Chapter Twelve Back to Previous Chapter The servants withdrew, and Darcy sipped his port and leaned back with a sigh. "Now, Tilney," he said to his friend, who sat gazing morosely into the depths of his own glass, "tell me what weighs so heavily on your mind." Henry did not meet his eye. "I recently found out that I am not a Tilney, not by blood. I was a foundling. Mrs. Tilney found me in the church near Northanger when I was an infant and convinced her husband to raise me as his own." He swirled the wine around the glass and finally took a sip. "I have never had any affection for the General, so that is no loss, but to learn that everything I have felt and been told since childhood is a lie--I feel as though I am mourning my mother all over again." "You are mourning the family you had, which is no longer whole. Your mother is dead, you have been cast out, and your sister has married." "And now I know that I was never really a part of the family," Henry added bitterly. "That is not true. I only met Mrs. Tilney once, but she left quite an impression upon me. She loved you as her own blood." "But I am not her blood. I know not who my parents were. How can I expect the Morlands to give their permission for me to marry Catherine now, without knowing my parentage?" Darcy considered for a few moments. "Had the General made any inquiries into your real parentage?" "No. He assumed that I was gotten in an unholy alliance, as he called it, and inquired no further into the matter." "That is the most likely circumstance. But a good squire would know if any of his tenants or servants had produced a bastard or a child whom they could not support. The General may have his faults, Tilney, but even you must admit that he manages his estates very well." Henry nodded. "That is true. So you think that my parents were not from the villages around Northanger?" "I think it very likely." He surveyed his friend appraisingly. "I have known you a long time, Tilney. I would say that you must be the son of a gentleman. Perhaps born on the wrong side of the blanket, but a gentleman's son nonetheless. Blood always tells, as my cousin Fitzwilliam says of his horses." Henry burst out laughing. "You compare me to a horse? Your notion of friendship is strange indeed, Darcy!" Darcy smiled. "I made you laugh, which was my intention. This grave and gloomy man is not the Henry Tilney I know." "No, he is not. I shall endeavour to be more cheerful, for your sake. Tell me of your trip to Kent! Did Collins wait upon you? I know how you enjoy his obsequious attentions." He paused a moment, then added, "Did you see Mrs. Collins? Is she well?" "Mrs. Collins is very well. I think she was happy to have her sister and her friend with her." "Her friend?" Darcy took a long swallow of his port and said without emotion, "Miss Elizabeth Bennet was visiting at the parsonage, along with Miss Maria Lucas." "Indeed! Did you see much of Miss Bennet?" "Lady Catherine had them to dinner at Rosings Park a few times. And Fitzwilliam and I called at the parsonage occasionally. He seemed to find the company there more pleasant than the company at the great house." Henry smiled. "And how did you find the company there, Darcy?" "It was...most congenial." Henry studied his friend's face, but as usual it showed nothing. Darcy finished his port and rose. "Come, let us join the ladies." He was clearly in no humour for confidences, so Henry let the subject drop for the time being. They proceeded into the drawing-room, where Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley sat over their needlework. Darcy moved behind his sister's chair, placed his hands gently on her shoulders, and whispered in her ear. Henry smiled at the obvious affection between the siblings. Darcy had always been kind to Georgiana, even when she had been an annoying little girl pestering her big brother and his friends. He still marveled over how that tomboyish child had grown into an elegant, if somewhat shy, young woman. Now Miss Darcy smiled up at her brother and said, "Yes, of course I will play for you, Fitzwilliam!" She put aside her embroidery and sat at the pianoforte. She played a piece by Mozart, one of Henry's favourites, which he suspected Darcy had specifically requested. The light, cheerful piece soothed him, and between the music and the mellowing effects of the brandy thrust into his hand by his friend, he felt his tense muscles relax and his mind empty. When the piece was finished, they all applauded politely. "Thank you, Miss Darcy," said Henry. "That was a delightful performance. Your brother