by Anne Morris
Elizabeth was quiet for many minutes and stood stunned and looking nowhere but at Mr. Darcy. "Yes," she replied faintly, "yes," she said then, with more assurance. "He is my son."
It was in his eyes that she saw the first response, a sadness that what had been an assumption, a guess, had proved correct. His lips moved, a muscle in his cheek twitched or spasmed, but she was unable to read his feelings.
"You are thoroughly appalled by the idea," she said, "I can see, that I should have a son in such a manner and disguise him as my brother." He still stood looking at her as though he did not know how to have a conversation with a woman over such a subject.
"What of the father?" he asked at last.
"Gone," she replied. She turned and started to pace slowly home, though she kept her eyes over on her companion, who matched her pace.
"Dead? Or did he abandon you?" She could hear vestiges of anger rising in his voice, though she did not know if he was angry at her abandonment, or if he was angry with her for her actions.
"Does it matter? Do you need more information that you can judge me further Mr. Darcy? Is it not enough that I have committed a grievous sin? Do you need more information for further proof of my fall from grace? What other information about the fact that I have a son would make you judge me fairer and not condemn me further in your eyes?" she cried, something rising inside her to speak to him, to challenge him. "We discussed such things together, you and I: to judge a thing correctly the first time, because you stated that you are inclined to be an unforgiving man. I have, no doubt, now given you a world of faults for you to resent. I bore a child when I was seventeen. Did you need more details? He was going to war, Mr. Darcy, he was going off assuredly to war to fight."
"So he died," there was anger, though it might be anger in response to her own.
"Perhaps, and perhaps not. Does his current status matter to you or society's eyes? Is it not enough that I have fallen and my morals, my judgment, are to be forever questioned? Society views women such as me, fallen women, who have known the embrace of a man as forever condemned." She stopped what had been their slow pace to truly look at him. "Could I ask how many times you have experienced the embrace of a woman?" He blanched. "No? I am well aware that there are different standards for men than there are for women, and perhaps some women are able to skirt those rules and are not caught like I was," she gestured with her hands in a vague way. "Consider if your sister was in similar dire circumstances, Mr. Darcy, what would you have done for her? Scorned her? Sent her away? Hid her for months and had the baby taken in by some tenant family?"
He turned from her, and began to walk again. "That is a moot point; Georgiana would never do such a thing! She would always behave with decorum and know what her family expects of her. She would never run off with a man before she was wed."
"We believe we know what happens within our own family circles, and yet we so often find we have little idea of what truly is happening. Can we penetrate what occurs in the minds of our family members if they do not share what they are thinking or feeling with us, Mr. Darcy? And, I never ran away, my falling in love occurred with no one, not my family, or my neighbors, being the wiser, so do not assume that you always can perceive what others are about."
"You were too young to know your mind," he cried.
"How is it," she said, "that fathers and brothers and uncles, ask their daughters and sisters and nieces, to go to London for the Season and consider, at the age of seventeen, to look for or accept a husband at that age, but if those same young women declare that they have fallen in love, they are told that they are too young? Why is society so blind in such a respect? Blind to respecting these daughters' feelings? I loved Simon's father. If we could have run away to Gretna Green, we would have, but we did not have the days it would have taken because he was due to report to his ship, so we betrothed ourselves to each other, and he went away, and Simon was born.
"Do not pity me, Mr. Darcy," she continued. "Do not dismiss this, Mr. Darcy; you may lay all my actions firmly on my shoulders. I can see behind your eyes you are considering dismissing this all away, and blaming the gentleman, and I will not allow that. This was not seduction, nor was I too young to know my mind. My father has often declared me willful and determined. You must lay Simon's birth entirely at my feet, I will not have it any other way, hence, do not pity me."
"You and your family have perpetuated a lie," his voice was a mixture of emotions. "You are using your child to steal another man's inheritance. I met your cousin in Kent; he is my aunt's rector."
"So few know the truth of this," she answered. "The blame for this subterfuge lies only with me, my mother and my aunt. Yes, it is a lie, but good things have come from this, good things. And is it my distant cousin's inheritance that we are stealing, or are we simply ensuring that our family fortunes, one which is both my family's and our tenants,' are kept closer to home? We have all worked hard, worked together, towards the same goals, and perhaps we wish to keep the same master and his line at Longbourn?"
"So your father knows nothing about this?" he huffed.
"No, he does not. My father's greatest joy in life is his son, Mr. Darcy. There was a day when I was his favorite child, but I have been supplanted by his son, and I am content that it is so. I am content with what has occurred in my life. I know I shall not marry. And though you may not believe it, this has had a positive outcome for our family. I am not one to speak against them, but I will say it has tempered my mother and encouraged my father, this small boy child. I have seen my sisters grow to become lovely young woman when they were…rougher around the edges for want of another way to look at it." She looked away from him, fatigued with the subject, and the confrontation, and she realized, how far ahead the other group had stripped. Miss Simnel and her charges were distant figures.
"It is impossible to me that you can claim this is good!" he cried, with a hand coming up in frustration and anger. She had no response, and they walked on and attempted to cool their tempers.
