Page 10

Chapter Ten

E lizabeth could not make herself go downstairs; could not face Mr. Darcy in company with a calm countenance. She chastised herself for cowardice even as she sat paralysed on her bed. When Jane slipped in and said that Mr. Darcy expressed a desire to speak with her privately, Elizabeth sat frozen for only a moment before grabbing for pen and paper. She wrote with trembling fingers, requesting an early morning meeting; and now the waiting seemed unbearable, the hours stretching like years before her.

“He will come tomorrow,” she whispered to herself, though the words brought neither certainty nor comfort. After the revelations contained in his letter, after the truths about Wickham’s character had been laid bare before her, she could scarcely bring herself to face him. Yet she must. The consequences of her misjudgement had grown too severe to be borne alone.

The sound of laughter from below drew her attention. Her mother’s voice, animated and triumphant, carried up through the floorboards. At dinner she had spoken of nothing but Colonel Fitzwilliam and his admiration for Jane at their first meeting.

“A colonel and the son of an earl!” Mrs. Bennet had exclaimed repeatedly. “And such particular attention he paid to our Jane! Such gallantry! Such manners! Why, he is even more handsome as Mr. Bingley, and cuts a fine figure indeed in uniform!”

Elizabeth had watched Jane’s face flush with embarrassment. Her sister’s heart surely still belonged to Mr. Bingley, and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s polite attentions had certainly been nothing more than that. But their mother, ever vigilant for matrimonial possibilities, had constructed an entire courtship from a mere half hour’s conversation.

What puzzled Elizabeth most was why Colonel Fitzwilliam had accompanied his cousin at all. Was it mere coincidence, or did the colonel know something of Darcy’s intentions? Of Wickham’s schemes? The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea through her stomach, which had been unsettled since her disastrous encounter with Wickham at her aunt’s house.

Elizabeth moved away from the window as darkness settled over the countryside. She attempted to read, to sew, to perform any small task that might divert her mind, but her thoughts remained fixed on the meeting to come. When she finally retired to bed, sleep came in fitful bursts, interrupted by dreams in which Darcy and Wickham stood before her, both demanding she choose between them while the reputation of her family hung in the balance.

Elizabeth rose before anyone else in the household, her body weary but her mind startlingly alert. She dressed with care, selecting a simple walking dress that would not draw attention, should anyone chance to see her on the path to their meeting place.

Jane stirred as Elizabeth pinned up her hair.

“Lizzy?” she murmured, sitting up in bed. “It is very early.”

“I need to go out,” Elizabeth replied softly. “There is something I must attend to.”

Jane studied her sister’s face with concern. “You look pale. Are you unwell?”

“I am merely tired,” Elizabeth said, attempting a smile that did not reach her eyes. “I did not sleep well.”

“Let me come with you. Whatever burden you carry need not be borne alone.”

Elizabeth felt a rush of affection for her sister, so constant in her kindness, so true in her loyalty. For a moment, she was tempted to accept, to lean on Jane’s steady presence. But this meeting with Darcy required privacy, and explaining the situation would take more time than she had.

“Thank you, dearest Jane, but I would rather go alone,” she said, taking her sister’s hands in her own. “What would be truly helpful is if you could keep Mama occupied this morning. I promise I shall tell you everything when I return. But for now, please, help me in this.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jane nodded. “Of course. But you must promise to take care.”

“I shall.”

Elizabeth descended to the kitchen, where only the cook was awake, preparing for the day’s baking. She slipped out with a small piece of bread spread with honey, more for appearance than appetite. Her appetite had been scant for days.

As she walked down the lane, the morning air fresh with spring’s promise, Elizabeth found herself unable to eat more than a few bites. Birds wheeled overhead against the slowly brightening sky, their songs a counterpoint to her troubled thoughts. She scattered the remaining bread in crumbs along the hedge, watching as finches and sparrows darted down to claim their breakfast.

“At least someone benefits from my distress,” she murmured.

The path to the stile where she had arranged to meet Mr. Darcy was damp in spots with dew. Elizabeth had deliberately chosen this spot for its privacy; it lay between Longbourn and Meryton, but away from the main road where they might be observed. She arrived early, hoping to giving herself time to compose her thoughts before his arrival.