tells me how much you practice, and it shows in your increased proficiency." Georgiana blushed at his praise, but she had known Henry a long time and was comfortable with him. Her nose wrinkled and she said, "'Miss Darcy'? Why do you no longer call me 'Georgiana'?" "Why do you no longer call me 'Henwy'?" he teased her, imitating her childhood lisp. "I shall tell you why, because you are a grown-up young lady and the mistress of this house, so I must call you 'Miss Darcy'." She laughed. "So when Fitzwilliam marries and brings a new mistress to this house, what shall you call me then?" Darcy looked around at her sharply, but no one noticed. "I shall address that question when it is necessary to do so, and not a moment before!" Georgiana laughed, and asked her brother if Mr. Bingley and his sisters would be joining them for tea. "I believe Bingley is engaged with his sister and the Hursts this evening." "Miss Bingley means to keep Mr. Bingley busy," said Miss Darcy ingenuously. "I overheard her telling Mrs. Hurst that they must, to keep him away from Gracechurch-street." She looked perplexed. "I know not what she meant by that." An old memory loosened itself from the back of Henry's brain: Elizabeth Bennet's voice saying, When I am in town, I stay with my aunt and uncle in Gracechurch-street, near Cheapside. He said consideringly, "Do you know if they were speaking of a Miss Bennet?" "Yes! I remember that Miss Bingley mentioned to Fitzwilliam that a Miss Bennet was staying at her uncle's home on Gracechurch-street, but that was some time ago. Are you acquainted with her?" "I am." He glanced over at Darcy, who had picked up a newspaper and seemed to be ignoring the conversation. "Darcy, do you know if Miss Bennet is still with her aunt and uncle?" Darcy did not look up from the paper. "I understood that Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Lucas were to visit in Gracechurch-street for a time on their way back from Kent. I believe Miss Bennet was already with her aunt. I know not if they are still there." He folded back a new page. She must still be there, mused Henry, if Bingley's sisters mean to keep him away. Aloud he said, "Does Bingley know that Miss Bennet is in town, Darcy?" "I know not." "Did you tell him?" "I did not." Darcy still gave the newspaper the greater share of his attention. Henry watched him a moment, then said, "I believe I shall pay a call on the ladies at Gracechurch-street. Darcy, would you care to accompany me?" "I do not consider our acquaintance sufficiently advanced to demand morning calls. And they may already have returned to Hertfordshire." "Nonetheless, I shall present myself and see. Do you know the number?" "Miss Bingley does," piped up Georgiana. "She told me that she called there." Henry smiled at her. "Thank you, Miss Darcy. I shall call at Gracechurch-street tomorrow, but first I shall look in at Hurst's establishment. Besides, I should like to see Bingley. Perhaps he would care to accompany me." Darcy raised his head and gazed at Henry for a long moment, opening his mouth as if to say something; he paused, clamped his mouth shut resolutely, and returned to the newspaper. "Mr. Bingley and Mr. Hurst are walked out, but Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are at home," intoned the stately Fosset, and conducted Henry up to the painfully elegant sitting-room. The ladies eyed him balefully. Mrs. Hurst said in glacial tones, "I am sorry that my husband is not here to receive you, Mr. Tilney, but he is gone to White's, along with Charles." "I am sorry to have missed him," replied Henry. Polite untruths thus disposed with, he took the seat indicated. "However, I am glad to have found you at home. I understand that the Miss Bennets are presently at their uncle's house in Gracechurch-street. I should like to call upon them and pay my respects; have you the number?" "I wonder that you find such a call necessary," said Caroline. "Mr. Darcy has not." She snickered and added, "Even with the fresh attraction of Miss Eliza joining the Cheapside party. Though I know not if they are still there." "I am surprised, Miss Bingley," said Henry, his face perfectly composed. "You and Miss Bennet were so intimate in Hertfordshire that I assumed you would be correspondents." Caroline flushed and glared at him. "That was an unfortunate acquaintance, and one I have chosen not to continue. I could not countenance Jane Bennet's designs upon my brother." "I dare say that Bingley had similar designs upon Miss Bennet." "Oh, Charles is such a simple creature! He knows not his own heart. He