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Chapter Nineteen

E lizabeth had long ago perfected the art of appearing attentive to her mother’s monologues while allowing her mind to wander to more engaging thoughts. This particular morning, her attention drifted between her sister Mary’s sombre piano notes filtering in from the next room and the way the morning sunlight caught in the steam rising from her tea, as Mrs. Bennet expounded at length upon the merits of a new bonnet she had spotted in the window of the milliner’s shop in Meryton.

“The feather curled just so,” Mrs. Bennet gestured with her spoon, narrowly missing Jane’s teacup, “and the shade of blue would complement your complexion perfectly, Jane. We must secure it before someone else does.”

Jane smiled indulgently. “That is very thoughtful, Mama, but I hardly need another bonnet at present.”

“Nonsense! A young woman can never have too many bonnets, especially one with your prospects.” Mrs. Bennet mercifully set down the spoon and picked up her tea, though she paused suddenly, her cup poised mid-air. “There will be no new bonnets for Lizzy, though. She will have to remain in mourning these three months at least.”

Elizabeth somehow suppressed a sigh. She had managed to convince her mother that donning unrelieved black for Mr. Wickham would be an unnecessary expense as there was not a black dress in the house; instead, she was wearing a drab grey gown she usually wore when helping in the still-room. Though as she would not be leaving the house at any time in the foreseeable future, she cared little what she wore; nobody would see her in it.

From the other room, Mary’s playing grew more lugubrious, the minor chords striking a discordant note against the bright morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Elizabeth suppressed a wince as her sister hit a particularly mournful passage, the dirge-like quality of the music suggesting Mary had discovered some new piece intended to showcase her serious nature and superior moral sensibilities.

“Good heavens, cannot Mary find something more cheerful to play?” Mrs. Bennet complained, her face pinching into familiar lines of displeasure. “It is as if we are sitting at a funeral. Jane, dear, perhaps you might suggest something more appropriate.”

Before Jane could rise to the task, the door to the breakfast-room opened hesitantly, revealing Mrs. Hill, their housekeeper of many years. The woman stood awkwardly in the doorway, fingers twisting in her apron and eyes downcast in a manner Elizabeth had rarely observed in their normally composed servant.

“Pardon the interruption, madam,” Mrs. Hill began, her voice unusually constrained.

Mrs. Bennet waved an impatient hand. “What is it, Hill? Cannot it wait?”

“I fear it cannot, madam.” Mrs. Hill stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her with careful precision. “It is a matter of some... delicacy.”

Elizabeth set down her teacup, attention fully captured by the housekeeper’s uncharacteristic behaviour. In the adjoining room, Mary’s playing continued, the slow, heavy notes providing an ominous backdrop to Mrs. Hill’s evident discomfort.

“Well? Out with it then.” Mrs. Bennet straightened, her interest piqued by the promise of something out of the ordinary. “Has the butcher sent inferior cuts again? I have told Mr. Bennet a dozen times we ought to take our custom elsewhere, but he insists the man is perfectly honest.”

“No, madam, it is not the butcher.” Mrs. Hill’s gaze darted briefly to Elizabeth and Jane before returning to Mrs. Bennet. “It is a matter concerning Susan, the new maid we engaged last month.”

“Susan?” Mrs. Bennet frowned. “What has she done? Broken my best china? I told you she had a clumsy look about her.”

Mrs. Hill shook her head, taking a deep breath. “I fear, madam, that she may have... that is to say, I have reason to believe she may be... a thief.”

The pronouncement hung in the air like a physical presence. Even Mary’s playing seemed to falter momentarily, though Elizabeth knew her sister could not possibly have heard Mrs. Hill’s quiet declaration.

“A thief!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose sharply. “In my household? Hill, this is most serious! What evidence have you of this accusation?”

The housekeeper’s fingers twisted more insistently in her apron. “I have been conducting an inventory of the silver, madam, as is my custom at the beginning of each quarter. I discovered a valuable item missing from its proper place. The new carving knife, madam. The silver one you purchased last Christmas.”

