Page 17 of More Than You Know (The Love Conquers Pride #3)

Chapter Sixteen

“ M r Darcy? Can you hear me?”

Darcy came back to himself slowly. He was lying on his back on the Brussels carpet, but there was something soft beneath his head. He swallowed, the dryness in his mouth sharp and unpleasant. Gradually, he realized his neckcloth had been removed, leaving his white lawn shirt gaping open at the throat. Turning his head, he saw Elizabeth sitting beside him on the floor, firmly clasping his hand.

Mortification surged through him as he tried to push himself up, his free hand instinctively tugging at the collar of his shirt.

“No, pray, lie still,” Elizabeth murmured. Leaning forwards, she pressed a folded handkerchief to the corner of his mouth just as he became aware of the familiar metallic taste of blood. Devil take it! He had bitten his tongue. At least it did not appear that he had cast up his accounts, or worse. Slowly, he rolled onto his side, drawing his knees up slightly as he focused on taking slow, steadying breaths.

The silence between them stretched for several moments before Elizabeth broke it in a low voice. “Do you think you can sit?”

Darcy nodded, shifting his weight and wincing slightly as he propped himself up.

“I think you had a…spell of some sort,” Elizabeth said hesitantly, and Darcy noticed that though her speech was cautious, her eyes were kind.

Again, he nodded. “How…how long…?”

“I do not believe it lasted more than a minute,” she replied gently. “I am sorry I could not reach you in time to cushion your fall. I fear you might have struck your head.”

Darcy’s attention turned inwards as he attempted to take stock of his condition with slow, tentative movements. “No, it would seem I landed on my shoulder,” he murmured, his voice rough. His attention shifted to his crumpled neckcloth lying on the carpet nearby, and his cheeks burned as he realized that must have been Elizabeth’s doing.

Following his gaze, she flushed. “Forgive me. You appeared to be having some difficulty breathing, so I thought it best to remove it.”

She reached out, retrieving the cloth and handing it back to him before averting her eyes.

Darcy accepted it gratefully, hastily wrapping the material around his neck and tying it in a simple knot. “You have no reason to ask for my forgiveness,” he said quietly. “If anything, I must beg for yours. I cannot tell you how deeply sorry I am that you had to witness such a spectacle. You must have been…” He paused, the word horrified immediately leaping to mind, before continuing, “…very frightened.”

Her eyes met his, the warmth of her expression easing a small portion of his shame. “You certainly owe me no apology, sir. While the episode was indeed unsettling to watch, I am sure it was far more frightening for you than it was for me.”

“I beg to differ,” Darcy replied, attempting a weak smile. “After all, I was unconscious for most of it.”

A startled laugh slipped past Elizabeth’s lips before she quickly composed herself, lowering her gaze to hide her smile. When her eyes returned to his, her voice was quieter, more cautious. “Am I correct in assuming something of this nature has occurred before?”

Darcy’s gaze dropped, and he was silent for a moment before answering thickly, “Yes.”

They sat in a charged silence before Elizabeth ventured tentatively, “Do you feel well enough to stand? I believe you would be more comfortable if we moved you to the sofa.”

Darcy inclined his head, and she rose, extending a hand. He hesitated briefly before taking it, attempting to disregard the frisson of pleasure that jolted through him at the feeling of her bare skin against his. The sofa in question was only a few steps away, and it was not long before Darcy was settled onto it, his feet resting on a stool Elizabeth had pulled over.

“Is there anything I can bring you?” she asked. “A blanket? Or something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” he said, his voice faintly slurred from the swelling of his tongue. “I only need to rest.”

Elizabeth nodded, shifting awkwardly before he gestured to the nearby armchair. “Pray, sit. I am mortified beyond measure at what you have already observed without having to suffer the indignity of reclining here while you stand.”

Elizabeth offered him a small, tentative smile before complying with his request and perching delicately on the chair by his side. For a moment, she bowed her head, her hands busily smoothing the fabric of her gown.

“Mr Darcy, I?—”

“I hope you will?—”

Elizabeth laughed lightly as they both spoke at once.

“Please,” he said quietly, “I would like to explain, if I may?”

She nodded, her expression encouraging, and he looked away briefly, gathering his thoughts before speaking in a low voice.

“The first…episode occurred not long after my mother’s death. I was thirteen, and it was early summer. My father and I had gone out riding on the estate. We had been out for some time when I began to feel as if something were not as it should be—I was suddenly light-headed, and there was a buzzing in my ears and a tingling sensation in my fingers. The next thing I knew I was lying on the ground with my father kneeling beside me, holding me by the shoulders. At first, I assumed I had been thrown, though I could not remember it happening. There was a blank space in my memory—nothing after the moment I began to feel unwell. However, when my father described what he had witnessed, it was clear that the horse was not to blame. I had experienced a convulsion of sorts, losing consciousness and slipping from my mount.

“We had been riding at a good clip, so in truth, I was fortunate not to have been trampled. In any case, we sat together for some time until I felt steady enough to ride home. My father stayed close, keeping our pace to a walk, and once we returned to the house, the matter was left behind. I think we both hoped—rather than truly believed—that it was an isolated incident. Perhaps I had been overcome by the heat or had eaten too little at breakfast.