has already developed a new attachment here in town," she added archly. Henry was all astonishment. "To whom?" "His time as an inmate at Mr. Darcy's establishment threw him a good deal into a certain young lady's company, and they grow quite attached to one another." "Good Lord! Surely you don't mean Georgiana?" Henry burst out laughing. "And why not?" "She is barely sixteen, the merest child!" "Perhaps to you, but I assure you not to Charles." Henry tried to consider the matter objectively, as was his custom. Georgiana Darcy perhaps appeared a child to him because he retained the charming memory of a grubby little girl persistently following him and Darcy round Pemberley. But Georgiana was now a handsome young woman--not as pretty as Jane Bennet, perhaps, but with a great deal to recommend her, both in her person and her fortune. And after all, Georgiana was not much younger than Catherine Morland. I suppose it is possible that Bingley has developed a tendre for Georgiana. And naturally Caroline would wish to promote such a match, as it would throw her in Darcy's way. Miss Bingley watched him with a catlike expression of triumph. At last Henry said, "Nonetheless, I would like to call on the Miss Bennets, if you would be so kind as to provide me with the direction." "Only if you promise not to tell Charles that Miss Bennet is in London." "I cannot make such a promise until I have made my own evaluation of the circumstances." "Mr. Darcy feels as we do. Would you circumvent his desire?" "Darcy does not think for me, and I will act only in reference to my own opinion. Will you give me the number, madam?" Caroline defiantly held his gaze for a long moment, then finally looked away. "Very well. I have it in my diary." She crossed to a small writing-desk, flipped through a book, and wrote something on a scrap of paper, which she handed to Henry. "Be sure to give Jane our best love." "Certainly. And I am confident that Miss Bennet shall perfectly comprehend the full worth of the sentiment." He bowed coldly and left them. Elizabeth rose and moved forward to greet him. "Mr. Tilney!" she cried, holding her hands out to him. "This is an entirely unlooked-for pleasure!" Henry clasped her hands in his and smiled down at her, startled to realize that he had missed her. How strange! On such a short acquaintance! But he said only, "When I learned that you and your sister were in town, I determined to pay a call. Miss Bingley was kind enough to provide me with your direction." Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "I had thought perhaps that Miss Bingley had misplaced the direction, or forgotten it. She has certainly not been here, not since she called on my sister several months ago." Henry thought it best to change the subject. "How is your sister, and all your family?" "Very well, I thank you. Jane and Maria Lucas--she is staying with us--have gone out with my aunt to make their final purchases. We return to Hertfordshire tomorrow." "You will be glad to be home, I am sure. I understand you were visiting the Collinses in Kent before you came here. How does Mrs. Collins?" "Charlotte is very well." She considered for a moment. "Surprisingly so. She is…happy, I think." "I am glad." Elizabeth gazed at him questioningly. "Forgive me, Mr. Tilney, but how did you know I had been in Kent?" "Mr. Darcy told me." "Mr. Darcy did?" Elizabeth blushed suddenly, and Henry wondered at it, but then she added, "And may I inquire after your family, and Miss Morland?" Henry took a deep breath and forced himself to answer civilly. "They are all very well, I thank you. My sis--my sister was married recently." "How delightful! And will her marriage clear the way for yours, do you think?" She was laughing, unaware of the pain she inflicted. Henry opened his mouth to say something innocuous, but instead blurted out, "I know not if Catherine and I shall ever marry." Horrified at revealing himself so completely, he rose hastily and said, "Miss Bennet, forgive me. I should not have come here today. I am in no fit humour for paying calls." Elizabeth stood also and put her hand on his arm to prevent his departure. "Mr. Tilney, I consider you a friend and I hope you consider me one. You clearly are in need of a sympathetic ear, and you have found it. Pray sit here and tell me what has happened. Have you quarreled with your Catherine?" "No, no, nothing like that." He allowed her to guide him to the sofa, where she sat next to him, her dark eyes steadily on his. "I told you that Catherine's parents required my father's consent, or the decent appearance of it, before they would allow our marriage." Elizabeth nodded. "Well, it turns out that the General is not my father. I was a foundling, raised by the Tilneys. I know not who my parents were." "Was there no evidence of your birth family, a note or some such?" "No. Only the basket in which I was found, and the blanket that wrapped me. My old nurse saved them for me." "Perhaps they could provide a clue." "There are initials on the bottom of the basket, but they could be anyone's--my mother's, my father's, a servant's, the basketmaker's." