Page 27 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

D arcy propped himself up against the pillows and stared out the window. After several cold weeks it was finally snowing in earnest, fat flakes spinning lazily past the glass on their way to the ground. His body ached, but the only pain that truly troubled him was the sharp sting of impatience.

He flexed his fingers, frowning when they still trembled. This fatigue was intolerable. He needed his strength. Every day spent in this bed felt like a personal affront, and the knowledge that he could not stand long enough to dress and walk downstairs, let alone travel to Longbourn, gnawed at him. He had a promise to secure from Elizabeth, but even before that, a discussion to hold with Mr. Bennet. Elizabeth had assured him that she would stand by him, but he needed her to know the whole of it before she committed to a life together. He could not—would not—remain abed while the most important matter of his life awaited resolution. He tossed the covers back.

Just at that moment, the door opened and Fitzwilliam strode in, followed by Georgiana, who smiled at him and held up a book. Apparently, she meant to read to him.

Darcy braced himself for their inevitable scolding.

“You look determined,” Fitzwilliam remarked, glancing at the bedclothes and raising an eyebrow. “I do hope it is not because you are planning something foolish.”

“Foolish would be remaining here a moment longer. I must go to Longbourn. Elizabeth deserves the security of a proper proposal and her father's blessing.” She had been here for days, tending to him. They must marry. And he needed to know what the future held for himself and his bride. He could not remain here in suspense any longer.

Georgiana approached the bed, her brow furrowed. “Brother, it has only been three days since your fever broke. You are not yet well enough. You could hardly walk to the drawing room, let alone endure the journey to Longbourn. And in the snow, too . . .”

“I appreciate your concern, Georgiana, but I must go.”

Fitzwilliam folded his arms. “And what do you imagine will happen when you fall over on their doorstep? That will hardly inspire Mr. Bennet’s confidence in your ability to care for his daughter.”

Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I have no intention of ‘falling over.’ I will manage.”

“Manage?” Fitzwilliam asked bluntly. “Is that the sort of impression you wish to make? That you can manage not to swoon like a damsel in one of those novels Miss Bennet was on about?”

His cousin knew just how to provoke him. Darcy began a retort, but Georgiana interrupted.

“You must trust us, Fitzwilliam,” she said, her solemn expression giving him pause. “Elizabeth will wait for you. She knows your intentions and will be upset if you risk yourself now. If you are concerned about her presence here, her mother approved, and she was chaperoned at all times. I am sure she has already explained this to Mr. Bennet.”

Darcy frowned. “She should not have to explain. That responsibility lies with me.”

“Then put all of this energy into your recovery, and it will not take long at all before you are able,” Georgiana said sensibly, her voice quiet but unyielding. “If you ignore your health now, you risk far more than a delayed proposal. Elizabeth would be terribly unhappy if you suffered a relapse, particularly if out of some imagined anxiety for her.”

Was it imagined? That was precisely what he needed to know. Darcy’s frustration simmered just beneath the surface. They were right, of course. He knew it. Yet the knowledge brought him no comfort.

“I need to speak with Anders and Johnson,” he said hoarsely.

Fitzwilliam tilted his head. “And what pressing matter do you have for them?”

He hesitated, his fingers twitching against the coverlet. “That is not your concern.”

Georgiana exchanged a glance with Fitzwilliam. “I shall fetch them,” she said.

Darcy nodded, relieved she did not press him for details. As Georgiana left the room, Fitzwilliam lowered himself into a chair by the fire, watching Darcy with a shrewd expression.

“You are restless,” his cousin observed, rather unnecessarily.

“Would you not be?” Darcy snapped, though he regretted the harshness immediately.

Fitzwilliam merely shrugged. “I would, but I would also trust that the woman I intended to marry would wait for me a good deal longer than is required for you to regain your health.”

That was not the reason for Darcy’s agitation, but losing his temper would only give Fitzwilliam the information he sought, and then he would do all he could to persuade Darcy away from his course. He did not yet possess the strength for that argument. Darcy took a deep breath and forced himself to calm. Had he not already paid the price for allowing his emotions to dictate his behaviour? He had neither eaten nor slept well from the beginning of December until the evening following Bingley’s wedding, and what good had it done him? It had left him weak, dangerously susceptible to what ought to have been a trifling malady.