“The carving knife?” Mrs. Bennet’s outrage intensified. “That was part of a matched set, from the silversmith in Hatfield! Hill, this is unconscionable! To think we have harboured a thief under our roof, and one bold enough to take items of such value!”

Elizabeth felt a peculiar coldness spreading through her limbs, a sudden dizziness that had nothing to do with her mother’s indignation. A carving knife. The words echoed in her mind, connecting to other words she had heard only the day before in her father’s study; the murder weapon was a silver carving knife.

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Elizabeth gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening.

“Elizabeth?” Jane’s concerned voice cut through her spiralling thoughts. “You look quite pale. Are you unwell?”

Elizabeth forced herself to focus on her sister’s face, anchoring herself in Jane’s familiar, gentle features. “I... Jane, I must speak with Father. Immediately.”

Jane’s brow furrowed in confusion, but something in Elizabeth’s expression must have conveyed the urgency she felt, for she nodded and rose without question. “Of course. I shall come with you.”

Mrs. Bennet, still absorbed in her outrage, barely noticed as her daughters stood. “Hill, we must speak with this Susan at once. I shall not have a thief in my house! The very idea! What would Lady Lucas say if she knew? We shall be the talk of the neighbourhood!”

“Yes, madam,” Mrs. Hill replied, casting a worried glance at Elizabeth’s ashen face.

Elizabeth could scarcely attend to her mother’s continuing lamentations as she and Jane moved toward the door. Her mind raced ahead to her father’s study, to the grave conversation they must have. If the missing knife was indeed the weapon that had ended George Wickham’s life, then the implications were far more disturbing than mere theft.

Someone in Longbourn, or connected to it, might be a murderer.

As she and Jane left the breakfast-room, Mrs. Bennet was already sweeping out toward the kitchen with Mrs. Hill in tow, declaring her intention to confront the suspected thief immediately. Mary’s funeral dirge had reached its dolorous conclusion, the final notes hanging in the air like an ill omen.

Elizabeth quickened her pace toward her father’s study, Jane keeping silently by her side, loyal and steady as always. The familiar corridors of their home suddenly seemed different to Elizabeth’s eyes, as if the comfortable domesticity of Longbourn had been irrevocably altered by the shadow of something sinister lurking within its walls.

As they passed through the hall, the front door swung open and Lydia slipped inside, glancing furtively over her shoulder before shutting the door behind her. She startled visibly upon noticing her sisters, her momentary expression of alarm quickly replaced by defiance.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded, lifting her chin haughtily.

Elizabeth assessed her youngest sister with a critical eye. Lydia’s boots were caked with dust, her dress hem showing the tell-tale signs of a lengthy walk. More concerning were the high colour in her cheeks and the defensive glint in her eyes, a combination Elizabeth had come to recognise as a harbinger of trouble.

“We were not staring, Lydia,” Jane replied with characteristic gentleness. “We were merely surprised to see you. We thought you were still abed.”

Lydia tossed her head. “Well, I am not. I rose early for a walk. The fresh air is good for the complexion.” She patted her cheeks as if to emphasize the point, though the gesture did little to disguise her discomfort at being discovered.

“A rather extensive walk, judging by the state of your boots,” Elizabeth observed, unable to keep the suspicion from her voice. “And alone? That hardly seems prudent.”

Lydia’s gaze hardened as it met Elizabeth’s, any vestige of sisterly warmth notably absent. Ever since Elizabeth had put paid to Lydia’s Brighton scheme, a rift had formed between the youngest Bennet and her more sensible sister. Lydia’s fury and jealousy when Elizabeth and Wickham’s engagement was announced had been seemingly boundless, and his unexpected death had only widened the chasm, Lydia’s grief manifesting as resentment toward Elizabeth, whom she seemingly blamed for her favourite’s ignoble end.

“I do not require your approval for my activities, Lizzy,” Lydia sneered, employing the familiar nickname with none of its usual affection. “Not all of us can be perfect paragons of virtue, sitting at home reading improving texts and passing judgment.”

