Page 52 of Ashes and Understanding
Elizabeth spoke quickly, her voice excited with the discovery. “And all of his questions were about Benjamin, not the fire. Remember? He seemed overly eager to learn about his origins. What if he is after him?”
“But why?”
Elizabeth seemed to deflate, her shoulders sagging as she sank back onto the carriage cushions. “As to that, I have no idea. Benjamin is an orphan, or at least partially. His mother died in the fire, and Meg—the woman who had him—was a…” she blushed, her words trailing off. “Well, I simply got the impression that his mother was unmarried and would not know who the father was. So why would he be important?”
Darcy was silent for a moment, his brows drawn in thought. Elizabeth could feel the weight of his attention, but she kept her gaze fixed on the passing countryside beyond the darkened window.
“Even so,” he said at last, “there must be something more to it. If Benjamin were merely an abandoned child with no connections, why go to such lengths to find him? Why break into a nursery at night?”
Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “Unless…” Her breath caught. “Unless someone is looking for him. Not out of malice, perhaps, but for some claim. But then why send a man like Smithson?”
Darcy did not answer, and Elizabeth did not press him. Her mind was spinning too quickly to form another question. She glanced across the carriage. Mrs. Hurst had finally gone quiet, though her face was still drawn with worry. Mr. Hurst snored softly, chin resting on his chest.
The gentle rumble of the carriage wheels on the road did little to soothe Elizabeth’s frayed nerves. Her thoughts were with Longbourn now—was Benjamin truly safe? Did Smithson know where he was? Would he try again?
She glanced up at Darcy. He sat with his arms crossed, his profile etched sharply in the dim carriage lantern light, eyes narrowed in deep concentration.
“Do you think,” she asked quietly, “that someone like Mr. Smithson is acting alone?”
Darcy’s jaw flexed. “No. A man like that works for someone. Someone who has money. And secrets.”
Elizabeth nodded grimly. “Then it is not just Benjamin’s future in danger. It is ours, too, if we continue to ask questions.”
The carriage slowed as they approached Netherfield. Before the wheels had even fully stilled, Darcy rapped twice on the roof and called for the driver to ready the stables immediately. “Two footmen and three stable hands need to go to Stoke House immediately,” he ordered as they stepped out. “Send them armed and have them report to Mr. Gardiner.”
Elizabeth turned to him in surprise. “You think it might come to that?”
“I do not wish it to,” Darcy said tightly. “But I would rather be prepared than caught unawares. Your aunt and uncle have had one close call already.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, her throat dry with nerves and exhaustion. As they stepped into the house and Darcy handed her off to the waiting housekeeper, she turned once more.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “For everything tonight.”
He inclined his head, but something in his eyes—something dark and urgent—held hers. “Get some rest, Miss Elizabeth. Tomorrow… we will begin to find out who Mr. Smithson truly is.”
The following morning, Darcy was enjoying a quiet breakfast when a footman appeared at the door.
“Sir, there is a gentleman—Mr. Bennet of Longbourn—requesting an audience. He’s already in the drawing room.”
Darcy sighed. He was not surprised that Elizabeth’s father had arrived so early, given the events of the previous night.
Rising from the table, he placed his napkin beside his plate and gave a curt nod. “Tell him I shall be there directly, and send someone to fetch Mr. Bingley.”
By the time he arrived downstairs, he found Bingley already there, an uncharacteristic frown on his face. Mr. Bennet stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out the window with an expression far more severe than Darcy had ever seen on him.
“Good morning, Mr. Bennet,” Darcy said with a bow.
“Good morning, sir,” Mr. Bennet replied, turning. “Forgive the hour, but I am here for my daughters. I would like them returned to Longbourn without delay.”
Bingley’s frown deepened. “Once again, sir, I must protest. Surely Miss Bennet’s ankle needs further time to recover! Mr. Jones said she must not—”
“She will be carried, or laid out in the carriage with every cushion we can manage.” Mr. Bennet’s tone was clipped, unyielding. “I want all of my family under my roof with my protection. After what occurred at the Gardiner’s home last night, I no longer feel comfortable having them scattered across the county.”
Darcy studied him. This was not the indolent, ironic patriarch he had come to expect. There was no hint of teasing in his voice—only a tight, simmering dread poorly masked with civility.
Bingley looked wounded. “I assure you, Mr. Bennet, that I would protect Miss Bennet—”
“Better lame than dead,” Mr. Bennet said flatly.