When Georgiana returned, carrying a small bundle wrapped in fine linen, Darcy reached for it with more eagerness than he intended. He unwrapped it with deliberate precision, revealing a wooden box that fit in the palm of his hand.

Fitzwilliam leaned forward, curious. “What is this?”

Darcy ignored him, opening the box to reveal a simple but elegant gold ring etched with myrtle and ivy. His fingers brushed over the band before he held it out and addressed his cousin. “Are you satisfied?”

Georgiana perched on the edge of the bed, her expression softening as she watched him. “It is beautiful,” she said quietly.

Darcy glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It belonged to my grandmother. She would have liked Elizabeth.”

Fitzwilliam cleared his throat. “Well, now that you have ensured the ring’s safety, perhaps you can focus on regaining enough strength to deliver it properly.”

“You are right. I will wait before I go to Longbourn.”

Fitzwilliam grinned. “There is the reasonable man I know.”

Georgiana reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “You will be ready soon. You are growing stronger every day.”

After his sister read to him for a time, both she and Fitzwilliam left Darcy alone to rest. The snow continued to fall outside, the gentle sweep of white flakes obscuring the view and reminding him of his isolation.

A quarter of an hour passed, marked by the steady ticking of the clock on the mantel. Finally, the servants’ door creaked open, and Anders and Johnson entered, their expressions composed, their footsteps muffled on the thick rug.

Johnson was the first to step forward. “Mr. Darcy,” he said, and extended the leather journal that had begun his search for the truth, its cover worn to a glossy sheen by time and use. Darcy accepted it.

Anders followed, presenting a square, neatly wrapped parcel. The fabric inside was soft beneath Darcy’s fingers, and he lifted back part of the paper to assure himself that his father’s swaddling blanket was inside.

“I thank you for these, and for the ring, Anders.”

“Mrs. Reynolds thought you would like to have it, sir. Miss Darcy wrote her about Miss Bennet. She apologises if it was not the right thing to do.”

Darcy smiled. “No apologies needed. Sending it in first, without the other items, was insightful on your part.”

Anders bowed. “I thought it might be of use. May I say, Mr. Darcy, that we are pleased to see you so well?”

Darcy nodded. “Thank you both.”

Neither man replied, merely inclining their heads before retreating as silently as they had come.

Darcy stared at the items in his lap for a moment. Gritting his teeth, he stood and walked to the end of his bed where, holding onto the bed post with one hand, he used the other to slide each item into the trunk that sat there, securing them beneath layers of his folded garments.

The effort left his limbs trembling as he eased himself back into bed. Forcing his body to stillness, he closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to gather his strength. For the first time in weeks, he let himself admit that he was just a man struggling against forces larger than himself—and that it might be best to allow himself to be borne along with them.

Darcy sat before the glass as Harris prepared his razor, the faint scrape of steel against leather the only sound in the room. His reflection stared back at him, still slightly pale but also resolute. His fever had broken ten days ago, and though his strength was not yet fully restored, his determination had only grown. This day had loomed large in his thoughts since his conversation with Fitzwilliam and Georgiana. It was the day he would face Mr. Bennet.

Alone.

“Ready, sir?” Harris asked, his tone deferential.

Darcy nodded, gripping the arms of the chair as the blade glided across his jaw. He had rehearsed this meeting countless times in his thoughts, weighing every word, attempting to anticipate every possible response.

The valet leaned forward, carefully straightening the collar of Darcy’s shirt before reaching for the silk cravat laid out on the dresser. He worked in silence, his deft hands creating folds as precise as an artist’s brushstrokes.

He watched the process with a critical eye, not out of vanity, but because every detail mattered. His appearance must convey strength and dignity. He owed it to his family and himself to present himself as a gentleman.

Harris stepped back, inspecting his work with a discerning eye before nodding, satisfied.

Darcy rose, the smooth silk of his waistcoat settling against him as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. He crossed to the bed where his boots waited, gleaming from a fresh polish. Harris followed. This ritual of dressing, something he had done since he was a boy, felt monumental now. It was the first time since his illness he had been properly attired, and it could very well be the last time he did so as the master of Pemberley.

His steps were deliberate as he left the room and descended the stairs, his hand brushing the polished rail as he approached the front hall. The butler, ever attentive, stepped forward with Darcy’s greatcoat, gloves, and hat.