Elizabeth felt the familiar flare of frustration that Lydia so easily kindled and kept her tone even with some effort. “Lydia, no one is passing judgment. We are merely concerned for your safety. With recent events, it is unwise for any young woman to wander alone.”

“Recent events,” Lydia repeated, her voice brittle. “How delicately put. Wickham was murdered , Elizabeth. You need not dance around the subject on my account.”

Jane stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Lydia’s arm. “Lydia, dear, you must be tired from your walk. Why not go up and rest? I shall have some tea sent up to your room.”

For a moment, Lydia’s expression softened at Jane’s kindness, but then her gaze slid back to Elizabeth and hardened once more. “Yes, I believe I shall. The company downstairs has become rather tiresome.” With that parting shot, she gathered her skirts and swept toward the stairs, leaving small clumps of dried mud in her wake.

Elizabeth watched her go, a knot of worry forming beneath her breastbone. Where had Lydia been, and what purpose had drawn her out alone at such an early hour? The questions pressed against her consciousness, demanding attention, but the more urgent matter of the missing carving knife reclaimed her focus.

“She was very far afield,” Jane murmured, watching their sister’s retreat. “I wonder where she could have gone.”

“As do I,” Elizabeth replied, “but at present, we have more pressing concerns.” She gestured toward their father’s study. “Come, Jane. I must speak to Father immediately.”

They resumed their path to Mr. Bennet’s sanctuary. Elizabeth knocked once, firmly, and entered upon hearing her father’s voice bid them enter.

Mr. Bennet looked up from his desk, a quizzical expression forming as he noted the gravity in his daughter’s countenance. “Elizabeth, Jane. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company at this hour? Has your mother discovered yet another eligible bachelor within twenty miles?”

Despite the seriousness of her purpose, Elizabeth could not help the small smile that tugged at her lips. Her father’s dry wit remained a comfort even in troubling times. “No, Father. I fear it is a matter of much greater concern.”

Mr. Bennet’s expression sobered, and he set aside his book. “Indeed? Then pray, sit down and tell me what troubles you.”

Elizabeth took the chair opposite her father’s desk, while Jane seated herself more carefully on the small settee by the window. “Father, Mrs. Hill has just informed Mama that she suspects the new maid, Susan, may be responsible for an item of value apparently stolen from the house.”

Mr. Bennet frowned slightly. “While theft is certainly concerning, Elizabeth, it hardly seems a matter requiring such grave faces from my two most sensible daughters. Surely your mother is capable of dismissing a light-fingered maid without assistance.”

“It is not the theft itself, Father, but what has been taken.” Elizabeth leaned forward, lowering her voice though they were unlikely to be overheard. “Among the missing items is the new carving knife. The silver one with the engraved handle.”

The change in Mr. Bennet’s expression was subtle but significant. The slight crease between his brows deepened, and the glint of amusement vanished from his eyes. “I see,” he said quietly. “And you immediately thought of Doctor Jones’s description of the weapon used against Mr. Wickham.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Doctor Jones specifically mentioned a carving knife. Can it be mere coincidence that our own has gone missing?”

Mr. Bennet removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “In my experience, Elizabeth, coincidences of such a nature are rare indeed.” He replaced his spectacles and regarded his daughters gravely. “This is most disturbing. If our carving knife is indeed the weapon that ended Mr. Wickham’s life, then we must consider the unsettling possibility that someone connected to this household is responsible.”

“But who would do such a thing?” Jane asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Despite Mr. Wickham’s many faults, to deliberately take a life...”

“George Wickham had a particular talent for making enemies,” Mr. Bennet replied. “And I fear his association with our family may have brought danger closer than we realised.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “I shall speak with Mr. Burnley about this development. As magistrate, he should be informed immediately.”

Elizabeth nodded, though her mind was already racing ahead, cataloguing everyone at Longbourn who might have had access to the knife, who might have harboured sufficient resentment toward Wickham to commit such a violent act.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the distinct sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drive outside. Jane rose and moved to the window, peering out through the curtains.

“It is Mr. Darcy’s carriage,” she announced, a note of surprise in her voice. “And I believe Colonel Fitzwilliam is with him.”

