Page 93 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“Oh!” Charles clapped his knee. “So, a Bennet girl has a heart. I see.”

“Alice loved George, and saw nothing good from exposing him. But she could not carry the secret to her grave. She was a historian, and she could not let the lie live on.”

“Darce, you sound like you are half in love with her.” Bingley brushed snow off his boots while the spaniels milled around, looking bored. “So, hear my thinking and tell me if it will work. We are friends, are we not?”

“Always,” Darcy affirmed.

“And we are marrying sisters who are the best of friends.” Bingley’s voice took on a thoughtful quality. “So what I propose is that in our lifetimes, nothing changes. You remain master of Pemberley. I remain at Netherfield. We share, in effect, both estates—both families occupy them, perhaps dividing our time between the counties, or sojourning together. Elizabeth and Jane need never part company. Yet should Mrs. Bennet’s nerves heighten, or the clamor of Longbourn prove too excessive, or my sisters overwhelm Netherfield, we can retreat to Pemberley.”

“You are envisioning that we live as family across two counties.”

“Precisely. We become the family we already are, with one additional condition.” Charles held up a finger. “My sisters reside wherever we are not. When we occupy Netherfield, they retire to Pemberley, and vice versa. I sincerely hope Mrs. Reynolds and the staff possess sufficient fortitude for the arrangement.”

“They have withstood long visits from Lady Catherine…” Darcy offered dryly.

“Then we have a workable plan, do we not?” Bingley’s eyes brightened.

“Almost,” Darcy said, aware of his legacy. “What becomes of the estates when one of us passes? There is still the entail and the inheritance. Georgiana is my heir until I sire one with Elizabeth. Jane will have a say regarding any children you might have, and if you don’t, wouldn’t Caroline and Louisa have an interest?”

Bingley picked up a pine cone and tossed it into the undergrowth. “I confess, I hadn’t looked that far ahead. To whom should Pemberley, Netherfield, and Longbourn ultimately pass?”

“I shall purchase Netherfield from you,” Darcy stated plainly. “Pemberley, however, must descend through your line, as it should remain entailed to an heir of the original Darcy body. I believe your heir, whoever that may be, would rightfully claim it.”

“Agreed, but it seems unfair that Longbourn should be lost to your line.”

“Jane is a Bennet, and she is the heir,” Darcy countered. “Why shouldn’t your children keep Longbourn?”

One of the spaniels huddled up to Darcy’s knee and laid her head on his leg. Darcy’s hand went to scratch her ears.

“Because, Darce, you were the heir general, thought to be grafted into their tree; however, now you might be the heir of the body, too.”

Darcy shrugged. “Again, we will not know for sure.”

“But if Pemberley worked my way, then it is only fair that Longbourn should go your way.” Bingley beamed as if he had a watertight argument. “And since George was really a Bennet, now I grasp why his Bennet parents did it. George was their own son, destined to reclaim the Bennet name. It sounds precisely like the stratagem Mr. Bennet himself would have devised. Becoming a Darcy, inheriting Pemberley, and then getting Longbourn again.”

“Yes, I can see their satisfaction with the plan up until their children fell in love.” Darcy glanced over at the house sitting in the distance.

“Allow me to propose a solution to this puzzle,” Bingley suggested eagerly. “We retain our names, as fathers. But when we die, our children must change. My children become Darcys, inheriting Pemberley’s entail. Jane will restore the Longbourn entail to Elizabeth, and your children revert to being Bennets. Netherfield can merge with Longbourn, for Pemberley’s grandeur far surpasses the two estates combined.”

“My children would be Bennets?” The notion settled in him with a peculiar disquiet. He was a Darcy—had always been, from the gallery portraits of William the First, through George Darcy who loved a Bennet girl, to his own father, who courted his mother by Pemberley’s stream. “The name Darcy,” he said, tasting the weight of it, “is not merely a word. It is my father’s voice. It marks my mother’s grave. It is the name the tenants have looked to for generations.”

“I know,” Bingley’s voice softened, “but the name Bennet is not without its significance. It is Elizabeth’s family. It is the truth of the blood that has run through Pemberley’s halls for generations, unknown to all. It is the truth, Darcy. And I believe you would see your children carry truth rather than a lie.”

Behind him, one of the spaniels barked sharply. A pheasant burst from the undergrowth, its wings thundering, and neither man raised his gun.

“Elizabeth’s father once told me,” Darcy said, “that I would have to woo her. That I would have to earn her regard, not presume it.” He met the open, earnest face of the man who had been his friend for a decade. “He was right. I did not deserve her then, nor do I fully now. Yet she has chosen me, and I cannot honor that choice by living a falsehood.”

“Then you accept?”

“Yes, the names follow the blood.” The words felt strange in his mouth—strange and heavy and right. “My children will be Bennets. Yours will be Darcys. And we will share Pemberley and Netherfield, as you proposed, dividing our time between them. Let the estates be companions, not rivals.”

“The solicitors will earn their fees untangling this,” Bingley observed. “But if we are agreed in principle, the law will follow.”

“And our wives?”

“The sisters will approve.” Bingley’s grin returned. “Jane, I am certain, will restore the Longbourn entail to Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet will consent too, as he will not dishonor Alice Bennet and her sacrifice.”

“Neither of us changes in our lifetimes,” Darcy said slowly. “I remain Darcy. You remain Bingley. The change comes through our children who would have been raised in both locations, and neither would be strange to them.”