“I will keep her safe,” he vowed.
Catherine nodded once, then reached to place a kiss on her daughter’s brow. “Goodbye, my darling girl,” she whispered. “Forgive me.”
She stepped back as Frederick tucked the child close and swung down from the window, disappearing into the night as silently as he had come.
Only once the pane was shut and the room was empty again did Lady Catherine allow herself to fall to her knees and weep.
∞∞∞
Longbourn, one week later.
Thirty-year-old Thomas Bennet sat slouched in his armchair, one hand cradling a glass of brandy, the other clenched white around the armrest. The fire had burned low in the grate, but he had not moved to stir it. Across the room, the midwife’s voice murmured something behind the closed door of his wife’s chamber—some final useless comfort, perhaps.
It was over.
His son—his only son—had been born blue and still.
For nine long months he had waited for an heir, and now there was nothing but silence and a mourning wife behind a shuttered door. Fanny had refused to let go of the tiny body, and the maids were too frightened to press her. She would not be consoled, nor could he blame her.
A sharp knock at the front door shattered the quiet.
It was well past midnight, but Thomas stood, brandy forgotten. Hill had long since retired, so he moved to answer it himself. When he opened the door, the last person he expected stood on his threshold.
“Frederick?”
The young man’s face was pale and drawn, his coat travel-stained, his dark hair curling damp around his collar. But he held something close to his chest—a bundle wrapped in white wool, faintly stirring.
Thomas’s mouth opened, but no words came.
“I haven’t much time,” Frederick said. His voice was hoarse, hurried. “I’ve just come from the north. This—” he swallowed. “This is my daughter—your niece.”
Thomas stared at the child, then at the man. “Yourdaughter?”
“She is Catherine’s.” At Bennet’s startled look, he added, “Yes.ThatCatherine. We married in a secret Catholic ceremony six months ago.”
Thomas let out a low breath. “You fool.”
“Do you think I do not know that?” Frederick whispered. “But I will not let them take her. Catherine cannot run—she dared not even try. Her father would have me hanged if he finds us together. He already set his dogs on me once. I barely escaped.”
Frederick took a deep breath and held the child out. “I cannot keep her, Tom. If I stay, they will hunt me down. Her brother’s men nearly caught me already, and she... she would not come. She wanted me to take Elizabeth and flee, but the life as a daughter of a single man is no life at all. She deserves a family.”
“And you think I can give her that?”
“You already have a family. A nursery. A name. Say she is a cousin’s orphan. Say anything you like. I am not asking you to raise her as mine, but… please, raise her.” Frederick’s voice cracked. “Raise her as your own.”
“You want me to take her? You will not be staying?”
Frederick shook his head. “I am bound for India. Passage secured, no direction to return.”
“Then why come to me?”
“Because I knew you would do it,” Frederick said simply. “Because she deserves better than a life on the run, or worse. You will not let her suffer.”
Thomas did not respond. He reached out and took the child from his brother’s arms.
She stared up at him, quiet now, her small hand gripping the edge of his lapel with surprising strength.
“Her name?” he asked.