The stile, a simple wooden construction allowing passage over a hedge into a field beyond, offered a seat of sorts. Elizabeth settled herself, smoothing her skirts and taking deep breaths of the fresh morning air. The countryside stretched before her, bathed in the gentle light of dawn, fields and woods verdantly green. On any other morning, she would have delighted in such a scene, but today her mind was too full of dread to appreciate natural beauty.

What would she say to him? How could she explain what had happened with Wickham? The man she had once thought charming and wronged had revealed himself to be vindictive and dangerous. And she, with her hasty judgments and proud certainty, had unwittingly placed herself and her family in his power.

As the sun climbed above the horizon, Elizabeth’s queasiness increased. She pressed a hand to her stomach, regretting even the few bites of bread she had managed. The enormity of what she faced seemed to grow with each passing minute. A marriage to Wickham would be her ruin in all but name, yet the alternative might bring disgrace upon her entire family.

A sound caught her attention, the distinctive thump of boots on the dirt path. Elizabeth’s heart leapt to her throat as she turned to see Mr. Darcy approaching. He walked with purpose, his tall figure unmistakable even at a distance. His face, as he drew nearer, was grave, his brow furrowed with what might have been concern or disapproval; she could not tell which.

Elizabeth rose to her feet, her legs feeling strangely unsteady beneath her. Darcy’s eyes, dark and intense, met hers, and she felt the full weight of all that lay between them, all that had been said and unsaid. She swallowed hard against the knot of nerves in her throat, knowing that what transpired in the next few minutes might well determine the course of her future.

Darcy bowed with perfect formality, as though they were merely acquaintances meeting at an assembly. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the soft rustle of leaves in the morning breeze and the distant calls of birds greeting the day. Elizabeth clutched her hands together to still their trembling, waiting for him to speak, but he seemed equally at a loss for words. His eyes, dark and unreadable, searched her face with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.

He stood a proper distance from her, neither too close to suggest impropriety nor too far to require raised voices. His coat was immaculate, his cravat perfectly tied, yet there was something in the set of his shoulders that spoke of sleepless nights not unlike her own. For all his outward composure, the shadows beneath his eyes betrayed him.

At last, Darcy sighed, a sound heavy with unspoken emotions. “Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice carefully controlled. “I must first thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

Elizabeth nodded, not trusting herself to speak just yet.

“I wonder,” he continued, his gaze never leaving her face, “if you have, by your grace, read my letter.”

There it was, the question that would begin this most difficult of conversations. Elizabeth took a steadying breath.

“Yes, Mr. Darcy. I have read it,” she admitted, watching as his expression tightened, a flash of something like pain crossing his features before he mastered himself again. “Several times, in fact.”

“I see.” His voice was strained, almost tortured. “Then you understand why I felt compelled to explain myself, particularly regarding Mr. Wickham.”

He appeared poised to continue, perhaps to offer further explanations or apologies, but Elizabeth raised her hand, stopping him. Now that the moment had come, she found she could not bear to hear more of his justifications when she herself had been so grievously wrong.

“Please, Mr. Darcy,” she said quickly. “Before you say anything further, I must speak. There is something you need to know.”

Surprise registered in his eyes, but he nodded for her to continue.

The words had been bottled inside her for days, and now they spilled out in a rush, tumbling over one another in their haste to be free. “I was wrong about Mr. Wickham. Terribly, catastrophically wrong. Your letter opened my eyes to the truth of his character, and I am ashamed to admit how easily I was deceived by his false charm and practiced manners.”

She paused, gathering courage for what must come next. “But I fear that in my anger and dismay at discovering his true nature, I made a grave error that may lead to consequences I cannot bear alone.”

Darcy’s posture stiffened, his attention wholly focused on her words. “What has happened, Miss Bennet?”

“When I returned home, it was not possible for me to entirely evade being in company with Mr. Wickham.” Elizabeth’s voice faltered briefly before she continued. “He approached me with his usual charm, but I could not pretend ignorance of his past deeds, not after what I had learned from your letter. I was cold to him, Mr. Darcy, colder than was perhaps wise.”

