Page 14

Chapter Fourteen

T he carriage wheels rattled over the uneven road as Darcy stared out at the passing landscape, unseeing. His thoughts were not on the gentle hills of Hertfordshire or the occasional cottage that dotted the countryside, but rather fixed firmly on what awaited them at Longbourn. Beside him, Colonel Fitzwilliam sat in uncharacteristic silence, his usual good humour subdued by the gravity of their purpose. Neither gentleman had spoken since departing Meryton a few minutes earlier, each lost in contemplation of the events that had transpired over the past few days.

Darcy adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, more from nervous habit than necessity. The weight of the situation pressed upon him like a physical burden. George Wickham, a man he had known since childhood, a man he had detested with increasing intensity over the years, was dead. Murdered. And now he, Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, was traveling to offer himself as a husband to the woman who had been betrothed to that very same man.

The irony might have been amusing had the circumstances not been so dire. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the woman who had refused his first proposal with such vehemence, might now accept him out of desperate necessity rather than affection. It was not what he had hoped for, yet he could not deny the selfish relief he felt that she would not be bound to Wickham for life. The shame of such thoughts in light of a man’s death, no matter how despicable that man, was not lost on him.

“Darcy.” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice, though quiet, startled him from his reverie. “Did you, in fact, go directly to Lucas Lodge on Saturday afternoon?”

Darcy turned from the window, his expression betraying no offense at the question. “Yes. I dined with them before returning to you at the Rose and Crown.”

A moment of silence hung between them, filled only by the steady rhythm of hooves and the creaking of carriage springs.

“I take no offense at your asking,” Darcy continued, studying his cousin’s face. “In truth, I had wondered the same of you, thinking that you might, after all, have obtained a horse after I abandoned you and gone in search of Wickham.”

Fitzwilliam nodded slowly, his stiff bearing momentarily softening. “I imagined you might. We both had sufficient motive, after all.”

“Indeed.” Darcy clasped his hands together, resting them on his knee. “Though I would not have chosen such a method, had I been inclined toward violence.”

“Nor I,” Fitzwilliam agreed. “There are more honourable ways to settle accounts. A proper duel would have been my choice.”

Darcy considered this. “Wickham would never have accepted such a challenge from either of us. He was many things, but brave was not among them.”

The carriage hit a rut in the road, jostling them both. Darcy steadied himself with a hand against the carriage wall, momentarily distracted by the physical reminder of their journey. When he settled again, he found Fitzwilliam regarding him with a thoughtful expression.

“Who else had motive, do you think?” the colonel asked, his tone deliberately casual. “Beyond ourselves, that is.”

Darcy let out a short, humourless laugh. “Probably half the county, given enough time. Wickham being Wickham.”

There was a certain freedom in speaking thus of the dead man, a release of the restraint Darcy had so long maintained in public regarding his former childhood companion. Death, it seemed, had removed the final thin veil of propriety that had kept him from speaking plainly about Wickham’s character.

“His debts alone would provide sufficient motive for numerous shopkeepers and innkeepers,” Darcy continued. “Then there are the fathers and brothers of any young ladies whose affections he might have trifled with. The list could be extensive.”

Fitzwilliam nodded grimly. “Ain’t that the truth.” The colonel rarely lapsed into such colloquialisms, a hint of his genuine feelings on the matter. “The man left a trail of misery wherever he went.”

“Yet he maintained a facade that charmed nearly everyone upon first acquaintance,” Darcy observed, thinking particularly of how even the intelligent, perceptive Elizabeth had once been taken in by Wickham’s easy manners and false tales.

“A skill that served him well until it did not,” Fitzwilliam remarked. “Though I cannot condone murder, I confess I struggle to summon much grief.”

Darcy inclined his head in agreement. “I feel more for those left behind to navigate the scandal than for the man himself.”

The colonel’s grim expression softened. “Such as Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

At the mention of her name, Darcy felt a tightening in his chest. “Yes. Her situation is... unenviable.” An understatement of mammoth proportions, but Darcy had never been one to express his deeper feelings with florid language.

“And yet you ride to her rescue,” Fitzwilliam observed, a subtle note of approval in his voice. “A noble gesture, cousin.”

Darcy frowned slightly. “I would not frame it as such. My intentions are not entirely selfless.”

“Few truly are,” the colonel replied with the wisdom of a man who had seen much of human nature, both on the battlefield and in the ballroom. “But your willingness to associate yourself with this business speaks well of your character, nonetheless.”

The carriage slowed as they made a turn at a crossroads, and Darcy recognised they were now approaching Longbourn. A fresh wave of anxiety washed over him as he contemplated what lay ahead. Would Elizabeth accept his offer? Would Mr. Bennet approve the match under such circumstances? The scandal surrounding Wickham’s death was unavoidable, but perhaps a hasty marriage would provide some shield for Elizabeth’s reputation.