Elizabeth felt a peculiar flutter in her chest at the mention of Mr. Darcy, a sensation that had become increasingly familiar in recent days.

“Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Bennet’s eyebrows rose. “This is becoming quite the morning for unexpected developments. I wonder what brings him to Longbourn at this hour.”

They did not have long to speculate. The sound of voices in the hall preceded a knock at the study door, and then a harried-looking Hill appeared to announce their visitors.

“Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam to see you, sir,” she said, stepping aside to admit the gentlemen.

Mr. Darcy entered first, his tall figure commanding the small space of the study. His eyes immediately sought Elizabeth’s, a brief but intense glance that sent warmth coursing through her before he turned to bow formally to Mr. Bennet. “Mr. Bennet, I apologize for calling at such an early hour. I hope we do not intrude.”

“Not at all, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet replied, rising to greet his visitors. “In fact, your timing is rather fortuitous. We were just discussing a matter that may be of interest to you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam followed his cousin into the room, offering his own greeting with the easy charm that contrasted so noticeably with Darcy’s more reserved manner. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, bowing to each sister in turn. “A pleasure to see you both, though I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

Elizabeth’s attention sharpened at his words. “You come on a matter of some concern, then?”

“Indeed,” Darcy confirmed, his expression grave. “We have information regarding Mr. Wickham that we believed should be brought to your father’s attention without delay.”

The air in the study seemed to grow heavier at the mention of Wickham’s name. Elizabeth glanced at her father, noting the way his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the edge of his desk.

“Then I suggest you be seated, gentlemen,” Mr. Bennet said, gesturing to the remaining chairs. “For it seems we all have matters to discuss concerning the late Mr. Wickham.”

Mr. Darcy took the seat before the desk, though his glance conveyed to Elizabeth that he would much rather be sitting beside her. She lowered her eyes, feeling her cheeks colour under that steady gaze, a smile trembling at the corners of her lips despite the seriousness of the moment. Beside her, Jane shifted slightly, moving her feet so that Colonel Fitzwilliam might step past to go to the seat beside the window. Elizabeth turned her head to look in that direction, glad of the excuse to look away from Mr. Darcy at that moment, and to her surprise saw colour blooming in Jane’s cheeks too, as Colonel Fitzwilliam said;

“You are looking very well this morning, Miss Bennet.”

Jane made a strangled little noise in her throat, and Elizabeth blinked, looking from her sister to Mr. Darcy’s cousin in surprise. Did Jane… like Colonel Fitzwilliam? Oh, Jane! Elizabeth must tell her what the colonel had said once when they were walking at Rosings; that he must marry for money. Fifty thousand pounds, at least. She took Jane’s hand in hers and squeezed it, already regretting the disappointment Jane might suffer on discovering this truth.

Mr. Bennet studied the two gentlemen before him with a shrewd gaze that belied his usually indolent manner. After a moment of consideration, during which Elizabeth could almost see the calculations running behind her father’s eyes, he appeared to reach a decision. “Gentlemen,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “I believe I shall take you into my confidence on a matter of some delicacy. It seems we may all be pursuing threads of the same unfortunate narrative.”

Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged a brief glance, their expressions serious. Elizabeth found herself watching Darcy’s face, noting the subtle tightening around his eyes that suggested concern.

“We would be honoured by your trust, sir,” Darcy replied gravely.

Mr. Bennet nodded. “My daughter has just informed me of a troubling discovery. It seems that recently, a particular item has gone missing from our household. A carving knife. A rather distinctive silver one, purchased in Hatfield this Christmas past.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam straightened in his chair, his expression suddenly intent. “A silver carving knife, you say? That could be significant.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Bennet agreed. “Given Doctor Jones’s description of the weapon used against Mr. Wickham, the connection seems rather more than coincidental.”

Elizabeth watched as Darcy’s expression darkened. “You believe the missing knife may be the murder weapon?”