She glanced away, unable to meet his gaze as she confessed her imprudence. “He noticed the change in my manner immediately. I regret that I let my distaste get the better of me. I let slip that I had learned certain things about his character, and would welcome the dissolution of our acquaintance when the militia make their scheduled departure for Brighton.”

Darcy remained silent, but his breathing had quickened slightly.

“He pressed me for details,” Elizabeth continued, “asking what specifically I had heard and from whom. He knew that I had been in your company in Kent, and that of your cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, from Maria Lucas. I believe he feared that I knew things that could damage his standing in the community.”

She looked down at her hands, which had twisted the fabric of her dress into small creases. “He was correct, of course, but I was still deliberating how to expose him without revealing anything which might imperil Miss Darcy, when Mr. Wickham made his move.”

Darcy’s face had transformed as she spoke, the tortured expression giving way to something harder, more dangerous. His jaw clenched tight, a muscle working visibly in his cheek.

“I made a mistake.” Elizabeth could barely get the words out. “I underestimated him, and he compromised me, Mr. Darcy, by forcing a kiss on me, which was then witnessed by what felt at the time to be fully half of Meryton… and then claiming that we had been courting for months and were carried away by our emotions on the occasion of our reunion.”

“That villain,” Darcy said, his voice barely above a whisper yet filled with such cold rage that Elizabeth felt a shiver run through her. “That contemptible, dishonourable villain.”

“It makes no difference now what he is,” Elizabeth said despairingly. “For the sake of my sisters’ reputations, I fear I must marry him. Jane’s prospects, already damaged by... by certain events, would be utterly destroyed if further scandal touched our family. And my younger sisters, especially Lydia, who already shows an alarming preference for officers, would find all respectable doors closed to them.”

She could not bring herself to directly reference Darcy’s interference with Bingley and Jane, not in this moment when she needed his help, but the allusion hung between them nonetheless.

“If I do not rescue my reputation by marrying Mr. Wickham, the taint will touch them all. My father has no fortune to compensate for damaged reputations. We would all be ruined.” Her voice broke on the last word, the full horror of her situation washing over her anew.

Darcy had gone very still, a stillness that spoke not of calm but of rage so powerful it required absolute control to contain. His eyes had darkened to nearly black, and when he finally spoke, his words were measured, precise, as though each had been carved from ice.

“Miss Bennet, I give you my word that you shall not be forced to marry George Wickham. Not while I draw breath.”

The vehemence in his tone startled her. This was not the cool, reserved man she had known in Hertfordshire, nor even the passionate but wounded suitor from his ill-fated proposal. This was something else entirely, a man whose principles had been violated at their core.

“What choice do I have?” Elizabeth asked, unable to see any path forward that did not lead to disgrace. “He has positioned himself perfectly. If I refuse to go through with the wedding, he will ensure that rumours spread, not just about me but potentially about my sisters as well. He knows our family circumstances, our vulnerabilities.”

“Wickham has always been skilled at identifying weaknesses in others,” Darcy said, his voice tight with controlled fury. “It is how he has survived so long without honest employment or true connections. He preys on the good nature and trusting hearts of those he encounters.”

He turned away briefly, as though the sight of her distress threatened to break his careful composure. When he faced her again, his expression was set with grim determination.

“Miss Bennet, I beg you to trust me in this matter. Wickham shall not be permitted to destroy your happiness or that of your family. Not again.”

That single word, “again,” hung between them, heavy with meaning. Elizabeth recognised in it both an acknowledgment of his past interference with Jane and Bingley, and a determination not to allow further damage to come to her family.

“How can you prevent it?” she asked quietly. “Short of my marrying him, what option remains that would preserve my family’s standing?”

Darcy’s hands clenched at his sides, the only visible sign of the storm raging within him. “There are ways to deal with men like Wickham. I have more experience in this regard than I would wish upon anyone.”

The sun had risen fully now, casting long morning shadows across them. Elizabeth watched the play of light across Darcy’s face, seeing in it a resolution that both frightened and comforted her. Whatever his faults, whatever misunderstandings had existed between them, she did not doubt his integrity, nor his determination to right this wrong.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said softly, “I cannot ask you to involve yourself in my difficulties. Not after...”