“Your carriage is ready, sir,” he announced.

Darcy was as ready for this meeting as he would ever be. He donned his coat, smoothing the lapels before tugging on his gloves, the weight of his hat solid in his hands. Before he stepped out of doors, he tucked the journal in one pocket and the small parcel in the other, placed the hat firmly on his head, and, without another word, entered the carriage and settled himself against the squabs. Outside, the driver snapped the reins, and they began to move.

He had sent a note ahead. The many calls he had made with Bingley taught him that the ladies were not likely to be home at this time of day, and therefore he knew when to request a private conference with Mr. Bennet. It was the only way to ensure he could speak freely without the distraction of Elizabeth's presence or the eager curiosity of her mother.

As the carriage slowed and turned into the familiar drive, Darcy recalled the fortnight of courtship he had been allowed before his world had come crashing down around him. He had never been so content. What he felt now was only the bitterness of his circumstances. Was he never allowed to be happy?

He chastised himself. He could be happy again, if Elizabeth did not change her mind.

When he alighted, Mr. Hill greeted him with his usual calm efficiency and led him to Mr. Bennet’s book room. Darcy entered to find Mr. Bennet seated behind his desk.

“Mr. Darcy,” Bennet greeted, rising slowly. “I am pleased to see you looking so well recovered.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Your note said you had something of importance to discuss, but would it not be better to approach Elizabeth first?”

“Indeed it would, Mr. Bennet, if proposing to Miss Bennet was why I have come.”

Mr. Bennet looked at him over the top of his spectacles. “You do not mean to propose? Then I must ask what you have been about, sir.”

Darcy shook his head. “I want nothing more than to ask for your daughter’s hand. But first, I must speak to you on another subject.”

“I suppose you are now to inform me of some great scandal in the family’s history,” the older man said, sitting back in his chair.

“Not in the way you expect, I think.” Darcy removed both the journal and the parcel that contained the blanket and set them on Mr. Bennet’s desk. “Before I begin, Mr. Bennet, I must ask you a great favour.”

Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow, his amusement tempered by Darcy’s serious tone. “You have piqued my interest, Mr. Darcy. Pray, proceed.”

“I would ask that whatever else you do as a result of this conference, that you promise to leave my sister’s fortune of thirty-thousand pounds intact and in my care.”

“Why would I have anything to do with your sister’s fortune?”

“I am about to explain. Will you give me your word as a gentleman that you will not leave my sister without the monies that my father left for her?”

“I would never strip a young woman of her family’s fortune, Mr. Darcy, though why you should ask for this promise is mystifying.”

He waited.

Mr. Bennet’s brows pinched together. “Very well, you have my word. Your sister’s fortune is safe from me.”

Darcy took a deep breath, relieved beyond measure. “I thank you,” he said. He picked up the journal and opened it to the page he had bookmarked. “What I have to say may come as a shock. Will you first read the entry on this page?”

The man read it. “This is not a scandal, Mr. Darcy, this is a tragedy.” He held the book out to return it. “But I do not see what it has to do with me.”

Darcy took it and placed it on the desk between them. His fingers lingered on its worn cover as he sought the right words. “When I first came to Hertfordshire, my sole purpose was to accompany Bingley and enjoy his hospitality. However, certain observations led me to suspect that there might be a connection between us—that is, between your family and mine.”

Mr. Bennet’s expression shifted to one of confusion, but he said nothing, waiting for Darcy to continue.

“This journal,” Darcy said, tapping the cover lightly, “belonged to my grandfather, Frederick Darcy. The twin who remained at Pemberley was my father.”

“I am afraid I still do not see what this has this to do with me,” Mr. Bennet said with a frown.

“Mr. Bennet, at the end of the Netherfield ball, I noticed in you a similarity to my father. You have his looks, his height, and his expressions. You are also left-handed, as he was.”

“How did you know that?”

“You use your left hand to turn the pages of your book.” Darcy had only just put it together a few moments ago. “Your daughter has told me you do not like to write letters. Were you forced to learn to write with your right hand?”

Mr. Bennet was clearly shocked, but he nodded. “I was.”

“My father was as well, though he had to write so many letters that it became an established habit.” Darcy shook his head. “You are not identical, which is why I was not certain, but twins are not always precisely the same.”

“Do you mean to imply that I am this missing twin?” Mr. Bennet cried. “This is nonsense, my boy.”

