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“There is one other bequest, which will seem strange to you. It is for a lady—one by the name of Elizabeth Bennet. Barnes will share with you the details. I only ask you to please, do your best to find her and see that the terms of my bequest are fulfilled in every particular. It is…important.”
Darcy could not imagine who this woman was, but in that moment had his father asked him to sign Pemberley over to her, he would have handed it over.
“It shall be done, Father.”
“Thank you.”
His father seemed to truly sleep after that. By the mantel clock, Darcy knew when an hour had passed, and then two. Simpson returned, to take up his post on the opposite side of the bed. The loyal retainer had served his father for nearly three decades; Darcy would not remove him from this final vigil.
Eventually, Darcy dozed in his chair. When his father began muttering, he started awake.
The fire had been built up, the room excessively warm; Darcy realised he was sweating. A few candles were lit, enough to see that his father’s eyes were open as he mumbled incomprehensible words. Darcy looked at Simpson, wondering whether the valet could make them out, but by the man’s expression, they were just as incoherent to him.
“Father,” Darcy said huskily, chafing the hand he still clung to. “I am right here. We are here.”
But his father pulled his hand away, reaching out. “Anne,” he said, his voice suddenly so strong and clear that, for a second, Darcy glanced behind him, to see if his cousin had somehow entered. There was no one there. “Anne,” his father repeated, much more quietly, his voice trembling now. “My lovely Anne. How I have missed you.” He gasped; his hand dropped to the coverlet. His expression went blank.
Somehow, all the vitality, spirit, and yes, love, that comprised George Henry Darcy, in a single instant, was simply…gone.
Papa. Oh, my dear papa.
Georgiana was, of course, inconsolable, and there were a thousand details to navigate in the coming days. Anxious to fulfil his father’s wishes in every particular, Darcy specifically asked to meet with Mr Barnes regarding the bequest for one Elizabeth Bennet.
The man looked troubled. “There are some difficulties with this specific bequest,” he began. “In late April of this year, your father altered his will, this being one of the principal additions.”
Darcy nodded, recalling his father’s words about those alterations.
“He explained that the Darcy family owes a very great debt to this woman, Elizabeth Bennet, a resident of Shoe Lane.”
“Shoe Lane!” Everyone knew of the impoverished and sometimes villainous assemblage of hawkers, beggars, and criminals typically congregating in such a rookery. “What debt? Who is she?”
“I am afraid I do not know much more regarding his reasoning.”
“Do we have a description? Even if we could find an Elizabeth Bennet—how are we to tell if she is the correct person?”
“It is problematic. He described her as a mature woman of kindly nature. The correct Elizabeth Bennet, he said, would know how much money she once gave a certain person, in that location, for a hackney coach to Grosvenor Square.”
“What?” This was not very helpful at all. “Anyone could guess the fare between Shoe Lane and Grosvenor Square.”
“Trust me, sir, I am aware of the complexity. Even requesting of persons in that particular neighbourhood a true name has proven…challenging. Even so, we have found several candidates of varying ages, with surnames of Benson, Benton, Barnett, Barrett, Beckett, Benedict, and Bonnet, as well as three Bennets with names similar to ‘Elizabeth’. We are leaving no stone unturned. However, our interrogators are quite sure that not one of them, truthfully, paid anyone’s fare to Grosvenor Square ever in their lives, although only about half of them admitted it.”
“Unsurprisingly,” Darcy said, nodding again.
“The exact answer is ‘two half-crowns, one shilling, a sixpence, and a penny’ which, yes, is more than the actual fare costs, but your father was specific in the answer he supplied. If an Elizabeth were to give us a correct amount without identifying the precise coins, I suppose we would have to simply ask more questions to try and establish a link to your father. So far, none have guessed it—Grosvenor Square might as well be on the other side of the world to them, I suppose.”
Darcy frowned. “This woman stands to receive a substantial inheritance. I dislike not knowing why.”
Mr Barnes shook his greying head. “Lawyers are accustomed to mysteries, Mr Darcy. We shall do our best to find her for you, that perhaps you might ask her. Still, this Elizabeth Bennet may not even still be living, for all we know. Shoe Lane inhabitants often lead…abbreviated lives.”
CHAPTER THREE
A WONDROUS RECOGNITION
March 1812
Elizabeth had come to Kent to visit her dearest friend, the former Charlotte Lucas, recently married to a Bennet cousin, Mr Collins.
Mr Collins held the office of vicar of the parish that included the great estate of Rosings Park. In an invitation to dine with its inhabitants, he had succeeded in his goal of impressing his new wife’s relations; or at least, her father, Sir William Lucas, was intimidated, and her younger sister, Maria, was terrified. They had all received lengthy orations on everything from the expected articles to be provided on the dinner table, to the cost of the mansion’s windows.