“Do you believe Mr. Bennet will be receptive to your proposal?” Fitzwilliam asked, as if reading his thoughts.

“I cannot say with certainty,” Darcy replied carefully. “He is a man of good sense, by all accounts, but also one devoted to his daughter’s happiness. If he believes she would be miserable as my wife...”

He left the sentence unfinished, the possibility too painful to articulate fully. In agony over Elizabeth’s previous rejection of him, Darcy had laboured to correct those faults she had so accurately identified. He was not the same proud, disdainful man who had proposed at Hunsford, yet circumstances now prevented him from properly demonstrating how he had changed.

“I have observed Miss Elizabeth on several occasions during our stay in Kent,” Fitzwilliam said thoughtfully. “She watches you when she believes no one notices. I do not think she would be as averse to the match as you fear.”

Darcy looked sharply at his cousin, searching for any sign of false comfort, but found only sincerity in his expression. He allowed himself a moment of cautious hope before tamping it down. “Her father may still object, regardless.”

“True enough,” Fitzwilliam conceded. “But faced with the alternative of scandal without resolution, I suspect he will see the wisdom in your offer.”

The carriage began to slow as they turned into the lane leading to Longbourn. Through the window, Darcy could see the modest country house coming into view. It lacked the grandeur of Pemberley or even Netherfield, yet he found himself studying it with new eyes, imagining it as the childhood home of the woman he hoped to make his wife.

“We have arrived,” Fitzwilliam noted unnecessarily, straightening his uniform jacket with practiced movements. “Are you prepared?”

Darcy drew a deep breath, composing himself as the carriage came to a halt on the gravel drive. “As much as one can be under such circumstances.”

As his footman opened the carriage door, Darcy steeled himself for what was to come. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, he was certain of one thing: his life, like Elizabeth’s, would never be quite the same again.

Mrs. Bennet’s shrill welcome assaulted them the moment they crossed the threshold of Longbourn. Darcy maintained a rigid posture as the lady of the house fluttered about them with a stream of nervous chatter that seemed wholly inappropriate given the circumstances. Her words washed over him unheeded as his attention fixed upon Mr. Bennet, who stood at the far end of the entrance hall with an expression of weary resignation. Without ceremony, the older gentleman stepped forward, cutting across his wife’s effusions with quiet authority.

“Mrs. Bennet, I believe the kitchen requires your attention,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone brooking no argument despite its mildness. “Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam will join me in my study.”

“But Mr. Bennet,” his wife protested, clutching her handkerchief, “surely they would prefer some refreshment? And the girls should be present to receive such distinguished guests.”

“The girls are precisely where they need to be,” Mr. Bennet replied with finality. “And I daresay our guests have not come for tea and pleasantries.”

Darcy inclined his head slightly in confirmation, grateful for the older man’s intervention. Mrs. Bennet’s fluttering anxiety was precisely what he had been dreading, though he could hardly blame her for being distraught. Although not as distraught as he might have expected… she must not know yet of Wickham’s demise.

Mr. Bennet opened a heavy wooden door and gestured them inside. “My sanctuary, such as it is,” he said with a trace of irony.

Darcy stepped into the study and immediately saw Elizabeth. She sat beside her elder sister on a small settee near the fireplace, their hands clasped tightly together. Her face was pale, her usually animated features subdued, but her posture remained straight and dignified. Their eyes met briefly, and Darcy felt a jolt of something indescribable pass between them before she looked away.

The study itself was smaller than his own at Pemberley, but impressively stocked with volumes that showed signs of regular use rather than mere display. The room smelled of leather bindings, pipe tobacco, and beeswax polish, creating an atmosphere of scholarly comfort. It was clearly Mr. Bennet’s private domain, and Darcy understood instantly why the man spent so much time sequestered here, away from the feminine chaos of his household.

“Gentlemen, please be seated,” Mr. Bennet said, closing the door firmly behind them. “I believe we have matters of great consequence to discuss.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam chose a chair near the window – and perhaps not coincidentally, immediately beside Jane Bennet – while Darcy selected a seat positioned where he could observe Elizabeth without staring directly at her. She kept her gaze fixed upon the floor, though he noted how she occasionally pressed her sister’s fingers when Jane whispered something to her.

Mr. Bennet settled himself behind his desk with the air of a man preparing for an unpleasant but necessary task. The early afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, catching dust motes in its golden beams and illuminating the strained faces of all present.

“Well,” Mr. Bennet said finally, “what a mess this is.”