“It seems a reasonable hypothesis,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Though one I am loath to entertain, given the implications. If our carving knife was used to end Wickham’s life, it suggests the culprit has some connection to this household.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward. “Mr. Bennet, if I may, I believe I can offer some pertinent information. I was present when Doctor Jones examined Mr. Wickham’s body. The knife had a distinctive pattern on the hilt, an engraved scroll work with small floral medallions at intervals.”

Elizabeth felt a chill pass through her. The colonel’s description matched their missing knife precisely. She glanced at her father and saw that he had reached the same conclusion.

“That is indeed the pattern of our carving knife,” Mr. Bennet confirmed, his voice maintaining its usual dryness despite the gravity of the discussion. “It was part of a matched set. The carving fork bears the same design.”

“The fork,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said thoughtfully. “Is it also missing?”

“I do not believe so,” Elizabeth interjected. “Mrs. Hill specifically mentioned the knife, not the set.”

Mr. Bennet nodded. “If the fork remains, it would provide a definitive means of comparison. Elizabeth, would you be so kind as to retrieve it? It should be in the silver cabinet in the kitchen.”

“Of course, Father.” Elizabeth rose, grateful for the opportunity to take action, however small. The walls of the study had begun to feel oppressive as the implications of their discussion settled over her.

“I shall accompany you,” Jane offered, ever the supportive sister.

Elizabeth smiled gratefully, but shook her head. “No, Jane. I think it best if you remain. I shall return shortly.”

As she left the study, Elizabeth was acutely aware of Darcy’s eyes following her, his concern evident even in that brief glance. The sensation lingered with her as she made her way toward the kitchen, her mind turning over the morning’s revelations like puzzle pieces refusing to fit together. The corridor leading to the kitchen was unusually quiet. Normally at this hour, the space would be filled with the sounds of domestic industry, not least Mrs. Hill’s authoritative voice directing the household staff in their various duties. Today, however, Elizabeth heard only muffled voices as she approached.

She paused at the kitchen door, arrested by the sound of someone weeping. Pushing the door open carefully, she discovered a scene of quiet distress. The new maid, Susan, sat at the scrubbed wooden table, her face buried in her hands as her shoulders shook with quiet sobs. Mrs. Hill stood beside her, one hand resting awkwardly on the girl’s shoulder. Mrs. Bennet paced the flagstone floor, her expression oscillating between outrage and uncertainty.

“I swear it, ma’am,” Susan gasped between sobs. “I never took nothing. Not a spoon, not a fork, and certainly not no knife. I wouldn’t, not after you was kind enough to take me on.”

“Then how do you explain the missing item?” Mrs. Bennet demanded, though with less conviction than her earlier fury had suggested. “Things do not simply vanish of their own accord.”

“I cannot explain it, ma’am,” Susan replied, lifting a tear-stained face. “But I am honest, I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

Elizabeth cleared her throat gently to announce her presence. Three pairs of eyes turned to her immediately.

“Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “What brings you to the kitchen? This is hardly a matter requiring your attention.”

“Father sent me to fetch the case for the carving set,” Elizabeth explained, moving further into the room. She glanced at Susan, noting the girl’s red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands. There was something genuinely pitiable in her distress. “Are you quite certain the knife is not simply misplaced?”

“We have searched thoroughly, Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Hill replied. “The knife is nowhere to be found.”

Before Elizabeth could pursue this line of inquiry further, the kitchen door swung open again, admitting Lydia. Her earlier furtiveness had been replaced by an air of studied nonchalance, though Elizabeth noted that she had changed her dress, the muddy hem and boots no longer in evidence.

“Hill, I require hot water for tea,” Lydia announced, barely acknowledging the scene before her. “And have it sent up to my room, not the parlour. I have no desire to be disturbed.”

“Lydia,” Mrs. Bennet turned to her youngest daughter with exasperation. “This is hardly the time. We are in the midst of a serious matter.”

Lydia’s gaze slid dismissively over the weeping maid. “What, an upset maid? I do not see why that should prevent me from having tea. I have walked a great distance this morning and am quite parched.”

“You shall have to wait,” Mrs. Bennet replied firmly, surprising Elizabeth with her uncharacteristic firmness toward her favourite daughter. “We must resolve this matter.”

