“And if there is no male heir?”
Mr. Bennet tilted his head, studying her with a trace of amusement. “Then perhaps your mother is right, and Jane will save us all.”
Elizabeth gave him a reproving look, but he only sighed.
“You know me, Lizzy; I have never much liked dwelling on unpleasant certainties. But you are correct to ask. The truth is that I simply do not know. If there is no male heir, then either the estate will revert to the Crown, or I will be allowed to leave it to whomever I deem fit.”
Her eyes widened. “One of us?”
“Or perhaps one of your husbands or sons who is willing to take the Bennet name,” he said. “There have been Bennets at Longbourn for over two hundred years; I would hate to be the last one.”
She looked down at her hands. “What will happen, Papa, if—if you are not here and we have no place to go?”
“Then I hope,” he said gently, “that you will be married by then. Or at least strong enough to help guide your mother and sisters through the storm.”
She looked up, and his eyes met hers with surprising clarity.
“I may joke, Lizzy,” he said, “but I am not blind. I see the way the world shifts around us. And I trust you to hold your ground, no matter who inherits the land beneath your feet.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, unsure what emotion was rising in her throat—grief or pride or fear. She nodded.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He offered a small smile and returned to his port. “Now, go upstairs and remind your mother that a courtship is not yet a wedding. We must still budget for ribbons.”
Elizabeth rose, lingering for a moment at the door.
She had come seeking answers, and in their place, she found resolve.
Whatever storm might come—over Benjamin, over Longbourn, over secrets and fires and traitors—she would be ready.
Chapter 20
Darcy stood at the hearth in Bingley’s study at Netherfield, one hand braced on the mantel, the other loosely holding a glass of brandy he had yet to taste. He and Colonel Fitzwilliam had sought refuge there after returning from Longbourn to Miss Bingley histrionics at the new of her brother’s courtship.
“Courtship?” she had repeated, her voice rising so sharply it could have shattered the decanter. “With Jane Bennet? But Charles, you hardly know her! We have only just arrived! You cannot be serious—this is absurd—utterly absurd!”
Bingley, to his credit, had stood his ground, even as Caroline had fluttered and wailed, demanded and wheedled. When that failed, she had turned her gaze on Darcy, appealing to him with wide, desperate eyes.
“You must speak with him—reason with him! He cannot mean to entangle himself so irrevocably with that family. Her mother is intolerable, and her youngest sisters are barely out of the schoolroom! And as for Jane—yes, she is pretty, I grant you—but that is hardly the foundation for marriage. Surely you agree!”
Darcy had not answered. He had simply raised a brow and glanced at the colonel. That, more than anything, had seemed to rob her of further breath. By the time he had excused himself from the room, Darcy was left with a pounding headache and a renewed appreciation for Longbourn’s chaos over Netherfield’s civility.
“Do you think she will send for smelling salts next?” the colonel had whispered with a smirk on their way to the study.
The woman’s shrieks had finally died away, and the only sound was the fire crackling behind him. The day’s ride and outdoor conversation had once again inflamed his lungs, and the warmth of the blaze was insufficient to thaw the cold that had coiled tight in his chest.
He stared at the flames, but his mind was on Elizabeth. She deserved answers. She deserved peace. She deserved a life untouched by foreign assassins and burnt-out nurseries and men with too many secrets. And yet, what had he offered her? Suspicion. Danger. A dying man’s blood soaking through her dress. The memory of her trembling, fingers slick with red, refusing to let go.
He squeezed the glass in his hand, jaw tightening.
“Your Miss Elizabeth really is quite remarkable,” the colonel said from behind him, voice low, contemplative.
Darcy did not turn. “She is.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the fire and the soft clink of Fitzwilliam setting down his glass. Then: “You love her.”
It was not a question.
