C olonel Fitzwilliam nodded gravely. “The first matter of business is verifying the boy’s identity.”
Her arms instinctively crossed. “You think we might be mistaken? That the child Meg rescued--”
“Not mistaken,” he said gently. “But confirmation is necessary. Has the boy any birthmarks?”
She hesitated only a second. “Yes. On his left thigh. A small mark, heart-shaped.”
She could see the change in the colonel’s countenance the instant she said it. His shoulders, which had been held with the rigid alertness of a soldier on duty, dropped just slightly. A slow breath left his lips. For the first time since she had met him, Colonel Fitzwilliam looked less like a man accustomed to carrying secrets, and more like one unburdened—for the moment.
“That is him,” he said quietly. “Without a doubt.”
Elizabeth did not speak right away. The implications of that certainty bloomed in her chest like a cold ache.
“And what will happen to him now?” she asked. “Will you be taking him away?”
The colonel’s eyes widened, and Darcy stepped forward almost at once, shaking his head.
“No,” the colonel said firmly. “There is no plan for that. There is nowhere safe—no court or crown prepared to acknowledge him. And we do not yet know how deeply the French have infiltrated our channels. He is safer here, as he is.”
Elizabeth’s arms dropped to her sides. A measure of relief stirred within her—but not enough to quell the lingering fear. “What is his name? His real name, I mean.”
“He had not been christened,” the colonel replied. “He was only a day or two old when Denisse took him. There is no official record of a name, though we know his father’s bloodline.”
“Then what was his father’s name?” she pressed.
But the colonel shook his head. “For now, he is safest being known as Benjamin Bennet, a foundling orphan. To change his name will bring speculation that would prove to be unsafe.”
He looked at her closely, waiting until she had nodded in understanding before continuing. “But what concerns my superiors now is this: a Crown agent was murdered in broad daylight, not far from where the child was hidden. The question is whether the French have discovered the child’s location—or whether Mr. Gardiner knew more than he let on, and committed the act to protect his family.”
The cold inside Elizabeth was no longer from the wind.
“How dare you—” she began, her voice trembling with anger. “My uncle would never—”
Darcy raised a calming hand. “Miss Elizabeth, please. I agree with you—it is highly unlikely Mr. Gardiner would ever stoop to such an act. But my cousin is doing his duty. He must consider all possibilities.”
It took a great deal of restraint to not fire back—but his voice, calm and certain, gave her pause. After a moment, she nodded stiffly.
“Well,” she said at last, “if we are speaking of possibilities, then perhaps we should also consider Lieutenant Wickham’s warning—that many new militia recruits are less than reputable. Desperate men, with unclear pasts.”
The colonel frowned slightly. “Wickham? As in, George Wickham? Your father’s godson?”
Darcy gave a short nod. “Yes, he has taken a lieutenancy in the local militia.”
“But did he not say he was going to study the law? Or at least that’s what he said when he took the money from you in exchange for the living you gave my brother.” The frown on the colonel’s face deepened as he considered the matter.
“Apparently, he did, but the fire ruined the business where he was clerking,” Darcy explained. “He took a position in the regiment for the same reason many others have: to earn a living. He did not wish to live on the principal of my father’s bequest.”
“That is certainly quite the coincidence,” the colonel said. “He was in London when the fire began, and now he’s here where the baby is.”
“Surely you cannot think—” Darcy began to protest.
His cousin cut him off. “As you just told Miss Elizabeth, it is my job to consider every possibility.”
“He was dissolute at school, yes, but so were many others,” Darcy countered. “It is quite the leap from carousing to treason. Besides, he paid a call on me at Netherfield to apologize for the past and assure me that he was attempting to reform himself.”
Turning to Elizabeth, Darcy’s expression softened. “And I understand I have you to thank for that, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth flushed. “I did not do anything other than betray your confidence,” she said quietly. “I was worried you would be upset with me. It was not my place to speak of your health, but he already seemed to know about it. And he seemed…genuinely remorseful.”
Darcy’s eyes never left hers. “You did exactly the right thing.”
Their gazes held, the chill wind momentarily forgotten. Her heart fluttered with something tender—something dangerously close to hope.
A wheezing bark from deep in Darcy’s chest broke the moment. The colonel, who had been pretending to examine the path’s edge, gave them both a sardonic glance. “If we are finished making eyes at one another,” he said with mock impatience, “we do have a murder to solve.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat and folded her arms again, though not without the trace of a smile. “Indeed. And how do you propose we do that?”