“For some time afterwards, I avoided riding altogether. As a child, I had no fear of horses. I had been in the saddle nearly as long as I could walk. But suddenly, all I could think about was the attack—and that mayhap a hard ride would bring on another. My father saw my hesitation, though he never addressed it directly. Instead, he insisted that we ride together daily. I believe he was just as apprehensive as I—perhaps even more so—but he knew that if I did not conquer my fear immediately, it would only grow stronger.

“In any event, the days and months went by, and I did not experience another incident. In time, I began to believe that perhaps it was as my father said—no more than a unique occurrence—and I allowed myself to relax. Indeed, by the time it happened again, I had almost forgotten the first incident entirely.”

Darcy paused, drawing a steadying breath, and Elizabeth interjected softly, “So, it did happen again?”

“Yes. About eight months later. It was nighttime, and I was in my bedchamber at Pemberley. There was a fire burning low in the grate, and I had pulled a chair up to the hearth to take advantage of the warmth and light. I was supposed to be in bed, but I was deep in Gulliver’s Travels and could not resist finishing just one more chapter. Once again, I felt the strange creeping sensation—an uneasy fluttering in my chest and a faint tingling at the ends of my fingers. My vision clouded at the edges, and a hollow ringing began in my ears, growing louder with every breath. But this time, I had a sense of what might follow. I quickly stood and went to lie down on the bed.

“When I regained consciousness, the world felt disjointed, as though time had slipped past me without my consent. My limbs were heavy, weighed down as if I had run for miles, and my mouth felt dry, my tongue thick. I remember staring up at the ceiling, willing my breathing to slow and struggling to piece together how much time had passed.

“It was not fear I felt then, but shame—shame at my body’s betrayal, and at my own helplessness.”

Elizabeth reached out, gently squeezing his hand. “What did your father say,” she asked, “when you told him it had happened again?”

Darcy turned his gaze aside, the memory settling heavily upon him. “I did not tell him. Not that night, nor after the next episode, which occurred some months later. As I said, I was deeply ashamed. By then, I was fourteen, and I was beginning to understand that there was something seriously wrong. Besides that, I could not bear the thought of placing yet another burden upon my father’s shoulders. My mother had been gone scarcely more than a year, and he was already coping with his own grief while raising a son on the cusp of manhood and an infant daughter, alongside running an estate. I could not stand the thought of being yet another encumbrance for him.”

Elizabeth's lips parted slightly, her tender gaze searching his face. “But…you did tell him eventually, did you not?”

“Yes,” Darcy admitted. “But only because the next attack he witnessed for himself. After that, I confessed everything, and that was when he told me the truth.”

Darcy looked away, his throat tightening as he continued, “The episodes I had been experiencing were not a complete surprise to him. It turns out there had been a great-aunt on his mother’s side who suffered from a similar affliction. Her symptoms began much the same as mine, in her youth. Over time, however, her spells grew both more frequent and more severe. The family physician, lacking better understanding, diagnosed it as a form of lunacy.” Darcy’s voice thickened, and he hesitated before adding, “At the age of sixteen, her parents had her committed to an asylum. She lived out the remainder of her life there.”

Silence settled heavily in the small sitting room until Elizabeth spoke, her voice tinged with disbelief. “How horrible. But that was generations ago! Surely your father could never have been so cruel?”

“No,” Darcy replied, his tone steady but sombre. “But we both understood that we could not allow news of my condition to become generally known. Even within the family, it was discussed only sparingly. Fortunately, in my case, the spells did not appear to worsen. At the time, I was already studying with a tutor, having left school after my mother died the previous year. So, for a while, life continued much as it had before. I kept up with my studies and assisted my father with the business of the estate. The one thing of note is that it was during this period that I formed a friendship with George Wickham.”

Elizabeth gasped, her expression incredulous. “Not the same Mr Wickham who tried to elope with your sister?”

Darcy inclined his head grimly. “Indeed, the very same. He was the son of my father’s steward, and like me, he had lost his mother in childbed. That shared experience formed a bond of sorts between us. Moreover, there were few boys of my age in the area as my cousins and other peers were all away at school. It was my father’s idea for George to join me in my studies. He was very fond of old Mr Wickham, and I think he felt responsible for keeping me at home. So, despite our differences in station, he did everything he could to encourage the friendship.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, a faint crease forming along her brow. “Did Mr Wickham know of your condition? Did he ever witness one of these…episodes?”

“Thankfully, no. The spells were infrequent, and by then I had learned to recognize the warning signs. If I felt any of the usual symptoms, I would excuse myself and find a place to lie down until the worst had passed. There were a few narrow escapes, of course, but I always managed to avoid detection.”

Darcy’s voice grew quieter as he continued, “So, that was how I spent the next few years—until it was time for me to go to university. Although my father preferred that I continue my education at home, by that point, I was desperate to get away. Pemberley, as much as I loved it, was beginning to feel like a gaol, and I was eager to spread my wings—to meet new people and to see more of the world. It took months of persuasion, but eventually, my father agreed—on one condition.”

