Page 20 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

E lizabeth sat in the parlour, the low hum of activity swirling around her as her mother and Jane pored over plans for the wedding breakfast, which was growing more elaborate with every day. It was fortunate the wedding was now less than a week away.

Mamma’s excitement was almost tangible, her voice rising and falling with each suggestion.

“It is such a shame that Mr. and Mrs. Collins had no wedding breakfast,” she said loudly, not sounding in the least sorry.

“It is, Mamma,” Jane said, ever serene. “But I suppose Mr. Collins has been traveling a great deal these past months. His congregation needed him home.”

Elizabeth thought Mr. Collins might have allowed Charlotte to farewell all her friends before leaving for Kent, but her friend had been anxious to begin her life as mistress of her own home and had said she did not mind the lack of celebration.

Jane would also have been content with a simpler affair.

Across the room, Kitty worked on trimming Jane’s wedding bonnet, her needle moving with deliberation and purpose. She was gratified to have been asked, and Lydia was pouting because of it. Elizabeth watched them all as she worked on the embroidery for Jane’s wedding gown. Her fingers carefully pulled the thread in and out.

Mr. Bingley had visited yesterday, two days after she last saw Mr. Darcy—but he had come alone.

At that moment, Mr. Bingley entered the room, his usual warm smile firmly in place, Miss Darcy and Mrs. Annesley behind him. “Good morning, ladies,” he greeted, bowing slightly.

Mamma immediately drew him into their plans. “Mr. Bingley! We were just discussing the arrangements for the breakfast. You must have your say, of course.”

Mr. Bingley chuckled good-naturedly, his eyes crinkling with affection as he glanced at Jane. “I have every confidence in Miss Bennet’s choices, madam. Whatever she desires, I am sure it will be perfect.”

Mrs. Bennet practically glowed, clasping her hands together. “Oh, Mr. Bingley, you are too good! Too good indeed!”

Elizabeth’s smile faltered as Kitty looked up from her bonnet and said, “Good day, Mrs. Annesley, Miss Darcy.”

“Where are your brother and cousin this morning?” Lydia called from her corner.

Miss Darcy hesitated, though only briefly, and replied, “They had pressing business to attend, but will return before the ceremony, of course.”

Return?

Elizabeth had not realized until this moment how very much she had been hoping that he would choose her despite it all, that he would break through whatever it was that was holding him back. A cold ache spread throughout her body, numbing what moments before had been a warm anticipation. Mr. Darcy had given his answer, and to linger upon this injury would serve no purpose but to make a spectacle of herself. And yet, as the murmur of conversation swirled about her, and she offered a civil smile to his sister, she could not suppress the quiet, bitter truth that settled in her heart: she had hoped, and she had been wrong.

She forced herself to say playfully, “I trust London’s allure proved more compelling than Netherfield’s charms?”

Mr. Bingley laughed easily. “It is not for lack of fondness for Hertfordshire, I assure you, Miss Elizabeth. Business has a way of intruding, most particularly when one least wishes to be pulled away.”

She nodded, maintaining her outward composure, though her thoughts churned. The timing of this business was certainly fortuitous if he meant to have as little contact with her as possible from now on.

Later, after their visitors returned to Netherfield and dinner was complete, Elizabeth found herself alone in the family parlour. She took a calming breath. Jane was happy. Radiantly, overwhelmingly happy. That was what mattered most. Elizabeth resolved to carry on as she always had. Whatever her own heart suffered, she would not let it show. She had no right to mourn something—someone—that had never been hers.

Her shoulders slumped. She could not blame Mr. Darcy for leaving. To align himself with her family, with all its eccentricities and flaws, was no small sacrifice, and add to that her own history with an earl who did not wish to acknowledge her and who possibly yet held her a grudge—it would be too much for a man of Mr. Darcy’s stature to overlook. She had dared to hope he might be different, but she had left the choice to him, and she had her answer.

