Page 37 of The Same Noble Line
Fitzwilliam gestured to the chair by the fire. “Come in, Georgie. Tell us, what did you make of the evening? Did the ladies fare better than the gentlemen in their amusements?”
“That would depend upon what success you had,” Georgiana said.
“None,” Fitzwilliam replied.
“Then I fared better,” Georgiana replied. Her tone was sweet, but Darcy detected an undercurrent of triumph.
Fitzwilliam helped her to a chair, where she sat gracefully. “What did you learn?”
Georgiana’s smile turned sly as she clasped her hands in her lap. “I discovered something the two of you wished to know about the Bennet family.”
Darcy sat up straighter. “What is that, Georgie?”
“Well,” Georgiana said with deliberate modesty, “I know everything the Bennets shared with one another. Which, it turns out, was quite a bit.”
Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his grin broadening. “Do tell, oh master strategist. What secrets did you uncover?”
Georgiana tilted her chin smugly. “I simply asked a few questions and waited for the ladies to answer. It was not difficult; they are rather forthcoming, and when one is quiet and appears interested, they speak freely.”
Darcy crossed his arms, intrigued. His sisterwasquiet, but he would never have considered that an advantage. “Tell us?”
“For a start,” Georgiana said, her eyes gleaming, “Jane and Elizabeth Bennet are not Mrs. Bennet’s daughters by birth. They were the daughters of Mr. Bennet’s first wife, so they are not his, either. However, to Mrs. Bennet and the younger Bennet sisters, it makes no difference.”
Darcy’s brows knit together as Georgiana’s words settled over him. “Not Mr. Bennet’s either?” he repeated slowly, as though testing the truth of it against his own understanding.
“No,” Georgiana confirmed.
Miss Mary was only a few years younger than Miss Elizabeth. If she was Mrs. Bennet’s daughter by blood, Mr. Bennet must have lost his first wife rather soon after wedding her. Darcy felt pity for the man.
The revelation reshaped the image he had constructed of the Bennet family. He had always assumed Jane and Elizabeth Bennet were products of their parents, a union he had privately considered uneven at best. The intelligence and grace of the elder sisters seemed incongruous with their mother’s sillinessand their father’s dry detachment. Now, this discrepancy took on a new significance.
For a fleeting moment, he felt relief. Elizabeth was not Mrs. Bennet’s daughter. It was absurd, yet his immediate reaction was one of quiet satisfaction, as though this detail somehow elevated her above the circumstances of her family. But the relief was short-lived, replaced by unease. These traits, which Darcy had so begrudgingly admired and then come to respect, seemed untethered now. Did he know her at all?
That she could not be a Darcy brought him both disappointment and satisfaction. He did not like the aristocratic custom of marrying cousins, and he had said as much to his aunt Lady Catherine, who behaved as though there was an understanding between himself and his cousin Anne. At least he would not be a hypocrite if he offered for Miss Elizabeth. He closed his eyes for a moment. He wasnotgoing to offer for her. None of this mattered. “And Mrs. Bennet? The sisters?” he asked, keeping his voice even. “You say they do not find this distinction troubling?”
Georgiana shook her head, a satisfied smile curving her lips. “Not in the slightest. Miss Lydia seemed utterly dismissive of the notion that it could matter. She said that Jane and Elizabeth are her sisters and always have been, regardless of blood, and Kitty agreed.”
Darcy’s gaze drifted towards the fire, his thoughts folding inward. This was not what he had expected, this easy dismissal of lineage, this declaration of unity. It spoke of something entirely foreign to his experience: a family bound not by pride of heritage, but by simple regard.
“They care for one another,” he said at last, the words tasting unfamiliar.
Fitzwilliam, who had been observing Darcy with the sharp gaze of a man who rarely missed an opportunity to tease, leanedforward with a smirk. “What is this, Darcy? Are you surprised that affection might triumph over rank?”
Darcy ignored Fitzwilliam’s jibe, his thoughts too entangled to formulate a reply. Affection. That was the word. He had spent years surrounded by propriety and obligation, where bonds were forged out of duty and alliances were calculated. The Bennet family, for all their eccentricities, operated on an entirely different principle.
And yet. . . his gaze sharpened. “It is strange, is it not, that Mr. and Mrs. Bennet make no distinction between the daughters of his first wife and those of his second? I would not have expected such—” He hesitated, searching for the right word.
“Kindness?” Georgiana supplied softly.
Darcy nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Yes.”
It unsettled him to think of the Bennet parents—she so frivolous, he so mocking—as capable of such generosity. Darcy had long assumed that Mr. Bennet’s sharp wit shielded him from any genuine feeling, and that Mrs. Bennet’s blind pursuit of advantageous marriages for her daughters left no room for tenderness. But the man’s tale of his father this evening had put a hole in that understanding and this threatened to unravel his understanding altogether.
He did not know whether to admire or resent their freedom and the way they had used it. He would have liked not to be bound by expectation and duty, his choices not dictated by lineage and legacy.
He reminded himself that he might yet have his chance.
Fitzwilliam whistled low. “And here we are, blundering about with toasts and flattery, while you sit quietly and unearth the family tree.”
