charles.” He extended his hand—bare, gloveless, despite the cold, for important agreements required the warmth of skin against skin and the steadiness of a grip that meant what it promised. “A gentleman’s compact.”
Bingley took his hand, his grip firm, palm warm, and eyes bright. “A gentleman’s compact, Caroline notwithstanding. She will be furious, I daresay. Though I fancy she will be the first to change her name from Bingley to Darcy.”
Darcy couldn’t suppress a wince.
“Cheer up, man,” Bingley chuckled, releasing his hand and whistling sharply for the spaniels.
“She can finally be a Darcy without marrying one. I expect she’ll find that some consolation.
” He gestured down the snow-dusted path.
“Come. We’ve bagged nothing but conversation this morning, and I suspect the pheasants are laughing themselves feathers off. ”
“The pheasants have always found your optimism amusing.”
“Is that what we shall tell Jane and Elizabeth? That we bagged a gentleman’s compact and let every bird in Hertfordshire live to see February?”
“I believe Elizabeth will find it satisfactory.”
“Jane will find it delightful. She has little fondness for the shooting.”
And so, the two friends walked back in companionable silence. The spaniels, undoubtedly crestfallen at their lack of game, bounded ahead, tails wagging enthusiastically. The fallen elm, witness to Darcy’s earlier proposal, receded behind them, and he did not glance back.
There, beneath that tree, he had proposed and offered Elizabeth a name that was not his to give.
Now, though, he would offer her much better. Not the Darcy name, with its borrowed glory and purchased foundation, but the truth and a partnership. The future they would build together, brick by brick, on ground that at last felt solid beneath their feet.
My children will be Bennets.
The thought still stung, and would ache for some time yet. But beneath the pain, relief began to stir, tentative as a snowdrop in January.
He was not losing the Darcy name; he was setting it down. He would place it, gently but firmly, into the keeping of Bingley’s children, who would bear it forward with the legitimacy it deserved.
And his own children—Elizabeth’s children—would carry a different name. A name rightfully theirs by blood no less than by affection.
Bennet.
It was, he reflected, a good name. It had produced Alice, who loved with fierce devotion, and Elizabeth, who saw through his pride and chose him all the same.
A name he would be honored to give and to keep.