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Chapter Twenty-One

November 26, 1811 Netherfield Ball Elizabeth

E lizabeth had retrieved a shawl from the retiring room, anticipating the chill of the night air on the terrace. The ladies had withdrawn to the large drawing room and were, even now, displaying their various talents for the assembled guests. Elizabeth slipped away as Mary took her place at the instrument. No one would miss her absence—certainly not when compared to her sister’s performance.

“Elizabeth.”

She turned as Mr. Darcy approached, pulling the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. He came to her side and, as he had on Oakham Mount, lifted a hand to her cheek. Though he wore gloves, the warmth of his touch reached her, and she leaned into it, grateful for the comfort against the cold. “I do not believe anyone will interrupt us this time,” he said, his voice thick with feeling, “but just in case, I shall get straight to the point.”

He dropped his hand and took hers instead. Then, before she had time to catch her breath, he sank to one knee. “Dearest Elizabeth, I love you—most ardently. I did not come to Hertfordshire expecting to fall in love, but I have. Your beauty and grace are surpassed only by your wit, vivacity, compassion, and zeal for life. My heart is yours and will belong to no other. Please, I beg you—end my agony and consent to be my wife.”

Her heart leapt. Had she not longed for this moment? Had she not rehearsed her reply again and again, all the while hoping he might overcome the strange circumstances of her life and love her still?

“I love you, too,” she said with quiet intensity. “And I long to accept your offer. But first, I must acquaint you with my…history, I suppose, is the best word.”

His brow furrowed. “Shall we sit?” he suggested. “If you are cold, we might go to the library.”

“I would prefer not to be overheard. My story…well, it is best not shared widely.” She moved to a stone bench a short distance from the door and sat. He followed, keeping hold of her hand.

“Speak, my dear. I am anxious.”

Elizabeth drew a deep breath. “I was not born a Bennet,” she said simply. “No, do not speak. Let me tell you everything, and then you may ask questions.”

Darcy remained silent as she recounted all that she knew of her past. When she finished, she added softly, “I have tried to remember more, but the recollections are just out of reach.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Slowly, he released her hand, and she felt the loss at once, fearing the worst. But then his hand rose to her temple, to the place where the faint scar lay concealed in her hair. He brushed the strands aside and touched it lightly.

“It is difficult to see when my hair is up,” she said nervously. “The maids have learned to disguise it as best as they can.”

“They do admirable work. I had no idea it was there—and I know your appearance very well.” She glanced up and caught the teasing glint in his eyes.

“Then…?” she asked, hardly daring to finish the question.

“This changes nothing,” he said fervently. “I care not for fortune and connection—not any longer. You are a Bennet in every way that matters, and they are your family. That is more than enough for me.”

“Truly? Oh, Fitzwilliam, I was so afraid. But I could not begin our lifebased on a lie. I knew I would rather lose you forever than conceal the truth.”

He raised his hands to her cheeks, and before she could speak again, he kissed her. Her first kiss was everything she had ever dreamed: tender, gentle, exhilarating. When he drew back, she felt a pang of regret—and a secret wish that he might kiss her once more.

“May I have your answer?” he asked solemnly. “Do I write to my solicitor tomorrow, or no?”

“Yes!” she cried, laughing as she threw her arms around his neck. “Yes, sir, I shall marry you.”

A sound interrupted them, and they quickly drew apart. Mr. Bingley stepped onto the terrace, Jane on his arm. At the sight of the pair on the bench, he paused and frowned—though it was only mock disapproval.

“I believe Miss Elizabeth ought to be returned to her mother,” he said seriously. “I have something to discuss with Miss Bennet.”

Darcy rose and assisted Elizabeth to her feet. “We shall leave you to it,” he replied with equal gravity. As they walked inside, he leaned down and whispered, “At least this time, we were not interrupted.”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “It was a near thing. Let us give them their moment. We can announce our engagement tomorrow.”

Darcy agreed. Just before the dancing resumed, Mr. Bingley and Jane shared their own happy news. Their betrothal was met with cheers and heartfelt congratulations. Mrs. Bennet dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Bennet,” she sighed, “God has been very good to us.”

“He has indeed, my dear,” her husband replied warmly. “They will be very happy. Of that I am certain.”

By the time the Bennet’s carriage rumbled off toward Longbourn, the sky had begun to lighten. The mood within was subdued, but content. Everyone was exhausted, and Jane, yawning frequently, could not suppress her smile.

Elizabeth fell into bed, dreaming of her own happiness. Soon, her own story would begin—a life with a gentleman who not only offered her security despite her uncertain past, but who loved her deeply. And she loved him. Life , she thought drowsily, could not be any more perfect.

Darcy

Darcy slept fitfully. Snippets of conversation mingled with Elizabeth’s story about her origins, drifting through his dreams. As his mind worked over the fragments, something shifted into place. He sat up abruptly, gasping for breath.