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I know not what to think anymore. Everything I've known and believed these six and twenty years has been proven wrong in a moment." Elizabeth started. "How many years? May I ask your age, sir?" "I was six and twenty in August. Or sometime around August. My nurse told me that they had to guess the date of my birth." Elizabeth stood suddenly. "I thought you and Mr. Darcy were of an age." "No, Darcy is nearly three years older than I." He watched her pace the room, shaking her head and murmuring unintelligibly to herself. "Lizzy, please tell me, what is it?" "You said the basket had initials on it. What are they?" "E.B. Why do you ask?" Elizabeth stopped pacing and stood in front of him. She reached out and touched his face. "Why did I not notice?" she whispered. "You are just like him!" "Like whom? Lizzy, I expect sense from you at least!" Elizabeth gazed down at him, dark eyes into dark eyes, soul into soul, blood calling to blood. She took his hand, swallowed, and said, "Henry, I think I know who your father is." Elizabeth and Henry determined between them to tell no one of their suspicions until Mr. Bennet's opinion could be ascertained, so when Mrs. Gardiner, Jane, and Maria learned that Mr. Tilney would accompany the young ladies back to Longbourn, they exclaimed in surprise and asked many questions that Elizabeth could not answer. Seeking to escape their well-meaning interrogation, she finally fled to her room; as she prepared for bed, Jane came in and asked her sister if she wished to confide in her. Elizabeth expressed her confusion at the question, and Jane said gently, "Has Mr. Tilney sought your hand, Lizzy?" "No. Nothing like that. Jane, if I could tell you I would, but this is not my story to tell. When we return to Longbourn, you may have the answers to your questions." "Very well. I would not ask you to betray a confidence." Darcy's surprise was equal to the ladies' when Henry told him that he traveled to Hertfordshire the next morning. "What does this have to do with Miss Elizabeth Bennet?" "I cannot tell you. Perhaps nothing at all." "You have not--you have not proposed to her, have you?" Henry was naturally disquieted by such speculation. "Certainly not." Darcy passed a hand over his face, as if in relief. "You remain faithful to Miss Morland, then?" "As ever, yes." "I am glad of it." Darcy did not mention the business again, but when the time came for Henry to leave, Darcy rose early to see him off. Henry grasped his friend's hand warmly. "I wish I could tell you what takes me to Hertfordshire. If the matter is settled as I think it will be, you will understand. I will write when I have news." "I trust your discretion, Tilney. You must have good reason for your reticence. Please accept my best wishes for a safe and pleasant journey." "I thank you." He mounted his horse and rode to Gracechurch-street. Wrapped up in his own thoughts, he had none to spare for Mr. Bingley, who continued in Grosvenor-street blissfully ignorant of the nearness of the young lady he had favoured not long before. Henry's horse pranced restlessly as he waited for the last of the ladies' baggage to be loaded into Mr. Gardiner's carriage. The weather was good, the roads in repair, and the party soon found themselves at the town of ----- where Mr. Bennet's carriage was to meet them. They were surprised by Kitty and Lydia Bennet, who had come with the carriage and had ordered a nuncheon from the inn. Those two young ladies were equally surprised to find Mr. Tilney of the party, and Lydia said immediately, "He must be in love with you, Lizzy!" "Lydia! Hush!" commanded Jane; Lydia remained silent for a moment, then burst forth with a constant stream of village gossip that simply could not wait for Longbourn. Neither Henry nor Elizabeth ate much of the nuncheon, though Henry quietly paid for it all. The girls piled into the carriage, Henry mounted his horse, and they all set off for Longbourn. Lydia told stories of balls and officers all the