Lydia’s mouth tightened into a petulant line. “It is always something, is it not? First Lizzy and Wickham, and now we cannot even have a cup of tea without some great drama unfolding.” Her voice carried a brittle edge that caused Susan to glance up in alarm.

“Lydia,” Elizabeth began, concerned by her sister’s unusual demeanour, “no one is suggesting you cannot have tea. Only that this particular moment is inconvenient.”

“Of course, Lizzy would counsel patience,” Lydia snapped. “How very wise and proper you always are. Tell me, does it comfort you to stand in judgment over everyone else’s failings?”

“Lydia!” Mrs. Bennet’s shock was evident. “That is quite enough. You will apologize to your sister at once.”

“I shall do no such thing.” Lydia tossed her head defiantly. “If I cannot have tea brought to me, I shall fetch it myself later. No thanks to you all.” She turned on her heel, but not before fixing Elizabeth with a glare so full of resentment that it momentarily stole her breath. Lydia stalked from the kitchen, the door slamming loudly in her wake.

A uncomfortable silence descended upon the kitchen. Susan had ceased her weeping, staring wide-eyed at the door through which Lydia had departed. Mrs. Bennet appeared torn between following her youngest daughter and continuing the investigation into the missing silver.

“Well,” she said finally, “that was most unlike Lydia. I cannot imagine what has gotten into the child.” She turned back to Susan with a sigh. “As for you, girl, I am not convinced of your innocence, but neither have I proof of your guilt. You may continue your duties for now, but be warned, I shall be watching closely.”

Susan nodded vigorously, her relief evident. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. I promise you won’t regret it.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Bennet replied dryly. “Hill, see that the girl returns to her duties. And do check that the silver cabinet is properly locked every time it is opened, please.”

“Yes, madam.” Mrs. Hill gave Susan’s shoulder a final pat before guiding her toward the scullery door. “Let’s get the kettle on for Miss Lydia’s tea, then, and make at least one person a little happier…” Her voice faded as the door closed behind them.

Elizabeth, seizing the opportunity presented by this momentary lull, moved toward the corner of the kitchen where various specialised serving pieces were stored. “Mother, Father has asked me to fetch the case for the carving set. Do you know where it might be?”

“The case?” Mrs. Bennet frowned. “Whatever for? The knife is missing.”

“Precisely,” Elizabeth replied carefully. “He wishes to examine the fork and the case for... for clues as to when the knife might have been taken.”

Mrs. Bennet waved a dismissive hand, plucking her keys from her pocket and handing them over. “It is in the top drawer of the silver cabinet. Though I cannot see what good it will do. A missing knife is a missing knife, regardless of when it disappeared.”

Elizabeth unlocked and opened the indicated drawer and withdrew a polished wooden box, inlaid with a simple pattern of lighter wood around its edges. Opening it, she found the velvet-lined interior with spaces for both knife and fork, the latter still in its place. The empty space where the knife should have rested seemed to mock her with its significance.

“Thank you, Mother,” she said, closing the case carefully and returning Mrs. Bennet's keys to her. “I shall take this to Father, and give it back to Hill to lock away again when we are done.”

As she left the kitchen, Elizabeth’s thoughts returned to Lydia’s strange behaviour. The hostile glare, the early morning wanderings, the defensiveness... it all spoke of something more troubling than mere grief. For the first time, a truly disturbing thought occurred to Elizabeth: What if Lydia knew more about Wickham’s death than she had admitted?

She pushed the thought aside as she approached her father’s study once more. Such speculation without evidence was unworthy of her. Yet the suspicion lingered, an unwelcome shadow at the edges of her mind.

Mr. Bennet, Darcy, and Colonel Fitzwilliam looked up expectantly as she entered the study. Jane offered a small smile of encouragement.

“I have brought the case,” Elizabeth announced, placing the wooden box on her father’s desk. “The fork remains, though the knife is indeed missing.”

Mr. Bennet opened the case, revealing the lone carving fork nestled in its velvet housing. Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward to examine it closely.