“In truth, I hope you are right,” Darcy replied. “But I must be sure, as far as I am able.” He tapped the parcel. “Your daughters spoke of a blanket you had from your infancy, and I wondered if you had it still.”

“I do. It is in a box of my father’s things.”

Darcy’s heart raced. This was the moment he had been attempting to avoid since the beginning of December, but disguise of every sort was his abhorrence, and delaying had only made him ill. He removed the paper, revealing a blue blanket just large enough for an infant, the edges embroidered in threads of green, yellow, and silver. He laid it on the desk, smoothing the fabric to display the intricate stitching alongside a single letter: G.

“Your blanket,” Darcy said quietly. “Does it look like this?”

Mr. Bennet picked up the tiny blanket and blinked at it. He turned it in his hands, he traced the embroidery. “Mine does not have the letter.”

Darcy closed his eyes. “That is because yours was the first, the one my grandmother made for her babe before she knew whether it would be a boy or a girl. Before she knew there would be two. When that blanket disappeared with her first-born son, she made another for the child who remained. My father, George Darcy.”

“I do not understand,” Mr. Bennet whispered. His complexion was ashen, and Darcy quickly poured him a glass of wine.

“If I could have relayed this news to you in a gentler manner, I would have,” Darcy said as he pressed the glass into Mr. Bennet’s hand. “I had my suspicions, but we had thought them disproven until the night—”

Mr. Bennet lifted his eyes to meet Darcy’s. “Until the night you rushed out of here like the devil himself was after you.”

“You did share your cold with me, but the severity of it, I believe, was the result of weeks of uncertainty followed by a terrible shock. Please believe me, Mr. Bennet, I would not have asked Miss Bennet for a courtship unless I believed myself able to support her.”

When he had swallowed his wine, Mr. Bennet set the glass down and asked, “Why would that change?”

The man was still not thinking clearly. Darcy took a deep breath. “Because if you are the elder son—”

“Dear God,” Mr. Bennet paled. “The older twin would be the heir to your Pemberley.”

At last, it had been said. Darcy was grieved, devastated, and relieved all at once. “Just so.”

The silence that followed was oppressive. Mr. Bennet stared at the blanket as though it might leap from the desk to confirm or deny Darcy’s words of its own accord. With shaking hands, he reached for the bell and rang for the butler.

When the man arrived, Mr. Bennet’s voice was steady but strained. “Mr. Hill, please fetch the baby blanket that is stored in my father’s cedar chest.”

The butler glanced between Darcy and his master, then bowed and departed, returning some minutes later with a small blanket, frayed at the edges and appearing a little worse for wear. Mr. Bennet unfolded it, laying it beside Darcy’s. The two blankets were identical save for the letter.

“But I am a Bennet,” Mr. Bennet said weakly. He turned to Mr. Hill. “Hill, you came with us from the north. Am I or am I not my father’s son?”

Mr. Hill stared at the blankets on Mr. Bennet’s desk. He pressed his lips together. “My father told me not to say.”

“Both our fathers are dead. I am telling you that you must.”

The butler hesitated but ultimately nodded. “My father worked for yours, as you know.”

“I do.”

“I was twelve when a woman from the church’s orphanage came to me carrying a babe. She said that as far as they knew, your mother was a wealthy woman who had been conducting a scandalous affair with a footman, and that the family had cast you out.” He shrugged. “It explained the rather fine blanket you were wrapped in. She said a vicar was sure to find the babe a good home, one that might be more in keeping with his parentage.”

“But he kept me.”

Mr. Hill shook his head. “Your father had suffered the loss of his wife and babe only a few days earlier. He believed he was saving you, and so did we. When he received word about his brother, you were churched right away so that we could travel south as soon as possible. He performed the service himself. The curate stood in as your godfather.”

“Were you there?”

“I was.”

Darcy was stunned. All the information they had needed was in front of them the entire time in the person of Mr. Hill—there had been no need to check the parish registers, visit all the local families, make a mad dash to Warwickshire. Of course, had they not gone to Warwickshire, had he not falsely believed he was in the clear, he would not have had the courage to court Elizabeth.

Elizabeth, who loved him.

“Thank you, Mr. Hill,” Mr. Bennet said quietly. “I will ask that you remain silent about all of this.”

