“There will, of course, be the matter of Mr. Collins,” he said. “He may object—though whether he possesses the means to do so effectively is another question entirely.”
At that, Lady Catherine gave a sharp sniff. “If Mr. Collins attempts to challenge anything, he shall find himself very quickly corrected,” she said. “From what I have heard, the man has never yet had a thought that was not borrowed.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Even so, it would be wise to anticipate some degree of resistance. We shall require corroboration—letters, witnesses, any documentation that may support Mr. Frederick Bennet’s identity and history.”
Frederick nodded slowly. “What I possess, I will provide.”
Darcy continued, already turning the matter over from every angle—legal, social, practical.
Beside him, Elizabeth listened, but only half paid attention. She followed enough to understand the general course of the discussion, but her thoughts turned inward to the question Darcy had asked that morning as they lay in bed.
What do you want to do, my love?
At the time, she had not known how to answer.
She had expected… well, she had expected to feel as she had her first night at Rosings. Disoriented. Unmoored. As though the very foundation of her life had shifted beneath her feet.
But sitting here now, she did not feel that way.
Not at all.
There was, certainly, much to consider. Much to reconcile.
But she was not lost.
She knew who she was.
Elizabeth Darcy.
The name settled over her with a quiet certainty that surprised her with its strength.
Her past remained what it had always been. The home in which she had been raised. The father who had taught her to laugh and to think. The sisters who had shaped her life in a thousand small ways.
Nothing Frederick Bennet had said—nothing his existence might change—could undo that.
She was the second child of Thomas and Fanny Bennet. She had been raised as one of their daughters, loved as one, formed as one.
And then she had chosen to add to her family by marrying Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Her gaze shifted to him, taking in the composed line of his profile, the quiet authority with which he directed the conversation, the careful thought he gave to every word.
She hadchosenhim, and she did not regret it. Not for a moment.
And as for Frederick…
She glanced across the room at the man who had sired her.
He was no longer a shadow. No longer an absence or a question.
He was real.
And he was here.
But he was not her father.
Not in the way that mattered most.
He might, perhaps, become something else.
