Page 54 of The Longbourn Bloodline

The room’s attention turned to Mr. Cecil, who had arranged his preferred canvases on the easel. He cleared his throat and stepped forward while Elizabeth went to take her place next to Charlotte, who squeezed her hand gently—no words needed.

“We have, as you see here before us, a small exhibition of the young ladies’ work. Miss Bennet and Miss Catherine have been applying themselves quite diligently.”

He unveiled Kitty’s work first. Her sketches were clever, and Elizabeth had to admit, surprisingly accomplished—a study of Cleo the cat, curled on the hearth, and a portrait of Mr. Bennet in his armchair that captured his dry amusement with startling accuracy. The room exclaimed, and Mr. Cecil noted that she had a natural eye for character, which was true, while Kitty flushed pink with the praise.

Jane’s watercolor stilled the conversation, holding every breath as Mr. Cecil unveiled it. The Longbourn lane in winter with its bare elms and frozen ruts. Jane’s perspective was one of departure, looking out toward the lane, the colors mute and the light grey-gold, the emptiness and the hope of a return—watching down the lane of memory. And Elizabeth saw in that painting a small figure of Darcy lifting his hat at the bend, looking back at the silence of a waiting house—though it was but a blur where Jane’s brush wavered.

“Miss Bennet, this is so very fine,” Bingley said, standing before the painting. “You have caught the light just so, the sense of leavetaking. I have passed this lane a hundred times and not seen it as you have painted it.”

Neither had Elizabeth, but now that she had seen it through the eyes of Jane’s heart, she realized that Bingley, too, could never look at this lonely stretch of lane the same way again.

Hill arrived with fresh tea and seedcake, and conversation meandered agreeably. Mr. Bennet, unexpectedly animated, discoursed with Mrs. Hurst on the Caledonians, while Bingley, chastened by Jane’s painting, regarded her with a sorrow so transparent that even Mrs. Bennet might have noticed.

“Miss Bennet, please forgive me… I must apologize…”

And Jane sat serenely, awaiting and not interrupting. Elizabeth held her breath lest her mother interject, but Mrs. Bennet was stirring sugar into her tea. Perhaps Mrs. Beaumont’s refining lessons were paying off.

“I behaved abominably, not saying farewell and not leaving a note with your father…” Bingley tugged at his cravat, apparently overwhelmed by the inner turmoil. “I have no excuse except that I am a fool and was badly advised.”

“Mr. Bingley, you are here now, and that is what matters.”

“Yes, yes,” Bingley nodded. “It is only that your family is so well established here. The oldest and most significant… and I… well, we are not quite accepted.”

“Oh, but Mr. Bingley, that is not at all the case.” Mrs. Bennet could hold back no longer. “Were we not welcoming? Why, I insisted Mr. Bennet call on you when you first arrived. Was that not so, Mr. Bennet?”

“That was indeed true,” Bingley admitted. “But a friend persuaded me that your opinions are so decided, and I feared that should I, or a member of my party…” Here he glanced at Louisa, who pursed her lips, “were to insult you, that I would invite the entire neighborhood’s censure.”

Mr. Bennet set down the book he was discussing with Mrs. Hurst. “Have no fear, Mr. Bingley. We hold no grudge with you or your friends. Certain young ladies might be capricious, but our Jane will make a gracious mistress of Longbourn. Of that I have no doubt.”

Elizabeth felt the sting of her father’s words and the truth, and she waited for Bingley’s response. But it was Mrs. Hurst who spoke first.

“We are so heartened to hear that Miss Bennet is now your heir. I have always felt the injustice of these ancient entails, although my husband became the heir when his uncle sired only daughters.”

Mr. Hurst did not appear to hear, as he had achieved his goal of unconsciousness and was snoring in his corner near Cleo, who was curled up on his lap.

Her remarks, however, set Mrs. Bennet’s fan fluttering. “And to think that Mr. Darcy, of all people, was next in line after poor Mr. Collins. Mr. Bingley, did you ever imagine that a Darcy would inherit from a Bennet?”

Bingley seemed to brighten as he accepted a glass of wine. “Why, that is exactly the kind of thing from a Gothic novel. Did you know, Mrs. Bennet, that our modest family has a connection to the Darcys way up the line?”

“Oh! Pray tell.” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes glittered with more interest, and even Mr. Bennet leaned forward, alert.

“Ours is through the female side, so there is no inheritance involved,” Bingley said. “I believe my father’s grandmother was a Darcy who eloped and was cast from the family tree.”

“Eloped?” Lydia perked up from her scribbles of officers and their uniforms. “Did they go to Scotland?”

“Not back then,” Bingley said. “Before Lord Hardwicke’s law, any two lovers could simply declare themselves before witnesses. No banns or church service required.”

“Your great-grandmother was a Darcy?” Mr. Bennet’s voice was casual, but Elizabeth saw his eyes sharpen. “How interesting. Do you know her name?”

“Yes, she was, although she was never spoken of again by the Darcys. Why, I do not believe our mutual friend, Fitzwilliam Darcy, is aware of a great-great-aunt Mathilda. Father told me the story and said we should seek Darcy’s friendship to repair the connection. Though I confess I befriended Darcy because he is a good fellow, not because my father told me to.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Bennet’s expression tightened. “And has your great-grandmother ever told about her brother’s connection to the Bennets?”

Bingley shook his head. “No. She lost her dowry, her connections, and her home. All because she married a tradesman named Bingley. She had two older brothers though, and I believe the younger one gave her help when she needed it.”

“Was his name George?” Elizabeth’s hand closed around the miniature in her pocket of a baby named George.

“I do not rightly know,” Bingley said. “But when I go home, I can search the family papers. Mathilda never forgot Pemberley, and as you can imagine, through the years, the estate grew grander and grander.”