way, only pausing to watch Mr. Tilney, admire his seat, and opine that if he were only wearing regimentals, he would not be an ill-looking gentleman at all. At last they arrived at Longbourn, and Mr. Bennet came out to greet his daughters. He noted Henry's presence with surprise, but welcomed him. Elizabeth had thought it best if she explained the circumstances to her father before Henry spoke to him, and Henry had agreed; thus she whispered in her father's ear and pulled him into the library, while Henry paced nervously outside. Mrs. Bennet, mindful that Mr. Tilney was great friends with Mr. Bingley, herded the others into the drawing-room, where several Lucases were already waiting to greet Maria. At last the library door opened and a pale Elizabeth beckoned Henry inside. Mr. Bennet stood behind his untidy desk, all his prior joviality gone. "Young man," he said in a low voice, "I know your kind. If you come here to make sport of my private misfortunes, then you are not the man I thought you were." Henry's face was grave, though internally his emotions were loudly at war. "I know what you must think of me, sir. I confess that I am often guilty of failing to give an incident its due weight. But the loss you suffered, Mr. Bennet--your wife and your son--it staggers me. I know not if I could have borne up under such a strain. And I beg you to believe that I would never find humour in such a circumstance. I could not do so." Mr. Bennet looked at him keenly but remained silent. Henry felt emboldened to continue. He glanced down at the artifacts that Rebecca had given him. Were they sufficient proof? They had to be; they were all he had. He handed the blanket to Mr. Bennet. "This is the blanket in which I was wrapped when my mother--my foster mother found me. Is it familiar to you, sir?" The older man inspected the item for a moment. "I remember a blanket like this one," he said. "Elizabeth--my first wife--worked on it for so many nights while she was expecting Thomas." He caressed the knitted wool, holding it to his face a moment, as if remembering the softness of the hands that had fashioned it. "There was as much love as wool in that blanket. She planned for the baby, sewing his gowns and knitting tiny slippers. She was so happy to be a mother." He laid the blanket gently on the desk. Henry's heart went out to the older man, and the pain in his eyes; how many times he must have been disappointed in the search for his son! No wonder he is not willing to commit himself on the evidence of the blanket. But the basket--it must be proof enough. It must be. "Do you recognize this basket, sir?" asked Henry, proffering it. "I was found in this basket. It has the initials 'E.B.' on the bottom. Those were your wife's initials, were not they?" Mr. Bennet turned the basket over in his hands for a moment. "I know this basket. It was made by a Meryton artisan, an elderly man of great skill, who died not long after. He would carve the owner's initials in the bottom of each basket, as so many of the women hereabouts owned them, there was no other way to tell them apart. I procured it for my wife soon after our marriage. I thought it might be useful to her when she took food to the sick and poor. She was a good, generous woman, my Elizabeth." He glanced up at Henry. His gaze bore into the younger man searchingly; Henry felt that he was taking his measure somehow, felt the weight of judgment that shone out from the keen, dark eyes. When Mr. Bennet finally spoke, his voice was quiet, without a trace of its usual ironic tone. "You have a look of your mother," he said. "Around the mouth, and the planes of your face. And you have her hair, so fine and yet so abundant. I do not know why I have not noticed it previously. I have been searching for you these six and twenty years, looking for my lovely Elizabeth's features in every young man, and somehow I did not see them in you." Henry remained silent, arrested by those dark eyes, so like his own, so full of tenderness. They had both forgotten Elizabeth, who stood by the door with her hands crossed over her mouth, silent tears streaming unchecked down her face. "Your mother loved you a great deal," Mr. Bennet added, his voice breaking. "She was so proud of you. When you held up your head, when you reached for a shiny bauble--" His composure finally collapsed. "My son!" he sobbed, dropping the basket and holding out his hands helplessly toward Henry. And Henry did the only thing he could do: he stepped around the desk and embraced his father. 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