“We start with a list of suspects,” the colonel said. “We look at who had motive and opportunity. My batman can help—he’s well-acquainted with the sort of talk that floats through servants’ quarters. They see and hear more than we ever do.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “I could collect drawing-room gossip from my mother and Aunt Philips. They, along with Lady Lucas, know more about the goings-in in Hertfordshire than anyone.”
“You could also provide introductions and smooth the way for us,” Darcy added. “With your friendship, others will feel more at ease in confiding their secrets without being aware of it.”
She sighed dramatically. “With your taciturn nature, Mr. Darcy, I have never been more in doubt of a successful operation.”
Darcy threw his back and laughed, causing Colonel Fitzwilliam to stare in astonishment. The wind whipped around the three of them again, and Elizabeth shivered and looked towards the house. Behind the chimney, dark clouds were gathering in the distance and moving in their direction.
“My mother will be returning shortly,” she said, “and I do believe we have left my sister and Mr. Bingley on their own for much longer than is proper. We had best end this conversation now, especially before the storm arrives.”
“May we call again tomorrow?” Darcy asked.
She nodded. “Yes, I think you should. We can use that time to plan a proper strategy.”
Without another word, she turned and walked briskly toward the house, leaving the men to follow. The footman gave a small sigh of relief at being able to return to the warm foyer. As they crossed the threshold, they could hear the faint sound of carriage wheels against cobblestones, signaling the arrival of Mrs. Bennet and the two youngest Bennet girls.
In the drawing room, the maid left her post at the window. Elizabeth gave her a smile of thanks, then turned her attention towards Jane and Bingley near the fireplace.
The elder girl was seated demurely on the settee, her cheeks rosy, her expression aglow with quiet joy. As Elizabeth watched, Bingley leaned close to Jane and whispered something in her ear. Jane’s eyes widened for a moment, then she nodded, her blush deepening. Bingley rose at once, clearing his throat.
“I… I hope you will excuse me,” he said, glancing between the others. “I must speak with Mr. Bennet. It is—an urgent matter.”
Elizabeth nearly clapped her hands together. She caught herself just in time, but her face could not conceal her delight. Darcy, beside her, seemed frozen in place, still staring at the door through which his friend had just exited.
“Well,” the colonel said, with perfect timing and cheerful gallantry, “it appears Mr. Bingley is about to be the happiest man in Hertfordshire.”
Jane laughed softly, tucking a curl behind her ear. “He has merely requested permission to begin a courtship,” she said, her voice gentle and almost apologetic. “I… I am honored.”
The colonel bowed. “Then allow me to congratulate you, Miss Bennet. I cannot imagine any gentleman more fortunate than one who has gained the good opinion of the fairest lady in the kingdom.”
Jane blushed deeper, and Elizabeth gave the colonel a sidelong glance. For all his secrets, he had charm to spare.
The door opened again, and in swept Mrs. Bennet, flanked by Kitty and Lydia. Mary trailed behind, her expression thunderous.
“Oh, my nerves!” Mrs. Bennet cried, fanning herself with her bonnet. “That wind is enough to bring on a chill! I do hope dinner is not delayed, for I am famished from calling all through Meryton.”
Kitty and Lydia collapsed into giggles at her heels, each peeking toward the gentlemen.
The colonel politely stepped forward as Mrs. Bennet was introduced. The moment his title was mentioned—son of an earl—Mrs. Bennet nearly dropped her gloves in excitement.
“Your lordship—oh! I mean—Colonel! Such an honor! And you must be so pleased to find yourself in such good company with the officers stationed nearby!”
“I serve with the regulars, madam,” he said politely, though his tone carried a note of correction. “Not the militia.”
“Oh! Yes, yes, of course. Quite a difference, I am sure.”
“A great difference,” he said mildly. “Though I will admit I was surprised by some of the behavior I witnessed among certain militia officers as I rode through the village. Not all seem to hold to gentlemanly standards, apparently.”
Elizabeth caught the faint narrowing of her mother’s eyes and seized the moment to assist. “Indeed, Mama,” she said evenly, “do you not recall what occurred at Aunt Philips’s card party?”
