Darcy turned to Elizabeth. To his own surprise, his tone changed as he addressed her. It was similar to how he spoke to his sister, tinged with affection. “Miss Elizabeth, I have been using the library to write my letters. There is paper and ink in the desk. You are welcome to what you require, and my footman will see the note delivered on Lo… on Mr Grant’s behalf.”
Her brows lifted slightly, her expression a curious mixture of suspicion and surprise. That she had not expected such gentleness from him was painfully evident. He knew he ought to have already apologised to her, meant to even, yet her unexpected presence at Netherfield had so discomposed him that the words would not come. When she turned to Mr Grant and offered him a tender smile—a smile that spoke of long familiarity and deep affection—he felt an irrational pang of envy and, against all reason, wished she might remain a little longer. The room seemed colder once she had gone.
Miss Bingley remained in the room, her displeasure sharpening like the scent of vinegar. Her eyes darted between Darcy and the older man, and her mouth compressed into a thin, disapproving line.
“Miss Bingley,” Darcy said, his patience threadbare as he considered that it was likely this man already knew of his own breach of politeness, “would you please leave us? Mr Grant and I have private matters to discuss. If you prefer, we can seek another room, but it would be easier to remain here.”
The lady stiffened but obeyed, her movements as close to a stomp as soft slippers and thick carpet would allow. When the door closed behind her, silence settled—a heavy, expectant thing that Darcy felt. Turning back towards the older man, he schooled his expression into polite composure even though curiosity stirred within him at the reason for this request.
“Now, sir,” Darcy said quietly, “how may I be of service?”
“You can start by apologising to my granddaughter,” came the curt reply.
Darcy froze. “Your granddaughter?”
“Yes,” Lord Granfield said, his tone cool and deliberate. “Your father was a good man, Mr Darcy—too good to have raised a son who would insult a stranger, a young lady at that. How could you refer to her as merely ‘tolerable’? What could she possibly need of your consequence when she ismygranddaughter?”
The words struck Darcy like a physical blow. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is your granddaughter?” he asked, his voice unsteady. Then the rest of what the man had said reached him, and the blood drained from his face. “She told you she overheard me at that first assembly.” It was not a question, but a statement.
The earl inclined his head. Their eyes met, and neither looked away for several moments.
“Damnation,” Darcy muttered at last.
Lord Granfield’s brow arched. “What distresses you more—that she overheard you or that she is my granddaughter?”
“That she overheard me—and that she wrote of it to you, a man who knew my father as well as you did,” Darcy replied at once, then hastened to make his explanation. “I was in a foul humour that evening and spoke without thought. Bingley would not cease urging me to dance, and although I desired only to be left in peace, I could not escape without giving offence. His sister would have felt it her duty to remain with me, and that I could not endure. I spoke rashly—ungentlemanly—and I have regretted it ever since. She gave me to understand, in her own subtle way, that she had heard, but before I could make any amends, Mrs Bennet interrupted. I know I must apologise, yet…” He hesitated, his voice faltering as his thoughts tangled.
The earl regarded him in silence for several moments before speaking. “You truly did not know she had overheard you—atleast not at first? In her letter, she mentioned that you appeared much disturbed that evening, and that she endeavoured to give you the benefit of the doubt. Still, it seemed it was no easy matter after hearing what you had said.”
Darcy shook his head. “I did not—at least not that night. Had I known, I would have begged her forgiveness then and there. It was arrogance, not malice, that caused me to speak so rudely, and I have repented it in my mind a hundred times since. In truth, my admiration for her has only deepened. But her presence here has quite unsettled me, and with Miss Bingley forever contriving to be in my company, I have found the words impossible to form.”
“You admire her,” Lord Granfield said slowly, his gaze steady upon him, “yet you would have remained silent as long as you still believed her to be merely the daughter of Mr and Mrs Bennet and had not known of her connexion to me.”
Darcy’s shoulders sank.
“I confess, I have struggled with the idea,” he admitted after a pause. “My father’s expectations have long guided me—it is possible that I have allowed them too much sway. Still, he would never have approved a marriage to a mere country miss despite all his liberal ideas.”
He hesitated, then asked quietly, “How is Miss Elizabeth your granddaughter? Why does Mrs Bennet never speak of it—nor anyone else in Meryton? I do not believe it has ever been mentioned, at least not in my hearing. There are some vague rumours of her heritage, but nothing is ever said directly.”
“Elizabeth is not the daughter of Thomas and Frances Bennet,” the older man said. “She is the child of Thomas Bennet’s brother,Paul, and my daughter, Eleanor. They both died when she was six. She has lived with the Bennets at intervals ever since. Many have forgotten the connexion, and I suspect Mrs Bennet never knew the full truth. In Meryton, I am known only as Mr Grant.”
Darcy frowned. “Why conceal your name and title? Why is it not commonly known that Miss Elizabeth is a niece of the Bennets?”
“Twenty years ago when my daughter married a local gentleman, it seemed the wisest course,” the earl replied with a faint shrug. “My duties abroad left me little time to tend to my own estates, and my son had assumed their management when I went into His Majesty’s service. After my daughter’s marriage, I assisted Paul, Elizabeth’s father, in purchasing property near his brother’s home so he might remain close to his family since it seemed best at the time. When tragedy struck, the arrangement proved a mercy. The cousins were inseparable, and with my wife long gone, it seemed fitting that Elizabeth should be raised amongst them, at least while I was abroad. Her other uncle, my son, was unmarried at the time, and had little knowledge of what to do with a child, particularly a girl.”
Darcy regarded him with renewed understanding. “Then Netherfield belongs to you?”
The earl’s expression softened, and his lips curved into a knowing smile as he turned towards the door. “No,” he said softly as Elizabeth re-entered, a folded note in her hand. “It belongs to Elizabeth.”
CHAPTER SIX
When Mr Grant departed Netherfield some time later, Darcy went in search of Elizabeth. He found her close to where he had last seen her, seated in the sparsely furnished library with a book resting unopened in her lap.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, but hesitated, his expression uncertain. “Forgive me, but I am quite at a loss how I ought to address you.”
She had stood upon his entry, and as she looked at him now, her lips curved faintly into the barest hint of a smile, but it was her eyes that held him. He had seen them sparkling at others, but as she looked at him, there was no warmth in them—a reminder that his offence was not yet forgotten. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. “Like you, Mr Darcy, I am merely the grandchild of an earl. My mother possessed a title by courtesy even though she chose not to use it after her marriage to my father. I have no claim to any title of my own.”
“That was not my meaning, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said quickly. “I had supposed you to be the second eldest Miss Bennet for I have long been accustomed to think of you as Miss Jane Bennet’s sister. This is not the case. By rights, should you not be Miss Bennet, even though your cousin is older?”
