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. “Youare 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?”
