“No, of course not. But what is that here?” She tilted her head and this time, she did dare to touch his arm because she could not stop herself. “Who was Bernard, really?”
Mr Darcy thinned his lips. “My mother’s son.”
Sixteen
“Ithappenedaftermymother and father were betrothed. At a dinner party…” Darcy led Elizabeth to the stone garden bench, allowing her to settle herself facing in one direction while he dropped down to it from the other.
“Your father knew?”
“He could not help it. When he and my uncle discovered her in the library, her gown was torn, and she was weeping inconsolably. She refused to name the scoundrel, but they knew very well that it had to be Lord Dewhurst.”
“Oh…” Elizabeth’s brow was contorted, her cheeks drawn. “Your poor mother!”
Darcy watched her steadily. Seated oppositely as they were, she was looking beyond him, but he could see each delicate vein of her neck, each indignant flicker of her cheek. “There was nothing to be done. Dewhurst was already married—not that anyone would wish to force my mother to break her engagement with a man she loved to marry her attacker. My uncle offered to pay my father to go forward with the marriage, an offer which my father adamantly refused, for he loved my mother deeply and would never have cast her off.”
“So, what did he do?”
Darcy set his teeth and nodded as he recalled the tale. “What any respectable man would. He challenged Dewhurst on the field of honour. And won, I might add. Then he demanded that Dewhurst would provide for the child, for it was not to inherit Pemberley. My uncle helped to force this point, as the Matlock family hold considerable power in the House of Lords. Dewhurst finally agreed, and my father used the funds to purchase Corbett.”
She turned to face him at last, those dark eyes nearly liquid with regret and sympathy. “And her child never knew her?”
“No. He was kept near, so that my mother would have the comfort of seeing her son, but for him to know her was not possible. Even old Wickham only knew that the child was the natural born son of ‘someone,’ but not whom. The only persons who knew Bernard’s true parentage were my father, my uncle, and later myself. Dewhurst had every reason to conceal his part in it, for his financial humiliation was complete.”
“But surely,” she reasoned, “it is not impossible that someone might have said something, after all this time. A servant, even, might have known something.”
He nodded slowly. “No one at Pemberley knew of it, because my parents took an extended wedding tour to Scotland. When the child was born, he was sent to old Wickham in secret, and my parents did not return for another two months. Dewhurst no longer lives, but he had an heir who might have learned something. So, I ask you; is it more likely that someone has suddenly given information, or that George Wickham wishes me to think someone has done so? He knows me, and he knew my father. He would know there is a stone somewhere to overturn regarding Bernard’s identity, and he might just be daring enough to claim that he has found it.”
She turned away and pursed her lips, her eyes unfocused on the trees overhead. “What would he gain by merely harassing you? Surely, if he has gone so far as to issue a legal complaint, he must have some proof.”
“That is my instinct as well,” he confessed. “And if Wickham did discover Bernard’s true parentage…” A sickening realisation hit his stomach at that moment. Not for his family’s tarnished honour, not for Georgiana’s innocence, but for the woman seated at his side—the woman he had already forbidden himself to touch, because she was his brother’s widow.
“I must leave,” she finished in a flat voice. “I understand, sir. You have been very kind, but if my family cannot remain at Corbett, we will go elsewhere.”
He did not correct her misapprehension—could not dare. Some part of him had clung to the idle thought that perhaps, if he could somehow settle it with his conscience, he might have had a future with her. And perhaps, if she continued to soften towards him as she had begun, she might have desired the same. But if the fact of Bernard’s parentage was legally and publicly known, any such hope was dashed.
“I must speak with my steward,” he announced at length. “I am also expecting my solicitor.”
She looked back to him and swallowed, then nodded. “Yes. Shall I go to Miss Darcy?”
He gazed long into her eyes, then stared down at her fingers—at that wedding ring—as he lectured himself, once again, that she was not for him. “No,” he answered softly. “Go to your family. Assure yourself that all is well and send word if you have need of anything.”
She was looking down at his hands now too, but at last their eyes met. “Thank you, sir.”
“Egad,Darcy.Doyouknow, I always knew your father had hushed up Bernard’s parentage for some reason, but this…” Richard made a low whistling sound. “I suppose that means Bernard was as much my cousin as you are. I feel soiled by the association,” he said with a faint sneer of distaste.
“And well you might. Richard, I would not have Georgiana hear of this unless it cannot be helped. She always nursed some pity for Bernard, and that is enough in my mind. If she knew that our mother had suffered so, it would trouble her greatly.”
“Right. So, what shall it be for Wickham? An ‘accident,’ or shall I just have the blackguard thrown into prison?”
“Do not be ridiculous, but I must know what information he has. I just spoke with my solicitor, and he is making inquiries. If there truly is evidence, I must be prepared.”
“Suppose there is not? George was no more an heir of the body than Bernard was, so why would he truly open such a challenge if what he wants is Corbett? What if he is just performing his usual sleight of hand while he tries some other means behind your back?”
Darcy smiled. “Then I shall be grateful to have you here. What have you learned so far?”
“Only that he told the Bennet family he was bound for London.”
Darcy paced before the mantel, tapping the leg of his trousers in thought. “I ordered my men to find Mrs Younge and Mrs Godfrey—or, rather, Isabella Wickham. Perhaps they will know something.”