She pressed her palm flat against the glass, its chill seeping into her skin, and closed her eyes briefly. There would be one more meeting, of course, at Jane’s wedding. A brief, polite farewell, after which he would likely retreat to his world, and she to hers. He would distance himself from the Bingleys after their marriage, and thus, from her.

A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down resolutely. She would smile at the wedding and wish him well.

The small stone church stood stoic against the wind, its white, weathered facade a testament to years of stalwart service. Darcy and Fitzwilliam were shown into the vicar’s study, a modest room lined with three shelves of well-thumbed books and lit by a fire crackling merrily in the hearth. The pastor, a sprightly man with a tuft of white hair on either side of his head, a thoughtful gaze, and a deeply lined countenance, greeted them warmly.

“Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he said, his voice rich with the slow cadence of someone used to offering sermons. “I am Reverend Compton. It is a rare pleasure to host visitors from outside our little parish. How may I assist you?”

Darcy glanced at Fitzwilliam before beginning. “Reverend, I wonder if you might help us with a matter of some historical family interest. I understand that a man named James Bennet lived here for a short time around 1758 and was connected to the church.”

The vicar tipped his head to one side. “Ah, I recall your letter. Darcy, was it?”

“Yes.”

“I am rather old-fashioned. Eccentric, some say. I like to look a man in the eye when I speak to him, and I neither see nor write so well as I once did. I hope you do not mind that I asked you to visit me.”

“Not at all,” Darcy replied, though he had minded very much when he was too cold to feel his feet and had stumbled out of his carriage at the last post-inn.

“Bennet was a fine man, though his brief time here was, alas, marked by sorrow. Yes, I had the privilege of knowing Reverend Bennet. An intelligent, somewhat reserved gentleman.”

“You knew him personally?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Oh, yes,” the vicar said with a nod. “I was his curate. He and his wife often invited me to dine with them. She was a lovely woman, very kind. He was awarded the living here and had only just made a start of it. Quite a studious, thoughtful man.”

Darcy inclined his head. “It must have been a fine opportunity for you, working alongside him.”

“It would have been,” the vicar agreed, a note of regret in his voice. “But it was not to be. His wife, poor lady, was lost in childbirth not six months after they arrived. Tragic business.”

Fitzwilliam was all sympathy. “That must have been a dreadful loss.”

“Indeed, it was,” the vicar said gravely. “And not a fortnight after, he had word from the south that his brother had died as well, and that he was now the master of their family estate.”

“Was he pleased to return home?”

Reverend Compton’s cool blue eyes assessed Fitzwilliam. “He was in mourning for his wife and brother. He also had to confront the prospect of living a very different life than the one he had planned. He was devastated, Colonel. Spent a great deal of time in prayer.”

Darcy took a deep breath. This was the question he had travelled all this way to ask. “Was the child lost as well?”

The question hung in the air for only a moment before the parson replied, though it felt an eternity to Darcy.

“No,” the vicar said, shaking his head. “He was spared that, at least. Mr. Bennet’s man hired a nursemaid to care for the babe’s needs, and once his son was churched, they all proceeded south.”

No.

The child had not died.

It was the most important “no” of Darcy’s life.

“May we see the register?” Fitzwilliam asked, breaking through the buzzing in Darcy’s ears.

“I suppose,” Reverend Compton replied mildly. “But it was long ago. I shall have to locate it. If you would wait here, I shall retrieve it from my office.” He smiled. “We keep all the old registers locked up there to prevent them from being misplaced.” He walked around the back of the pulpit, unlocking a small wooden door and stepping through.

“It would prove nothing,” Darcy said quietly to his cousin.

“Perhaps. But we have come this far. We ought to be thorough.”

Darcy nodded once.

The reverend bustled back into the nave, holding an aged register. “Here it is,” he said, setting the book on the pulpit and opening it to a page he had marked.

There it was. Thomas Christopher Bennet had been churched in January of 1758. Too early. His own father had not been churched until the third week in February.