“Not a Bennet!” he cried. “Elizabeth is not a Bennet.” Did Bingley have it right all along?

The sun was already high, and one glance at the clock confirmed it was pasteleven. He knew at once that he could not delay. Bingley needed to hear this.

Without bothering to dress, he threw on his banyan and slippers and left his chamber in haste. Crossing to the family wing, he banged on Bingley’s door. “Open the door, Charles!” he called urgently. “I need to speak with you at once.”

Bingley opened it, looking every bit as disheveled as Darcy. His hair was unkempt, and his tone was cross..

“Confound it, Darcy!” he said irritably. “We were not abed until nearly dawn. What is so important it cannot wait a few hours more?”

“She is not a Bennet,” Darcy said in a low, fervent voice, leaning closer to avoid being overheard.

Bingley froze, his mouth falling open. “Come in,” he said, stepping aside. Closing the door, he led Darcy to a pair of chairs before the hearth. “Explain.”

“I proposed to Elizabeth last night. She would not accept until she had told me about her past. Bingley, she is not a Bennet. They found her in Derbyshire, very near to the Yorkshire border. She had a head wound and remembered nothing but her name, and that she was eight years old.”

Bingley stared at him, stupefied. “Is that all? It is not enough to prove anything.”

“She has a box of her belongings. I have not seen it myself, but she says it contains a brooch bearing a family crest.”

He watched as Bingley buried his face in his hands, a shuddering breath shaking his shoulders. “It seems impossible,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “But if she is Elizabeth Montrose…well, then a terrifying chapter of both our lives may finally come to an end.”

Darcy leaned forward anxiously. “Will you tell me the whole of it?” he asked.

“It is a grisly story, Darcy. My father was one of Mr. Montrose’s business partners. I spent a great deal of time with the family. Our mothers were dearest friends, and after Mama died, Mrs. Montrose tried her best to offer herself as a substitute. ‘Never a replacement,’ she often said.”

He drew another unsteady breath. “And then it ended. The entire family was found dead, murdered in their beds—except for Mr. Montrose. The culprit struck him down in his study.” Gasping, he choked back sob. “I found him, Darcy. I have never been able to forget what I saw. Their daughter, Elizabeth, was the only one not discovered in the house. If Miss Elizabeth Bennet is Elizabeth Montrose…”

“A blow to the head could explain her lack of memory,” Darcy pondered.

“How could anyone do such a thing? And to children? Poor Harry.” Overcome with emotion, Bingley stood abruptly and crossed to the window. “Should I tell her what I know?” he asked. “Does she not deserve the truth, even if she chooses to do nothing with it? And she has a grandmother still living. I sent out inquiries after our last discussion.”

“Montrose. Surely you do not mean Lady Maude Montrose?” Darcy recollected the name. His father had spoken of the family more than once, usually during lectures on the importance of duty. Lord Montrose had disowned his younger son when he chose to enter trade. His elder son, Viscount Marston, remained a dutiful heir and served as an example of proper conduct.

“Lord Montrose—the son, not the father—died recently,” Bingley continued. “I have not read the papers since, but I learned that the Dowager Countess Lady Montrose has offered a reward for information regarding her granddaughter. She was discreet, made no public spectacle of it, and so I never knew until…” He shrugged helplessly. “What am I to do? And Caroline is coming! She and Elizabeth were the best of friends.”

“You must tell Elizabeth,” Darcy advised. “As you said, she deserves to know. If she wishes to seek more information, we may be able to assist.”

Bingley nodded, his resolve appearing to solidify. “Well, I am awake now. Would it be improper to call upon my betrothed so soon after such a late night?”

Darcy chuckled. “Miss Bennet will be pleased by the attention. Have you a gift to bring her?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Bingley padded to his bedside table and opened a drawer. “I found this hair comb in Meryton. I shall take it to Jane directly.”

Scarcely an hour later, the gentlemen mounted their horses and made their way to Longbourn. Darcy, too, bore a gift for Elizabeth—though it was but a trifle: a note expressing the sentiments he had not yet spoken aloud. He intended to send to Pemberley for a selection of jewels he thought would suit her. His grandmother’s betrothal ring would look perfect on her hand.

When they arrived, the family had already gathered in the parlor. Bingley went directly to Jane and greeted her with a kiss upon the back of her hand. Darcy caught Elizabeth’s eye and gave her a subtle wink, but turned first to her father. “May I have a word in your study, sir?” he asked.

Mr. Bennet startled, but nodded. They stood and withdrew. Once within the privacy of his study, Mr. Bennet gestured toward a pair of chairs arranged before the hearth, where a low fire crackled gently. “Come, Mr. Darcy—sit. What is it you wish to say?”

