Page 19 of Pemberley's Imposter
Elizabeth laughed and scolded loudly, “You are a naughty girl, like your mama.”
A squeal compelled Elizabeth to bend and pick up something from the ground. It sounded like a piglet, but she had a bizarre way of addressing it if it was livestock. Perhaps her mind had been addled by living in impoverished solitude for so long.
An old lady in Lambton came to mind. She had at least fifteen cats she talked to and treated as if they were her children.
A ball of dark curls was in Elizabeth’s arms. Under the curly mass hung a body with arms and legs. A girl… Elizabeth nuzzled the child’s nose and put her back on her feet. Darcy rose onto his toes to see better. He could hear Elizabeth speaking, but her tone of voice was too soft to discern her words.
With the basket in one hand and the toddling child’s hand in the other, Elizabeth walked into the cottage.
Darcy stood in full view, but Elizabeth did not raise her head when she closed the door behind her.
He could not move. Not once had this turn of events entered his mind. They had been married for a little under two months… The sense of failure overwhelmed him.
How old was the girl? He tried to count the months, but with no exact age for the child, it was a futile endeavour. His mind raced back to that disastrous night in his library, recounting the dialogue in his head—his cousin’s, Elizabeth’s, his own.
The child could, of course, be a product of a later liaison. Elizabeth had not stayed long in Hertfordshire.
The insulting thought made him shudder. Elizabeth owed him nothing after he had evicted her from his house and his heart. Yet not once in the years that had passed had the thought of fornicating with another woman entered his mind. The idea was abhorrent.
Darcy returned to his horse and rode back to London. He needed to think, but his mind was not cooperating. His body was worn out by the time he reached Darcy House, but his mind was not.
His stable hand had the audacity to glare at him as he threw him the reins of his lathered horse. He ordered him to give the animal two days of rest, but it might take him longer to recover from the exhausting ride of thirty-three miles, despite the respite they had taken at an inn.
He went straight to his chamber and washed off the dirt and sweat. The room held no memories of Elizabeth. They had never stayed in his London house, preferring to venture straight to the tranquillity of Pemberley after their wedding.
Refreshed, he continued to his study, pacing back and forth, waving away a footman who came with a tray of refreshments. He could not eat at a time like this.
His gaze fell to his desk. An enraged Bingley, banging his fists on it, flashed before his eyes. Of course, Bingley would know. If he would receive him…
Darcy had not encountered Bingley since his wife had given him the cut direct on Bond Street. He had seen him from afar a couple of times but had immediately changed direction to avoid any awkward confrontations. He had heard the rumour that Bingley had become a father. A son had been born in the autumn of 1813, and he might be able to use Bingley’s paternal sensitivities to his advantage. Should Bingley prove uncooperative, his sister might be of aid, but she had married the heir presumptive to a baronetcy, a year past. It was improbable she was staying at the Hurst residence but not impossible.
Darcy lifted the knocker on Hurst House and gave it three firm raps. An elderly butler opened the door and invited him into the entrance hall.
“Is Mr Bingley present?” he asked.
“A moment, Mr Darcy, I shall see whether he is at home.”
The butler shuffled away. Darcy suppressed a smile; the man had confirmed Bingley was indeed in London, or he would not have needed to see.
Five minutes later, the servant came trudging back.
“I am sorry, Mr Darcy, but Mr Bingley is not in.”
The elderly butler was obviously lying by the way his eyes flickered to anything but Darcy.
“When will he be back?” Darcy was not about to give in so easily.
“I cannot say, sir.”
Darcy eyed the weary old man suspiciously.
“Tell Mr Bingley that I know about the child—he will want to talk to me,” he growled through clenched teeth. Bingley was a coward for refusing to see him.
The butler gave up all efforts of pretence and shuffled away for the second time. Hardly a minute passed before Bingley appeared, beckoning for Darcy to follow him to a parlour at the back of the house.
Bingley went straight to the fireplace and took a stance that reminded Darcy of himself. He rested an arm on the mantelpiece while rubbing his eyes with the other hand.
“What do you want, Darcy?”