“After I declared myself to you with such arrogance and presumption?” he finished for her, a ghost of a rueful smile touching his lips before vanishing beneath the weight of their current concerns. “Miss Bennet, whatever your feelings toward me, please believe that I would not see you harmed by a man whose true character I might have exposed years ago, had I not been constrained by family considerations.”

Elizabeth felt tears threatening and blinked them back fiercely. She would not weep, not here, not now. “I have been such a fool,” she whispered. “To have judged so wrongly, to have trusted so blindly.”

“We have both made errors in judgment,” Darcy replied, his voice gentler than she had ever heard it. “But this situation is not of your making. The blame lies entirely with Wickham, and it is he who shall face the consequences.”

The determined set of his jaw as he spoke those words sent another shiver through Elizabeth, though whether of fear or something else entirely, she could not say.

Darcy closed his eyes briefly, his chest rising and falling with several measured breaths. Elizabeth watched as he visibly mastered the rage that had flared within him, imposing upon himself a control so rigid it seemed almost painful. When he opened his eyes again, they were clear and focused, though the underlying anger remained, banked like coals beneath ash. He straightened his shoulders and offered her his arm with formal courtesy.

“Miss Bennet, would you walk with me a while?” he asked, his voice steady once more. “I find movement often clarifies thought, and we have much to consider.”

Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before placing her hand lightly upon his sleeve. The solid warmth of him beneath the fine wool of his coat provided an unexpected comfort, an anchor in the storm of anxiety that had consumed her these past days.

“I would be glad of some movement,” she admitted. “I have felt rather caged of late.”

They walked away from the stile, not toward the road but instead further along the path that led deeper into the woods. Elizabeth understood the choice without needing explanation; they could not risk being seen together, not with Wickham’s threats hanging over her. The woods offered privacy and shelter from curious eyes.

The morning sun filtered through new spring leaves, casting dappled patterns across the path before them. In any other circumstance, Elizabeth might have remarked upon the beauty of the day, the sweet scent of wildflowers, or the chorus of birdsong surrounding them. Now, these details registered only dimly, overwhelmed by the gravity of their situation.

They walked in silence for several minutes, the steady rhythm of their steps creating a strange intimacy between them. When Darcy finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady.

“My cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, is a man of considerable practical wisdom,” he began, his gaze fixed ahead. “When I confided in him some of the circumstances, though not all, he made an observation that I believe may offer a solution to your predicament.”

Elizabeth glanced up at him, surprised. “You discussed my situation with Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

“Only in the most general terms,” Darcy assured her. “I would never betray your confidence. But I required a clear head, and Fitzwilliam has always possessed sound judgment.”

She nodded, accepting this. “What was his observation?”

“He pointed out that the essential requirement is not that you must necessarily marry Wickham himself, but rather that you be respectably settled.” Darcy’s voice remained carefully neutral, though his arm beneath her hand had tensed slightly. “In fact, he suggested that a marriage to a man of greater consequence would render Wickham’s actions appear as nothing more than the jealous resentment of a disappointed suitor.”

The undergrowth grew thicker here as the path wound deeper into the woods, forcing them to walk more closely together. Elizabeth was acutely aware of the brush of his sleeve against her side, the faint scent of sandalwood and clean linen that surrounded him.

“I do not follow your meaning,” she admitted.

Darcy slowed his pace, turning slightly to face her though they continued walking. “What my cousin suggested is that the solution lies in a more advantageous match.”

The implication hung in the air between them, almost too weighty to grasp. Elizabeth felt her heart begin to race, her cheeks warming despite the cool morning air.

“A more advantageous match,” she repeated softly.

“I have the means to obtain a special license, Miss Bennet. Within days, if necessary.”

Elizabeth nearly stumbled, her foot catching on an exposed root. Darcy’s hand moved swiftly to steady her, his touch gentle yet firm upon her elbow. The contact, brief though it was, sent a current of awareness through her that had nothing to do with her near fall.

“Mr. Darcy,” she began, uncertain how to proceed. Was he truly proposing marriage again, after her harsh rejection at Hunsford? After learning that her family was now threatened by the very man whose character she had so wrongly defended?