"I am just so surprised that a stranger has figured this all out," she said, taking in a breath.
"We are not strangers; we are acquaintance, friends even—did I not offer for you?" he said, looking over at her. His mask was back on his face. "What sort of relationship does that put us in?"
"A tenuous and broken one, Mr. Darcy. I do not believe that two people generally still remain on speaking terms after such an event," she replied, disturbed and unhappy.
"I do not believe I wish to deny me your company," he said. "I will, however, call on your father about the summer visit at another time." He bowed to her and turned back up the road.
Elizabeth watched him go until he was assuredly on his way, and then set off with a quick pace to catch up with the governess. She was too stunned to show any emotion on her face. It had always been a fear, but also an expectation, that someone would figure out her secret. Though her Uncle Gardiner had never been explicitly told, she suspected that Mr. Gardiner knew. But she had wondered if there were other Meryton friends and neighbors who had sharper wits and who could have found out the discrepancies in her tale from 1806.
The two littlest ones had found something, or Miss Simnel had subtly decided on some impromptu botany lesson while she waited for Elizabeth, but they all four were waiting for her. Miss Simnel was ever good at chaperoning, even when it came to Elizabeth, who had so often claimed she did not need such an institution. The party walked the last part of the road back to Longbourn with the oldest Gardiner sister complaining about their little brothers. Elizabeth wondered how they were going to take the news of yet another sibling coming just after the New Year. Perhaps, if it were a girl, it would not be as terrible an event as having a third brother.
• • •
It had come to him suddenly, when he was watching the children play; he had looked at Simon Bennet with his cousin Paulette frisking next to him, and he realized that Mrs. Gardiner would have been heavy with child at the time Elizabeth cl
aimed she had her Season in London. The aunt could not possibly have escorted her around to all the events young ladies attended. He had already checked, and knew she had not been presented at court, but knew that not every lady was presented to the Queen.
Elizabeth had told him that her London Season had paralleled her mother's time in Scarborough. She had claimed that she had left Scarborough to come to London, and had been enjoying her Season when her mother was confined, and her brother was born. Darcy considered the possibility that Mrs. Gardiner had an acquaintance who escorted Elizabeth through London drawing rooms since Mrs. Gardiner would not have been able to, but there had been some instinct to ask her about Simon's parentage.
Part of his mind had wondered if Mrs. Gardiner had had given birth to twins and given the Bennet family the boy child to help cut off the entail, but Darcy considered that scenario did not seem feasible. Though Mr. Gardiner did not own an estate, and it was less incumbent for Mr. Gardiner to have a son for inheritance purposes, at the time, they only had one daughter. If Mrs. Gardiner gave birth to twins, to give away the son, and to keep the daughter, did not seem probable. Would a parent truly give away a child? That Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Gardiner had conspired in some way is what had started him down the road on this little fox hunt with Elizabeth Bennet and her family, considering the idea of twins, or of hiding a baby, before he had finally considered that the baby had been hers.
But he could not believe that Elizabeth Bennet had loved another man, and that was a blow to his pride; one he could not fathom, and it was what he struggled with. The fact that she would not allow him to dismiss it as some girlhood foolishness. She had been adamant that her actions were her own. He had wanted her for his own back in February. She rejected him, and he thought he had moved on, as with Miss Bingley, but he had not been able to. He still desired Elizabeth Bennet.
She was, in all respects, a sensible and intelligent woman, and he did not wish to think about her having fallen in love with another man. He had been hard pressed in Scarborough to admit to his feelings of jealousy when he saw her with Wolton-Fane. To know she had fallen in love and borne another man's child did not fit with the portrait he had painted of her as a virginal young woman on the way to being a spinster, and that he was a knight coming to rescue her from the indignity of being a spinster, the indignity with which society looked down on women who did not marry. Even Miss Bingley felt that pressure, and had bowed to it with her wedding next week. But Elizabeth Bennet shattered this portrait as if it had been painted on glass, and not on canvas, and she herself had taken the trouble to throw the stone that had ruined it.
He struggled between railing against Simon's unknown father, considering this a case of seduction (though she had defended him), and ranting against Elizabeth Bennet herself, calling her vicious names for stepping across the lines that society drew for women. There was no middle ground; there was no logic or reason for him that afternoon. There was only anger and outrage and shock about her committed wrongs—the wrongs she freely admitted to—despite what she had said to its having benefited the Bennet family.
He was not a Hertfordshire native, and Darcy walked its hills and valleys, whatever pathways looked inviting to him that afternoon as he considered the entirety of what he knew about Elizabeth Bennet. He was angry and outraged at such a woman; he had not allowed the pure shock to show as they discussed her natural-born son, but he could not believe such behavior of a gentlewoman. Women, gentlewomen, did not behave so. Their feelings, as far as coupling, he had believed, were small and timid, as suited the weaker sex. But this gentlewoman he admired proved to be different from his model, and he had to consider that information.
