“What is it, my dear?”
She reached out and handed him the letter sealed with the Darcy crest. “I found this in the desk. Do you know the writing?”
He was stunned at first before reverently replying, “Yes. It is my mother’s.” He broke the seal and read, a low whistle escaping his lips. “In theother lifethis is what Lady Catherine feared Wickham was looking for. Not my father’s letter at Bainbridge & Sons, butthis.”
“Wickham?”
“In…another time. Her fear was justified.”
He held out the parchment to her, she took it, and began to read:
My darling George,
I wish your travel to London could have been delayed as I alone reside at Rosings with your secret, and no one to share it with. Sir Lewis presenting this most unsettling claim––that he is not the father of young Anne, my namesake. What proof does he have Catherine had taken a lover all those years ago and Anne the result of that affair? And with a groomsman? Your counsel to your brother to not act too hastily, and make certain his claimsare accurate, is wise. I cannot know what my brother, would do if unfounded accusations were made against his sister.
Oh, George. I believe it a good sign you were interrupted by Catherine. The wine she brought Sir Lewis is from his favorite vineyard and must have brought him comfort. He has still not recovered from the illness which took hold that night, but I hope he will by your return.
Oh, my sister! I would not think it of her but after much contemplation, realize her increased attention to the stables. How she has become a much better horsewoman over the last several years. Her interest in horseflesh has increased as well. I was always the rider growing up.
What is to be done as Anne is almost ten years old? I am troubled, but wait for your counsel, my husband. Until your return, I will take comfort in my sweet Fitzwilliam and this darling child growing within me. We have created our own happiness,and I will allow that to be my every thought until your return. I will choose the life I love.
Forever,
Your Anne Girl
Darcy was visibly shaken and sat on the chair, staring at the parchment. “My cousin? Anne?”
“Did you ever have an inkling?”
“Never,” he said, running his hand through his hair.
“Did your father and uncle not pursue this further?”
“Apparently not. My uncle died when I was twelve…” He snatched at the papers, and opened the parchment again, scanning for the date. “April twelfth…”
“Yes? What significance does that day hold?”
Darcy looked at Elizabeth. “Sir Lewis died on the fourteenth of April. Only two days after this letter.”
A gasp escaped Elizabeth’s lips. “Two days? How did he die?”
A long pause preceded his reply. “The doctors could not give a satisfactory reason. They believed he ate something which did not agree with him, and he expired.”
“Something that did not agree with him?”
“Yes. One of the doctors even implied…poison.”
“Poison? Who would have––” Elizabeth paused, her eyes growing large, and her mouth forming anO.“You do not believe that…”
“I know what you are thinking, and my own mind has traversed down that path in the last several seconds. The evidence is inconclusive. We cannot suppose my aunt, a daughter of an earl, wouldeverstoop to the level of a common criminal.”
But, for all his protestations, a silent understanding was conveyed. Then, she spoke again. “But Fitzwilliam…if we are to take any good from this find, you have received a letter from the grave. How your mother loved you.”
A wistful smile tugged at his lips. “Yes. And I, her.”
They were silent until Elizabeth asked, “How could this letter appear in this lifetime?”
“I do not know. There are things in dreams that do not make sense––where the start does not match the finish. But I will do what my mother should havedone, instead of locking it away.”