The simplicity of the statement, delivered with such resigned candour, might have been amusing under different circumstances. As it stood, Darcy could only agree with the sentiment. A mess indeed, though that hardly seemed adequate to describe the situation they found themselves in.

Mr. Bennet reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a folded packet of papers that Darcy recognised immediately. His letter. The one in which he had laid bare not only Wickham’s true character but also his own involvement in separating Bingley from Jane Bennet. A letter never intended for eyes other than Elizabeth’s, now apparently in her father’s possession.

“This would be better burned,” Mr. Bennet said, holding up the letter between two fingers as if it were something distasteful. “Its contents, while illuminating, could prove dangerous to more than one person in this room should they become public knowledge.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes, shrewd and assessing, moved from Darcy to Elizabeth. “I have read it thoroughly, and while I have many questions, I believe its destruction is in everyone’s best interest. Would you agree?”

Elizabeth finally looked up, her expression guarded but resolute. Her eyes found Darcy’s across the room, and in that silent exchange, he felt a profound understanding pass between them. She gave a slight nod, her decision clear.

“I concur, sir,” Darcy said, his voice steady despite the tension that gripped him. “The letter served its purpose in providing necessary context, but its continued existence serves no one.”

Mr. Bennet rose from his chair and approached the fireplace, which despite the mild weather contained a small, crackling fire. “Very well, then. Let us put this chapter behind us.”

With deliberate movements, he held the letter to the flame. The paper caught quickly, its edges curling and blackening as the fire consumed it. Darcy watched as his own words, written in such anguish, dissolved into ash. It felt oddly cathartic, as if some portion of his own past errors was being purified in that same flame.

Elizabeth watched the burning with an unreadable expression, though Darcy fancied he saw a certain relief in the subtle relaxation of her shoulders. Jane, ever sensitive to her sister’s emotions, squeezed Elizabeth’s hand supportively.

As the last fragment of the letter crumbled into ash, Mr. Bennet stirred the embers with a poker, ensuring complete destruction. “There,” he said quietly. “What’s done is done.”

A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the gentle popping of the fire. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had remained respectfully silent throughout the proceedings, shifted slightly in his chair, drawing Darcy’s attention momentarily from Elizabeth.

“Mr. Bennet,” Darcy began, feeling it necessary to address the larger issue at hand, “I wish to express my deepest regret that your family has been drawn into this unfortunate situation. While I cannot claim to mourn Wickham’s passing, I am keenly aware of the awkward position in which it places Miss Elizabeth.”

Mr. Bennet returned to his seat, regarding Darcy with a speculative gaze. “Your letter made quite clear the nature of Mr. Wickham’s character, Mr. Darcy. It paints a picture of a man considerably different from the one who charmed his way into the affections of near everyone in Hertfordshire.” He glanced briefly at Elizabeth before continuing. “I cannot help but wonder how things might have been different if you shared these insights with others in the neighbourhood during your previous residence here.”

A rebuke? If so, it was one Darcy thoroughly deserved. He gave the only explanation he could offer. “I believed it was not my place to expose him publicly, particularly when doing so would necessitate revealing matters concerning my own family that I preferred to keep private.”

“A decision which, in retrospect, might have spared us all considerable grief had you chosen differently,” Mr. Bennet observed, though without accusation in his tone.

“Father,” Elizabeth spoke for the first time since their arrival, her voice soft but steady. “Mr. Darcy acted as he thought best at the time. We all make decisions we later wish we might have reconsidered.”

The defence, unexpected and gracious, caused Darcy’s heart to leap in his chest. That she would speak in his favour, even in this small way, seemed significant.

“Indeed, Lizzy,” her father acknowledged with a gentle look toward his favourite child. “We are all subject to the limitations of our foresight.”

The use of her family’s intimate name for Elizabeth struck Darcy forcefully. Lizzy . Not the formal Elizabeth nor the proper Miss Elizabeth , or the contemptuous Eliza Miss Bingley had been so fond of using, but Lizzy . It humanized her in a way that made his heart constrict painfully. This was not merely the woman he loved from afar, but a daughter, a sister, a person deeply embedded in a family that cared for her, despite their foibles.

“The question before us now,” Mr. Bennet continued, “is how to proceed from here. The authorities have questions about Mr. Wickham’s death which must be addressed. And there is the matter of Elizabeth’s position, compromised as it is by her former engagement to the deceased.”

“If I may, sir,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected politely, “I have some experience with such investigations through my military duties. It would be my privilege to assist in any way possible.”

Mr. Bennet nodded appreciatively. “Thank you, Colonel. Your experience may indeed prove valuable.”