She spoke of subjects he would never have broached with any woman, not even his married aunts: the embrace between men and women. Surely maids knew nothing of that? Or was it different in the country? But his sister had been raised in the country, what did Georgiana know about such things? Georgiana who was interested in gentlemen. And then his heart sank into his stomach, as he recalled the incident in Scarborough with Lydia, the pair going to view the men's beach where the men bathed naked. Did he separate the classes too much? Did he not allow a certain level of curiosity, despite the background or upbringing? Though he wished his sister did not have such inclinations, perhaps all young ladies did, even the practical Miss Bennet. Elizabeth Bennet had fallen in love, known the embrace of another man's arms, however, and jealousy ruled him and his anger all that afternoon.
It took most of the afternoon to allow his feelings of anger and shock to dissipate, and to begin to think clearly about her again. As ever, when it came to Elizabeth Bennet, he was always finding himself rethinking what he knew about her.
He also was faced with attempting to find his way back to Netherfield Hall, as he had wandered so far afield that he had no true idea of where in the damned county he was. Darcy was glad it was summer, and the evenings were still light as he walked. He discovered the entrance to what must be an estate, and losing himself in curiosity wandered up the driveway to look at the building. It was a large one—the largest he had seen in the area—and he contemplated the fact that it was obviously not inhabited and had been neglected. He felt compelled to examine the building more closely, and walked up, to look at the house.
The structure, of two and three stories and with two wings of different lengths, coming off of the central and far older part, was of yellowish stone faded to gray in some areas. It was, like so many old family houses, one that had been added to at various times through the decades. He moved around one wing and discovered that the back was of a dull gray stone, most likely a local one, since owners cut costs where they could, and there was even some red brick where yet another small improvement had been added; probably some kitchen addition. His curiosity kept his feet moving, and he moved all around the house, attempting to discover where all the seams were for the different additions, and to place approximate years on those improvements. It helped to soothe away his problems with Miss Bennet, and he did not mind that he was, in fact, trespassing.
The back of the house was the same dull local stone, and Darcy moved to walk around the last side and stopped short as he turned the corner. The wall, like the others, had its share of ground floor windows, but a long length of them were covered over in wooden boards, and he could see darkened stone beneath, crumbling in places. There had been a fire that had spread across a number of rooms, and the owner had never repaired the damage.
It might be difficult to tell how long ago the fire had occurred, but as he stepped up to test the wood, he found it soundly nailed in place. It was not very weathered, and he thought it was not more than a dozen years old. He stood back to look at the fire-damaged stone and wondered that the owners had left such a fine house in such a state, and not bothered to attempt repairs. The longer it was left the more difficult it would be to repair, with weather taking a toll as it wormed its way into cracks to enact further damage.
Was there not a family that had been discussed as having once come down to Meryton from London but which now no longer came? He thought he recalled some discussion during his sojourn here back in the fall, but he could not recall more details. It was no wonder that they did not come again with such extensive damage, but it did not seem that the damage was so great that they could not repair it and return. The family had come for summers and had held long house parties. Some one or other of the Meryton neighbors—probably Mrs. Bennet—had mentioned it, but he had not heeded the information at the time.
He wandered back down the drive and saw, as he exited back onto the road, a faded sign which said 'Stokes House' on a gatepost at the entrance. He contemplated Stokes House and used it to stave off thoughts of Elizabeth Bennet as he attempted to figure his way back to Netherfield. He apologized for his lateness and in getting lost while out walking.
Twenty
—
Tears
Mary remarked that Elizabeth seemed distracted that evening, depressed
even, as they waited for the family to gather for dinner. Elizabeth put on her best smile.
"I fear our little world is changing, Mary; Jane has moved away!" She smiled wide though it was obvious to Mary what a false smile it was. "Jane is gone from us. I believe it has taken time for that to truly sink in. I hope that Catherine enjoys her trip to Brighton, but she too is gone from us. How things change, do they not?" Elizabeth's eyes did smile with a little more warm then. "Is it just us, or is Lydia to come down as well?"
"I believe Lydia is coming, but Simon and the cousins are to eat in the nursery. Lydia has been given permission by Papa to leave Miss Simnel's care," said Mary, "now that Jane has married."
"More changes," sighed Elizabeth.
"You missed Miss Darcy's call this afternoon," said Mary. "She hinted that she is to invite Lydia to stay with her for the summer, but was waiting for her brother to formally make the offer. Lydia is quite excited about the idea; it answers all her notions of pleasure, to be invited to a house party. If she does go it shall truly be just you and I."
"And Simon," said Elizabeth.
"And Simon," said Mary. Their parents and the Gardiners arrived, and Elizabeth made more of an effort to join in the conversation until Lydia joined them at last, laughing about the fun that was in the nursery, and they all went in to dinner.
• • •
Her mood had not escaped her mother's or aunt's notice, though she had managed to avoid her father's inquiries during dinner. He and her uncle took themselves off to a corner with books in hand and paid no attention to the after-dinner conversation, but Mrs. Gardiner asked about Elizabeth's low spirits. Elizabeth asserted the same argument she had given Mary, that their lives were in a period of change, even though a marriage was viewed with such expectations of happiness.