“I realise this comes as a surprise,” he said quietly, releasing her elbow once she had regained her balance. “And I understand that my previous addresses were unwelcome to you. I have reflected deeply on your reproofs, Miss Bennet, and found much truth in them, however painful the hearing of them was at the time.”

They had stopped walking now, standing amid a clearing where sunlight streamed down through gaps in the canopy above. Darcy’s face, illuminated by the golden light, showed a vulnerability Elizabeth had never before witnessed in him.

“I am not suggesting that your feelings have changed,” he continued, his voice low and earnest. “Nor am I attempting to take advantage of your difficult position. I offer this as a practical solution, one that would secure your reputation and that of your family, while requiring nothing from you that you are unwilling to give.”

Elizabeth found herself momentarily speechless. This was not the proud, presumptuous man who had declared himself at Hunsford, confident of her acceptance. This was someone different, someone who offered assistance without expectation, who spoke of marriage as a partnership rather than a prize to be claimed.

“You would marry me solely to protect me from Wickham?” she asked, searching his face for any sign of ulterior motive.

“No,” he answered honestly. “My feelings have not altered. If anything, they have grown stronger with absence. But I would marry you on whatever terms you set, Elizabeth, if it meant saving you from Wickham’s machinations.”

The use of her Christian name, spoken with such quiet intensity, sent a tremor through her. She turned away slightly, needing a moment to gather her composure.

“This is... unexpected,” she managed at last, her thoughts in a whirl. Marriage to Mr. Darcy. The very idea that had seemed so impossible, so unwelcome just weeks ago, now appeared before her as a lifeline. Yet was it fair to accept him on such terms, when her feelings remained so confused?

They resumed walking, more slowly now, each occupied with their own thoughts. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, the only sounds their footsteps on the soft earth and the occasional call of a bird overhead. Elizabeth’s mind raced through implications, possibilities, questions.

Would a hasty marriage to Darcy truly solve her problems, or merely exchange one difficult situation for another? Could she be happy as his wife, living at Pemberley, moving in the elevated circles of society that he must frequent? And what of her family, particularly Jane, whose heartbreak had come at least partially through Darcy’s interference?

Yet as she considered these questions, Elizabeth found herself increasingly drawn to the possibility he offered. There was genuine kindness in his proposal, she thought, a desire to protect rather than possess. And had she not, in reading his letter and reflecting on their past interactions, begun to see him differently? To recognise that beneath his reserve lay principles and loyalty that matched her own in strength, if not always in expression?

They walked on in silence for several minutes more, following the path as it curved through the woods. Elizabeth was on the verge of speaking, of telling him that she would consider his offer seriously, when something caught her eye ahead of them, a splash of colour among the browns and greens of the forest floor.

“What is that?” she asked, momentarily distracted from the weighty matters between them.

Darcy followed her gaze to where something red was visible in a shallow ditch at the side of the path, perhaps twenty yards ahead. “I cannot tell from here,” he replied. “Shall we investigate?”

They approached together, curiosity temporarily supplanting their more complex emotions. As they drew nearer, Elizabeth could see that the red was fabric, perhaps a coat or cloak, partially obscured by undergrowth.

“It looks like clothing,” she observed. “Perhaps someone...”

The words died in her throat as they reached the edge of the ditch. The red fabric was indeed a coat, a military coat, and it was still being worn by its owner. George Wickham lay sprawled in the shallow depression, his limbs arranged at unnatural angles, his face turned upward toward the canopy above.

Even in the dappled light, Elizabeth could see that his skin held the waxy pallor of death.

“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. The world seemed to tilt beneath her feet, reality shifting into something unrecognizable. “Is he...”

“Dead,” Darcy confirmed grimly.

Elizabeth stared down at the still form of the man who had threatened to ruin her life. Now he lay lifeless before her, his schemes and manipulations ended forever. Relief warred with horror in her breast, creating a sensation so overwhelming that for a moment she feared she might faint.

“Do not look,” Darcy said quietly, stepping in front of her, as though trying to shield her from the gruesome sight.

But it was too late. The image of Wickham’s dead eyes staring sightlessly at the sky had already burned itself into her memory, a vision she knew would haunt her dreams for many nights to come.