Mr. Hill nodded gravely. “I have never told anyone until now, sir, and unless you ask, I never shall again.”

“And there is no possibility of error?” Mr. Bennet asked sombrely, once the butler had withdrawn.

“These,” Darcy said hoarsely, pointing out the trees in the corners of each blanket, “are the Spanish oaks that line the approach to Pemberley.”

“Why would the midwife abscond with a child?” Mr. Bennet exclaimed. “It makes no sense!”

“I am afraid I do not know,” Darcy replied. “I suspect if her reason was ever discovered, my father would have informed me.”

The last vestiges of doubt drained from Mr. Bennet rather suddenly. He sank into his chair, one hand running through his greying hair. “When you first reappeared in December, I thought you and your cousin were merely asking questions about Jane’s connections on behalf of your friend, and later, that you were uncertain about pursuing Elizabeth for yourself.” He shook his head. “Why have you told me this, Mr. Darcy? I might have gone my entire life in ignorance, and you could have kept Pemberley and all its wealth for yourself.”

Darcy’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to speak. “It is the truth. You deserved to know.”

Mr. Bennet closed his eyes, his expression pained. “I see now why you insisted on my promise to keep your sister’s fortune untouched, Mr. Darcy, and of course I will abide by my word. But why did you ask nothing for yourself?”

“I would not ask for that which is not mine. My sister cannot earn her fortune. I have some money put away, and I am capable enough. I shall make my way.”

As he spoke the words, Darcy knew that they were true. He had studied law at Cambridge, the better to manage his own estate. He could do very well for himself as a barrister. Had his great-uncle not been a judge? There was a path for him, even if it no longer led to Pemberley and its vast wealth but a far humbler life.

Mr. Bennet studied Darcy with a keen eye. “You are willing to give it all up, then—Pemberley, your fortune, your place in society?”

“’Willing’ may not be the correct word,” Darcy replied ruefully. “But my honour demands it.”

“Your honour,” Mr. Bennet repeated. His fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. “And you intend to ask for Elizabeth's hand in marriage, despite the fact that her father will now take your place? Are you not bitter?”

Darcy inclined his head. “I intend to ask Miss Bennet whether she still wants me, for my position is very different now. As is hers. But if you and she allow it, yes.”

Mr. Bennet was still visibly struggling to process the enormity of the revelation. “You have given me much to think about, Mr. Darcy. I never knew I was not a Bennet by blood, but in hindsight, it does makes sense. My father was always doing something to support the orphans in the village or in Meryton, and I often wondered why he never spoke of my mother.” He let out a slow breath. “This knowledge has created a quandary for me.”

“Sir?”

“You do not wish to give up Pemberley.” He held up a hand when Darcy made to speak. “Your honour does not allow you to keep it, I know,” he said. “But you do not wish to give it up.”

“That much is true,” he admitted.

“Well, we find ourselves in the same situation, then. For I do not wish to give up Longbourn. But if I am a not a Bennet, I cannot keep it.”

Darcy closed his eyes. He had forgotten. “Entailed?” he asked. How fitting.

“Precisely.”

Mr. Bennet sighed. “I need a bit of time to consider this—what it means for my family, for myself, and for you. Will you return tomorrow?”

Darcy rose, his posture composed though his emotions swirled within. “I shall return at whatever hour you request, Mr. Bennet.”

“I shall send you a note.” Mr. Bennet said. “We shall speak then.”

Darcy inclined his head. “I am grateful for your consideration and for the opportunity to speak honestly.”

Mr. Bennet said nothing, his gaze falling once more to the two blankets on his desk. Darcy stepped away. The house was still empty, and he saw that less than a half an hour had passed. Half an hour that had changed his life.

His carriage awaited. Mr. Hill handed him his gloves and hat with a quiet efficiency and stoic expression. Darcy paused, placing the hat on his head before turning to look once more at the house.

This meeting had been only the beginning. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges and, he hoped, its own resolutions. Drawing a steadying breath, he climbed into the carriage.

“Back to Netherfield, sir?” the driver inquired.

“Yes,” Darcy replied, his voice firm despite the turmoil within. “Back to Netherfield.”

As the carriage carried him away from Longbourn, Darcy rested his head against the seat. The path ahead was uncertain, but he knew one thing with absolute clarity: he had done what was right. Everything else was out of his hands.