She briefly summarized the event to the colonel, who shook his head in disgust. “Disgraceful! I am afraid I have seen too many situations where more than one young lady was taken in by the charm of a red coat, only to discover—too late—that it masked intentions that were less than honorable.” He raised an eyebrow and glanced meaningfully at one side of the room.
Mrs. Bennet followed his gaze towards her two youngest daughters, who were giggling together as they batted their eyes and cast coy looks in the colonel’s direction. Her brow furrowed, and genuine concern crossed her face.
Perhaps she will listen to the son of an earl , Elizabeth thought hopefully.
The moment passed, however, as Mrs. Bennet—not one to ponder too deeply for too long—looked around the room. “But where is Mr. Bingley? Did he not accompany you?”
Jane’s expression flickered with nervous anticipation. “He is with Papa.”
“With your father?” Mrs. Bennet’s voice leaped an octave. “Oh—oh my! Do you think—? Could it be—?”
Before she could gather herself into full effusion, the door opened again and Mr. Bennet entered the room, Bingley just behind him, cheeks slightly flushed but smiling.
Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow at the assembled company. “Well, I have news that should surprise no one: Mr. Bingley has requested my permission to court Jane, and I have given it.”
The room erupted.
Kitty squealed, Lydia shrieked something unintelligible, and Mrs. Bennet let out a delighted cry. “Oh! My dear Jane, how wonderful! I knew all along he would fall in love with you as soon as he saw your beauty.”
Jane looked ready to sink through the floor, her eyes wide and cheeks positively crimson. Elizabeth could not help but grin broadly at her sister’s mortified joy.
The colonel gaped a little before turning to Darcy, who was still staring at the scene as though thunderstruck. “Well,” the colonel murmured, “your friend does not waste time.”
Darcy, still recovering, gave a small shake of his head and the faintest smile. “No,” he said softly, “he knows what he wants.”
Elizabeth caught the look Darcy gave her as he spoke—quick, searching, and filled with meaning—and felt her own cheeks warm.
Outside, the wind howled and the gray clouds thickened. But inside the drawing room, it was all warmth and laughter and love beginning to take root.
And for a brief, precious moment, Elizabeth allowed herself to forget her fears, basking in the joy of family.
∞∞∞
That evening, as the Bennet women withdrew from dinner to the parlor to discuss Jane’s courtship yet again, Elizabeth took advantage of the free time and went upstairs to check on Benjamin.
That evening, as the Bennet women withdrew from dinner to the parlor to discuss Jane’s courtship yet again, Elizabeth took advantage of the free time and went upstairs to check on Benjamin.
The nursery was quiet save for the gentle crackle of the fire and the rhythmic ticking of the mantel clock. The nurse, seated in the corner with her mending, looked up and smiled as Elizabeth entered. Benjamin was sleeping soundly in the cradle near the hearth, his tiny hand curled against his cheek, the blanket rising and falling with each soft breath.
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing as she stepped closer. She knelt beside the cradle, brushing a curl from his forehead, and let herself simply exist there for a moment, still and watchful.
So much had changed. So quickly.
A day ago, he had simply been Benjamin—an abandoned babe, a tragic casualty of the fire, folded lovingly into the Gardiner family without question. Now, he was something else. A symbol. A survivor. Possibly a target.
What does that make me? she wondered bitterly. A governess? A guardian? A pawn?
She looked at his sleeping face and knew one thing with absolute certainty: Whatever else he is to the world, he is my responsibility for the moment.
Her fingers curled against the edge of the cradle. What if there are more men like Smithson? What if someone else tries to take him?
Her heart gave a thud of panic before she tamped it down.
No. He is safe here. With us. With me.
In the stillness of the nursery, she could hear the faint hum of female voices rising and falling from the parlor. She knew, without needing to be present, that Mrs. Bennet would be alternating between exclaiming over Jane’s good fortune in securing a courtship and lamenting that Bingley had not asked for an engagement.
“We are saved, Jane!” she could just imagine her mother exclaiming. “Saved from the hedgerows!”
She frowned at that, suddenly remembering that her father’s unknown cousin, Mr. Collins, had died in the London fire. Who is the new heir now?
The question lodged itself in her chest with a weight that surprised her.
It was not as though she mourned Mr. Collins—she had, in fact, never met the man. But her parents often spoke of the late man’s father, also deceased, who was miserly and disdainful. She could only help but feel a bit of relief that no one from that line would inherit Longbourn.
