“Elizabeth.”
Thomas looked at her again. “Bright-eyed little thing.”
“She always is. Always watching.”
He heard Frederick shift beside him, pulling on gloves, adjusting his coat.
“I cannot stay,” his brother said. “But tell her—someday—if it is safe. Tell her I loved her.”
Thomas nodded, eyes still on the child in his arms.
By the time he looked up, Frederick was gone.
Upstairs, Fanny Bennet slept under the influence of laudanum and exhaustion, her tear-stained face slack upon the pillow.
The midwife rose as Thomas entered. Hill stood at her side, her apron clutched in her fists, eyes red.
“She has not stirred since I gave her the second dose,” the midwife said quietly.
Thomas looked to the still form in the cradle, then down at the girl in his arms.
“Remove the child,” he said. “Wrap him carefully, bury him in the morning. You were here tonight to deliver a girl.”
The midwife stiffened. “Sir?”
He turned to her, his voice low but resolute. “No one will speak of what happened tonight. I lost a son, but I gained a daughter. And the world shall not know the difference.”
Hill stepped forward, her voice hesitant. “But Mrs. Bennet…”
“Fanny will believe what she is told. She wanted a son—yes. But she will want a living baby more.” He looked at them both, his jaw tight. “If either of you breathe a word of this to anyone, ever, you will not just be dismissed—you will be destroyed. Do you understand me?”
The midwife bowed her head. “I understand, Mr. Bennet.”
Hill hesitated, then nodded once, her face pale. “Yes, sir.”
Thomas stepped to the bedside and placed the child in the crook of Fanny’s arm. Her body shifted slightly in response. Elizabeth made a small sound, a sleepy coo, and Fanny’s hand moved to cover her instinctively.
“Bright eyes,” Thomas whispered again, brushing her forehead. “You will be mine. My daughter.”
He sat down in the chair beside the bed, watching them both until the candle guttered out.
∞∞∞
February 1792—Pemberley
The sky was heavy with clouds that pressed low over the Derbyshire hills, turning the landscape gray and still. No birdsong dared break the silence. A hush blanketed the air around the Pemberley chapel, and every black-clad mourner stood stiffly in place as the coffin was lowered into the stone vault beneath the altar.
Sarah Darcy.
Wife. Mother. Mistress of Pemberley.
George Darcy stood motionless as the rope slid taut, the polished oak casket descending inch by inch into the Darcy family crypt. He heard nothing. Saw nothing. Only that unrelenting descent, carrying the brightest light of his life into the earth.
She would not be buried in the churchyard. No—the Darcys had a family tomb, long ago consecrated by one of the few remaining Catholic priests brave enough to come in secret. The vault beneath the chapel held generations: men and women who had defied kings, survived wars, preserved the old faith in quiet courage. Sarah would rest among them.
When the final prayers were said, and the guests began drifting back to their carriages, George remained where he stood. At his side, young Fitzwilliam—only eight yearsold—watched the proceedings with a pale face and wide, stunned eyes. The boy had not shed a tear in public, but George could feel the anguish rippling beneath his son’s composed exterior.
One by one, the others left. The butler, the male tenants, even the vicar. At last, only one other figure remained near the vault—a man in his forties with streaks of gray at his temples, dressed in a well-kept black coat. John Wickham, steward of Pemberley, lingered near the chapel doors with his son in tow. George’s gaze met his brother-in-law’s, and they exchanged a nod of mutual loss.