“What I must tell you is somewhat complex,” he hedged. “First, your daughter, Miss Elizabeth, accepted an offer of marriage from me last evening. She did so after she confided her past to me.”

Mr. Bennet blanched and sank heavily into his chair. “She told you and yet you still want her?” he asked hoarsely. “I have feared this moment since the day we found her. Tell me, Mr. Darcy, what could have befallen a child that rendered her memory void?”

“That is the more complex part I spoke of.” Darcy hesitated. “Bingley believes he knows her true identity.”

Mr. Bennet gaped at him. “Does he mean to expose all that we have kept hidden?” he whispered, his face awash with agony. We never intended deceit, only protected her as best we could. She is our daughter and holds the same place in our hearts as every one of our own.”

“Rest easy, sir. Neither of us wishes to rob you of your daughter. But we both feel she has the right to know the truth, and to do with that knowledge as she sees fit. Her history is more tragic than you may imagine.” He paused. “And she has a grandmother still living.”

“Does she? And has this lady searched for her grandchild? We have heard nothing here.” Mr. Bennet sat straighter, his tone edged with unease.

“Bingley assures me the circumstances are unusual. I do not know the details, but Lady Montrose has been looking for her granddaughter.”

A peer, then. Mr. Bennet slumped back into his chair, face drawn. “I could not bear it if she took my Lizzy.”

“I cannot begin to speculate what Lady Montrose may do should she acknowledge Elizabeth. But surely, sir, do we not owe it to your daughter to offer her this piece of herself?”

Shuddering, Mr. Bennet nodded slowly. He tugged the bellpull; when a footman appeared, he bid him summon Elizabeth and Mr. Bingley.

The pair arrived a moment later—Elizabeth looking bemused and Bingley appearing grave.

“Have a seat. This may take a while.” Mr. Bennet indicated a table near the window, arranged more suitably for group conversation. Darcy remained standing but stepped to Elizabeth’s side and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Sir, I have not yet given you my consent to marry my daughter, and until such time as I do, I expect you to behave with proper decorum.” Darcy blanched and withdrew his hand at once.

“Papa!” Elizabeth cried, nudging him with her elbow.

Mr. Darcy inclined his head. “Well, sir? May we hope for your blessing?”

Mr. Bennet cast them both a long, pointed look. “And you, Lizzy… Are you not out of your senses to be accepting this man?”

“No, Papa,” she laughed, nudging him once more. “I am honored by his proposal. I know we will be so very happy together.”

Mr. Bennet sighed in resignation. “Very well. Let me be the first to wish you joy. I own myself surprised, but I am gratified that my Lizzy has chosen a respectable gentleman…even if he is a trifle stiff.” That earned a round of laughter.

“Now, returning to the other matter, Mr. Darcy, why do you not tell Elizabeth what you told me? And Mr. Bingley, you may speak when his knowledge fails.”

Darcy spoke plainly, recounting Bingley’s strange behavior since his introduction to Elizabeth. He described the epiphany he had experienced that very morning; and then his friend took over.

“I believe you are Elizabeth Montrose,” Bingley said, his tone firm. “You resemble your mother…a second mama to me after mine died.” He fell silent and swallowed. Darcy was certain his friend was struggling not to reach up and tug at his cravat. After a moment, Bingley said gently, “There is no easy way to tell you, Miss Elizabeth. Your family was murdered; everyone in the house was killed. You vanished that same night. From what Darcy has told me, I suspect you were meant to be amongst them.”

Elizabeth gasped, her hand rising to her hidden scar. Her gaze darted to Darcy. “You told him?” she asked incredulously, strangling a sob. “That was shared in confidence, sir.”

“Pray, forgive me, Miss Elizabeth. I did—but only because I believed it might help bring clarity to the questions that have long plagued you. I meant no betrayal, only to aid in the discovery of who you truly are.”

“Who… Did they ever find the culprit?”

“No. I…my father was never the same, and we left Yorkshire a few years later. Darcy says you have evidence…something that would identify you.”

Elizabeth nodded, her wide-eyed confusion softening her features, rendering her younger than her twenty years. “Could it be?” she asked. “You could be mistaken. Why has my family not searched for me?”

She rose. “I shall fetch the box.” Elizabeth hurried from the room.

The gentlemen sat in strained silence until her return a few minutes later. She crossed to her father’s desk, placed the small chest upon it, and lifted the lid. After moving aside several folded papers, she drew forth a stained blue gown and something wrapped in a handkerchief. Slowly, she unfolded the gown. It was small, a silent testament to her slight frame, even in childhood. Then, with careful hands, she removed the linen covering to reveal a finely wrought cameo brooch. She cradled it in her palm and turned it toward them.

“M for Montrose,” Bingley choked, eyes shining as he blinked rapidly, unmistakably near tears. “Oh, Elizabeth, I thought I would never see you again.”