Darcy observed the subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere as practical matters began to overtake the initial tension of their meeting. Elizabeth’s posture remained rigid, but her face had taken on a more contemplative expression as she listened to the exchange. Jane continued her silent support, her gentle countenance reflecting both concern for her sister and a tentative hope that solutions might be found.

Outside the study window, a bird called, its cheerful note seeming incongruous with the gravity of their discussion. Yet Darcy found something reassuring in this reminder that the natural world continued undisturbed by human troubles. The sun still shone, birds still sang, and perhaps, in time, this difficult moment would pass into memory, its sharp edges softened by the passage of days and months.

Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “While I do not wish ill on any man,” he said with remarkable composure, “Wickham was the kind of man who could bring trouble on himself by his actions.” His gaze settled briefly on Elizabeth, a father’s concern evident beneath his stoic exterior. “And I cannot find it in my heart to be sorry that Elizabeth will no longer have to marry him.” The brutal honesty of the statement hung in the air, and Darcy found himself studying Elizabeth’s face for her reaction, but her eyes remained fixed downward, her thoughts unreadable.

A soft exhalation from Jane Bennet broke the momentary silence. Her delicate features, usually the portrait of serenity, were creased with worry as she turned toward her father.

“But what about the scandal?” she asked, her soft voice carrying a note of genuine distress. “Lizzy was publicly engaged to a man who has been...” She faltered, seemingly unable to speak the word ‘ murdered ‘. “People will talk.”

Darcy observed the subtle tightening of Elizabeth’s fingers around her sister’s hand at these words. The spectre of social ruin that now hovered over her was undeniable. An engagement ended by violent death rather than mutual agreement carried implications that no respectable family could easily weather, particularly one already precariously situated in society as the Bennets were. Damn Wickham, for putting Elizabeth in such a position!

“I have considered that,” Mr. Bennet acknowledged, his expression grave. “And I fear the gossip may prove more damaging than we would wish, especially given the manner of Mr. Wickham’s passing and the inevitable investigation.”

The magnitude of what Elizabeth faced struck Darcy forcefully in that moment. Her reputation, so precious and irreplaceable, stood on the precipice of destruction through no fault of her own. The injustice of it, that she should suffer for Wickham’s misdeeds even after his death, stirred something profound within him.

“If I may,” Darcy said, his voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere with unexpected clarity. All eyes turned to him, including, at last, Elizabeth’s. The directness of her gaze nearly took his breath away, but he pressed on. “I have already offered myself to Miss Elizabeth as an alternative option.”

He watched a flash of unidentifiable emotion cross Elizabeth’s features before her eyes dropped once more to her clasped hands.

“And I would be glad to obtain a special license with all possible haste,” he continued, his words measured despite the rapid beating of his heart. “I could provide Miss Elizabeth with protection from the worst of the speculation, while giving the authorities no reason to suspect her involvement in any way.”

The proposal, spoken in such practical terms, belied the depth of emotion behind it. Darcy wished desperately that circumstances had allowed him to approach Elizabeth properly, to court her as she deserved, to win her affection before seeking her hand. Yet here they were, discussing marriage as a solution to scandal, with her father and sister as witnesses to what should have been a private declaration.

Mr. Bennet regarded Darcy with renewed interest. “You are willing to travel to London for the license, and the bear the expense of it?”

“I am prepared to depart tomorrow, if necessary,” Darcy confirmed. The sooner the arrangements were made, the sooner Elizabeth would be shielded from the worst of the gossip.

“Colonel Forster asked you to remain here to be questioned,” Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded him.

Darcy winced, but nodded agreement to his cousin. “We will speak with him, but perhaps I do not have to go in person. My solicitor can handle the particulars with all due efficiency and dispatch the license to me as soon as he has it in hand.”

“That is generous of you, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said carefully, his eyes shrewd eyes. “Uncommonly generous, some might say.”

The implication was clear: why would a man of Darcy’s standing willingly tie himself to a family caught in the periphery of a murder investigation? The question hung unspoken between them.

“I assure you, sir, my offer is not made lightly nor solely out of a sense of obligation,” Darcy replied, allowing a hint of his true feelings to colour his tone. “My regard for Miss Elizabeth is of long standing, though I have not previously had the opportunity to express it in a manner acceptable to all parties.”

This was as close as propriety would allow him to come to declaring his love openly in such company. He cast a glance toward Elizabeth, desperate for some sign of her thoughts, but she remained frustratingly inscrutable, studying the pattern of the carpet with unnatural interest.

“I see,” Mr. Bennet said, a note of surprise evident in his voice. He turned toward his daughter. “Lizzy? You have been uncharacteristically silent. What are your thoughts on Mr. Darcy’s proposition?”