“Did you know that before he journeyed back south, Mr. Bennet formally relinquished the living and vigorously promoted my own candidacy? I shall be forever grateful to him, for I was then only twenty-five, and a living is given for life. He might have kept the position and the income for himself and visited but once a year. But that was not the sort of man he was.”

“It was very generous of him,” Darcy remarked carefully.

“Exceedingly so,” the vicar said with a nod. “When I thanked him, he simply said it would be wrong to keep the living when he would not be performing the duties. Few would show such integrity under similar circumstances, but then, he was a man of great character.”

Darcy leaned forward, his gaze steady. “You said Mr. Bennet departed with his child and a nursemaid. Do you recall any further details about them?”

Reverend Compton tapped a finger thoughtfully against his lips. “Let me see. The nursemaid was a local woman, Mrs. Albright, I believe. She was a fine choice, dependable and experienced. She travelled south with them, though I could not say what became of her after that. And he had a manservant and the man’s son, though their names I do not recall.”

Darcy exchanged a glance with Fitzwilliam, whose expression was inscrutable.

“Thank you,” Darcy said, and stood. “You have been very helpful.”

Reverend Compton smiled warmly. “It is my pleasure, Mr. Darcy. May I ask whether you know Mr. Bennet?”

“As far as I know, Mr. Bennet died some years ago,” Fitzwilliam said. “He had a son who manages the estate now.”

“Though we did not know whether he was the same son who left from Warwickshire with him,” Darcy hurried to add.

Fitzwilliam met Darcy’s gaze with a look of relief. That had been close. Why would they have asked whether Mr. Bennet’s son had lived if they already knew he was managing an estate in the south? “Good thinking,” his cousin muttered when the vicar’s back was turned.

“Ah, well, he was at least a decade my senior, and I have outlived even many who were younger than me. Even my curate died a few years back. I have a younger man as curate now, the same age as I was when Mr. Bennet was here. He is extraordinarily helpful.” Mr. Compton sighed. “Would you be so kind as to relay my best wishes and gratitude to the remaining Bennet family?”

“Of course,” Darcy replied.

The vicar smiled. “If there is anything further, I might help you with, do not hesitate to ask.”

They took their leave, the vicar’s words echoing in Darcy’s mind as they stepped outside. The wind carried a sharp bite, but it was nothing compared to the relief—nay, the joy—surging within him.

The moment they were out of doors, Fitzwilliam turned to Darcy. “There can be no doubt now,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Mr. Bennet is not a Darcy. You are free of any obligations beyond what courtesy demands.”

Darcy’s lips curved into a genuine smile. “I am heartily glad to be wrong.”

As they both entered the carriage and took their seats, Fitzwilliam added, “I will be glad never to hear the name Bennet again.”

Darcy stiffened slightly but said nothing, his mind drawn to the image of Miss Elizabeth he always held close. Fitzwilliam’s remark had struck an uncomfortable chord. Unlike his cousin, Darcy found he could not so easily dismiss the Bennet name. At least, not one of the women who bore it.

“Let us return to Netherfield,” Darcy said briskly. “Bingley’s wedding awaits, and we ought not leave Georgiana in suspense any longer.”

Darcy’s thoughts remained on Miss Elizabeth in a way they had been unable to before this journey. The restraint that had bound him these past weeks was no longer necessary. For the first time since finding his grandfather’s journal, he allowed himself the pleasure of considering the Bennets without apprehension.

Those weeks had humbled him, and he looked upon position and connections very differently now. He would not allow them to stand in the way of his happiness.

He was free to return to Miss Elizabeth with no secrets, no guilt—only the hope that she might regard him as something more than a friend of her soon-to-be brother. The burden that he had carried these past months was gone, leaving him lighter than he had felt since that fateful moment at Netherfield. Now that he could allow himself to think on it, he knew what he wanted to do.

He wanted to marry Elizabeth Bennet.

The wind howled outside, but Darcy hardly noticed. He even, at last, was able to sleep.