But what if the new heir is worse?
A stranger. A man they had never met. A man who might not feel even the feeble pull of duty Mr. Collins might have pretended to observe, for at least her father had met him in person once.
Would he evict them the moment their father passed? Raise rents on the tenants? Sell the land altogether?
Her fingers tightened against the windowsill.
She had been so consumed by the revelation of Benjamin’s identity, by Colonel Fitzwilliam’s secrets, by Smithson’s dying words and the danger that hovered in every corner… she had entirely forgotten the practical, very real uncertainty that had shadowed their lives since her girlhood.
Perhaps she had thought that Mr. Gardiner’s fortune might shield them. But now even that felt precarious—subject to suspicion, investigation, scandal.
And what of her father? He had received the letter, had spoken with her uncle Philips in Meryton, but since then…nothing.
She needed to speak to him.
Tonight.
Before the relief of Jane’s courtship lulled him into complacency. Before Mrs. Bennet began planning wedding breakfasts and floral arrangements and forgot altogether that their future was still uncertain.
Before another secret could drop from the sky like a spark and set the world alight again.
Elizabeth rose to her feet, one hand brushing absently over the back of the cradle as she moved toward the door and closed it softly behind her. The corridor was dim, lit only by a single candle flickering near the stairwell. Elizabeth descended slowly, her slippers making no sound on the worn steps.
She knew her father would be in his study; he always retired there after dinner, under the pretense of answering correspondence and attending to estate matters, but often with a glass of port, a good book, and a stack of old correspondence he never answered.
Knocking softly on the door, she waited until she heard him say, “Come in” in muffled but alert voice.
Pushing open the door, she stepped inside. The familiar comforting scent of tobacco and parchment eased some of her tension. Mr. Bennet looked up from behind his desk, his spectacles perched low on his nose.
“Well, Lizzy,” he said, setting aside a volume of Pope’s essays. “Have you come to scold me for not weeping with joy over your sister’s courtship?”
She smiled faintly but shook her head. “Not tonight, Papa.”
He gestured to the armchair opposite his. “Then sit, my dear. Let us be grim and serious together.”
Elizabeth crossed the room and took the seat, smoothing her skirt over her knees. She hesitated, then said quietly, “I wanted to ask you about Mr. Collins.”
Mr. Bennet blinked. “Ah.”
There was a long pause. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “Yes. That was rather a shock, was it not?”
“I suppose,” Elizabeth said. “But it is not just his death that troubles me—it is what it means. The entail. Longbourn.”
Her father gave a noncommittal grunt. “Indeed.”
“Do we know who the new heir is?”
He reached into a drawer and drew out a folded paper. “Mr. Phillips is looking into it. The original entail was drawn up by his predecessor. Apparently, it is… quite old. There may be distant cousins, though none we have ever met.”
“And if there is no male heir?”
Mr. Bennet tilted his head, studying her with a trace of amusement. “Then perhaps your mother is right, and Jane will save us all.”
Elizabeth gave him a reproving look, but he only sighed.
“You know me, Lizzy; I have never much liked dwelling on unpleasant certainties. But you are correct to ask. The truth is that I simply do not know. If there is no male heir, then either the estate will revert to the Crown, or I will be allowed to leave it to whomever I deem fit.”
Her eyes widened. “One of us?”
“Or perhaps one of your husbands or sons who is willing to take the Bennet name,” he said. “There have been Bennets at Longbourn for over two hundred years; I would hate to be the last one.”
She looked down at her hands. “What will happen, Papa, if—if you are not here and we have no place to go?”
“Then I hope,” he said gently, “that you will be married by then. Or at least strong enough to help guide your mother and sisters through the storm.”
She looked up, and his eyes met hers with surprising clarity.
“I may joke, Lizzy,” he said, “but I am not blind. I see the way the world shifts around us. And I trust you to hold your ground, no matter who inherits the land beneath your feet.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, unsure what emotion was rising in her throat—grief or pride or fear. She nodded.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He offered a small smile and returned to his port. “Now, go upstairs and remind your mother that a courtship is not yet a wedding. We must still budget for ribbons.”
Elizabeth rose, lingering for a moment at the door.
She had come seeking answers, and in their place, she found resolve.
Whatever storm might come—over Benjamin, over Longbourn, over secrets and fires and traitors—she would be ready.