“The pattern matches exactly,” he confirmed, his expression grave. “The scrollwork, the floral medallions... there can be little doubt that the weapon used against Wickham was the mate to this fork.”

The gravity of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s confirmation hung in the air, casting a pall over the study that even the morning sunlight streaming through the windows could not dispel. Elizabeth watched as Darcy’s gaze shifted from the carving fork to her face, his expression softening almost imperceptibly when their eyes met. He straightened in his chair, the movement drawing everyone’s attention as he cleared his throat with deliberate care.

“Mr. Bennet,” Darcy began, his deep voice measured and careful, “while this revelation about the carving knife is indeed significant, my cousin and I did not call upon you today regarding the weapon used in Wickham’s death. We have come on a matter of a different, though possibly related, nature.”

Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin in a pose Elizabeth recognised as his most thoughtful. “Indeed? It seems Mr. Wickham continues to be a source of complications, even from the grave. Pray continue, sir.”

Darcy glanced briefly at Colonel Fitzwilliam, who gave a slight nod of encouragement. Elizabeth noted the wordless communication between the cousins, a sign of their long acquaintance and mutual trust.

“It is a matter of some delicacy,” Darcy continued, his gaze briefly touching on Jane before returning to Mr. Bennet. “Perhaps not suitable for all present company.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyebrows rose slightly. “My daughters have unfortunately been made privy to many of Mr. Wickham’s indiscretions already, Mr. Darcy. I believe they have demonstrated sufficient fortitude to bear whatever new revelation you bring. Unless, of course, either of them wishes to withdraw.”

Elizabeth shook her head firmly. “I would prefer to stay, Father.”

“As would I,” Jane added quietly, though Elizabeth noted a hint of apprehension in her sister’s voice. Jane firmed her jaw and straightened her shoulders, though, and Elizabeth felt proud of her. A few months past, Jane would certainly have excused herself, not even wanting to hear of any unpleasantness that might disturb her peace. Today, though, it seemed Jane was no longer willing to pretend that the world was an entirely rosy place, and would prefer knowledge to ignorance, however discomforting the hearing of it might be. Elizabeth squeezed Jane's hand, and Jane glanced sideways at her, offering a brave little smile.

Mr. Bennet nodded. “There you have it, gentlemen. The Bennet ladies are made of sterner stuff than society might presume. Now, what is this delicate matter you wish to speak of?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam shifted in his seat, but then began. “Darcy and I have been staying at the Rose and Crown Inn in Little Whittling, some few miles from here; we thought it politic not to stay in Meryton itself, but at a distance not too inconvenient. This morning, by chance, we happened to see a visitor pay a call on a cottage close by the inn, the residence of a midwife who is known for helping women who find themselves in... inconvenient circumstances.”

Mr. Bennet’s expression darkened considerably. “I see. You are suggesting that Wickham left yet another victim of his predations, one who found herself with child.”

Elizabeth understood immediately the implication behind the colonel’s careful phrasing. The midwife would have been consulted not for delivering a child, but for preventing one from coming to term. Such practices existed in shadowed corners of society, spoken of only in whispers among women, never in mixed company as they were doing now. Jane's sharply indrawn breath told Elizabeth that her sister had come to the same conclusion.

“We are not certain that the young woman’s predicament may have been due to Mr. Wickham’s, ah, attentions,” Mr. Darcy said, his tone carefully neutral. His gaze shifted to Elizabeth, watching her reaction carefully. She met his eyes directly, refusing to shrink from the difficult subject.

“Do you know the identity of this young woman?” she asked, her voice steadier than she had expected. “Is she someone in need of assistance or protection?”

A flicker of something warm passed through Darcy’s eyes, a brief softening that made Elizabeth’s heart beat a fraction faster despite the grave circumstances.

“That is most generous of you, Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “And I am most sorry to be the bearer of this news, but if there is another explanation than the one I and my cousin fear, it is for you to ascertain, Mr. Bennet. Because the young woman we saw surreptitiously entering the midwife’s cottage at a very early hour this morning was your youngest daughter.”