Page 86 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“It could have been destroyed,” Darcy said. “And there is the miniature of the infant.”

“The miniature proves nothing,” Blythewood said. “It harks more to a lurid Gothic novel, undated, and together with the letters this case would only serve to feed the gossip rags while even the most junior barrister would demolish it utterly.”

Darcy met Waring’s gaze. The younger man pursed his lips in reluctant agreement. “The most plausible course for Mr. Bingley,” Waring offered carefully, “would be to seek recognition of Mathilda as a Darcy heir. However, overturning a century of Darcy possession, where Pemberley has been held, improved, and managed entirely in good faith… even assuming a court accepted the highly dubious evidence—which it would not—the remedy would be deeply uncertain. One cannot simply dispossess a family from an estate they have occupied for generations.”

Darcy absorbed this. The relief he ought to have felt did not come. Instead, something worse settled in its place—the knowledge that he was safe, legally, irrefutably safe—but that safety was hollow.

“There it is, then,” Bingley said, breaking the silence. His voice was hearty, relieved. “The law is on your side, Darcy. No challenge, no court case, no upheaval. You keep Pemberley, I keep Netherfield, and we both get on with marrying our Bennet girls.”

“It is morally wrong to keep what is not mine,” Darcy countered flatly.

“If it can be determined to be true,” Blythewood said. “I should note, for the record, that I was… surprised to learn of your recent modifications to the Longbourn entail. Removing yourself as heir in favor of Miss Jane Bennet was, shall we say, unorthodox.”

“Yes, I believe in the female line of inheritance.”

“The irony, Mr. Darcy, is that you were a Bennet acting for a Bennet. Perhaps, now that you are known to be a Bennet, you might reclaim⁠—”

“No, I will not. Longbourn belongs to the Bennets, and as you just said, I may or may not be a Bennet, depending on the veracity of this torn Bible page, a woman’s note about a wooden horse, and what a young girl was told by her mother when her young man left.”

“My point exactly. The law does not deal well with doubt, and therefore, I cannot advise you on how you and Mr. Bingley should proceed.”

Waring leaned forward. “If I may—my client has instructed me to state, for the record, that he has no intention of pressing any claim against Pemberley or Mr. Darcy, now or in the future.”

“Thank you, Waring.” Darcy did not look at Bingley. “But Mr. Bingley’s intentions, however honorable, do not bind his heirs or his extended family.”

“My sisters are not heirs,” Bingley said.

“Under a fee tail with female provision, if your male line should fail, they may well be.” Darcy turned to Blythewood. “Confirm this.”

Blythewood inclined his head. “The provision for female inheritance is broad. In the absence of male heirs of the body, the estate passes to the nearest female heir. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, as Mr. Bingley’s sisters, would hold a place in the succession after Mr. Bingley’s own children.”

A flurry of emotions crossed Bingley’s face: dawning comprehension, dismay, and a distinct pallor akin to seasickness. “Caroline,” he breathed the name, aghast. “Caroline laying claim to Pemberley.”

“You perceive the complexity now,” Darcy observed coolly.

“I see a headache of monstrous proportions.” Bingley turned to his solicitor. “Waring, surely there is a way to⁠—”

“Mr. Bingley.” Waring’s tone was careful. “I would advise against making any commitments today. The situation is unprecedented, the evidence ambiguous, and your family’s interests are broader than your personal wishes, however commendable they may be.”

“My family’s interests,” Bingley said, with an edge Darcy had rarely heard from him, “are my affair.”

“Undeniably, sir. But your sisters possess legal rights under the settlement, and those rights exist whether you acknowledge them or not.”

Darcy studied the settlement documents, the heavy vellum with its faded ink, the signatures of men who believed they were securing a dynasty for centuries. William and Anne Darcy, who took in a friend’s child and raised him as their own. Whether from grief or greed or some desperate mingling of both, they had built a falsehood into the foundation of Pemberley. Perhaps.

After leaving the solicitor’s office, Darcy and Bingley walked along the Strand, both stunned, although Bingley kept trying to offer a solution and Darcy would parry with the impossibility of it being satisfactory to all concerned.

Then Bingley tried to cheer him up. Dinner at a club, brandy tasting, or even a round of fencing. But Darcy deflected every overture. There was no comfort to be had.

“You heard them,” Bingley said, when the silence had stretched beyond bearing. “The law is on your side. No one can take Pemberley from you.”

“No one needs to take it.” Darcy’s voice was quiet. “I know what I know, Bingley. I cannot go back to ignorance.”

“Then what will you do? Renounce it? Hand Pemberley over to me because of a letter written by a woman who died before either of us was born?” Bingley’s frustration was beginning to show through his usual good humor. “Darcy, be reasonable⁠—”

“I am striving for honor, Bingley. My entire life, I have believed a Darcy’s word, a Darcy’s integrity, outweighs any fortune. If I build my marriage, my children’s lives, upon a foundation I know to be built on sand… then who am I?”

Bingley quickened his pace to keep stride. “You are still Fitzwilliam Darcy. The same man you were a fortnight ago. The same man Elizabeth loves.”