Well, I can tell you all of that. My name is Charles Bingley. We were friends.
Elizabeth felt tears welling in her eyes. “It was much, for you to risk your life searching for a child that was not your own.
Oh yes, our sons needed a mother who would be a countess.
She threw her arms about him; he held her loosely as she whispered, “Oh my God – oh – oh it cannot be,” and sobbed against his chest.
The man’s reaction was not what he had hoped for. He gaped at Will, all the friendliness gone from his face and replaced by shock. Will felt a rush of shame; he had not thought his act so rude as to cause this sort of reaction. Then he noticed that all of the colour seemed to be draining from the man’s face.
By God, I do know you! You, sir, are Fitzwilliam Darcy, and you are the best solution to all of our problems.
He bowed. “I – I understand you are my cousin. I am glad to meet you.” Henry dropped the ring. “My God, it cannot be.
Ye didn’t do nothin’ wrong, m’lady,” came her creaking voice. “Ye just did what were best for ye chill’rens.