Elizabeth leaned forwards slightly, her gaze fixed on him, as Darcy continued, his lips tightening, “That George Wickham accompany me. You see, his plan was to divulge my condition to old Mr Wickham and to strike a bargain. He would pay for George’s education in return for his assistance in protecting my secret. At the time, I had little choice but to agree, though I did so reluctantly. Wickham had already begun to exhibit traits I found troubling, and I did not trust his discretion. Still, I was too eager for a change of scenery to refuse. And so, in the autumn of 1801, Wickham and I began our studies at Cambridge.

“It was at university that everything began to change—both for the better and for the worse. In the case of Wickham, the vicious tendencies and lack of principle I had glimpsed during our time at Pemberley began to flourish unchecked. His behaviour grew increasingly reckless, and I found myself more and more uneasy in his company, especially given his knowledge of my condition. I was torn about what to do—to confide in my father or to keep Wickham’s proclivities to myself. Yet I feared that revealing the truth might lead to greater troubles, as it would involve Wickham’s deceit as much as my own failings.

“An unexpected answer, however, came in the form of Mr Henry Walsh.

“Walsh and I became acquainted not long after arriving at university. He was a respectable young man from modest beginnings—the son of a schoolmaster with six children and scant means. However, Walsh had an uncle who had gone into the law, a bachelor who was able to fund his nephew’s education. Henry was as clever as they come and had excelled in his studies from an early age. Still, as you might imagine, his background made him an outsider amongst those who prided themselves on their breeding.

“But I liked him instantly. Unlike Wickham, Walsh and I shared a great deal in common, and I found his company far more agreeable as I began to distance myself from my boyhood friend. By that time, Wickham had already abandoned any pretence of fulfilling the promise he had made to my father. He rarely attended lectures, instead choosing to squander his days in dissipation—late nights of gambling and drinking followed by long mornings spent in bed. While I was both appalled and saddened by his degeneracy, I confess I felt a measure of relief as well. His self-indulgence effectively freed me from the burden of his custody, and I could finally move through life without the weight of his judgment or interference.

“So, it is not surprising that when I had my first attack while at university, it was Walsh who was with me, not Wickham.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, her brow furrowed. “What happened? Mr Walsh must have been alarmed if he was unprepared for such a thing.”

Darcy exhaled, his gaze distant. “He was startled, certainly, as anyone would be, but he responded with remarkable composure. It was during the Michaelmas term, a particularly demanding period with examinations approaching. We had gone for a walk, to clear our heads, and I began to feel the now-familiar signs that an attack was imminent. Walsh must have noticed something was wrong because I remember him looking at me with some concern, asking whether all was well.”

He hesitated, his tone subdued. “I barely managed to shake my head before everything went dark. When I woke, Walsh was there, kneeling beside me. He helped me up and escorted me back to my rooms. He asked no questions, demanded no explanation—only enquired whether I felt steady enough to make the short walk.”

Elizabeth’s expression gentled. “He sounds like a remarkable friend.”

Darcy nodded. “He was—and is. The next morning, I told him everything, and his response was simple—he only asked how he might be of help.

“After that, Walsh quickly replaced Wickham in almost every respect—accompanying me to lectures, encouraging me in my studies, and ensuring that I did not push myself too far when I felt the early warning signs of another episode. Meanwhile, Wickham became increasingly…disreputable. I shall not go into the particulars in the presence of a lady, but suffice it to say that the company he kept was abhorrent, and he spent little time in the classroom. I saw less and less of him, which was a relief, though it also left me uneasy. By that time, I had begun to doubt his trustworthiness, though I had reason to believe he could be persuaded to hold his tongue so long as my father controlled the purse strings.”

Darcy exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. “And so, we reached an unspoken agreement. Wickham would say nothing of my ailment, and in return, I would not inform my father of his exploits. While I do not regret my choices—especially as they allowed me to distance myself from him—there were consequences.”

Darcy paused here for breath as Elizabeth waited patiently for him to continue.

“Due to my concealment of the truth,” Darcy began again, “my father’s attachment to Wickham never wavered. To the very last, he thought of him as the same charming boy who had been a friend to me when I needed one most, and because of that, he provided generously for Wickham in his will—a legacy of one thousand pounds. More than that, he made it known that he wished Wickham to inherit a valuable family living, should he choose to make the church his career.” Darcy’s voice grew tight, his frustration barely contained, as he bit out, “But now I digress.”

Elizabeth did not press him further, her expression one of quiet understanding as he gathered himself before continuing.

“It was my intention to return to Pemberley upon graduation, while Walsh planned to study the law, hoping to eventually join his uncle’s practice. What George Wickham planned to do I neither knew nor cared. Certainly, he had no intention of making the church his profession, despite my father’s wishes. But before any of these paths could be settled, my father fell ill, and within a matter of months, he was gone.”

“How dreadful for you,” Elizabeth whispered.

Darcy nodded grimly. “It was one of the darkest periods of my life if truth be told. While my condition had remained somewhat manageable during my time at university, the strain of my father’s illness—and the grief that followed his death—took its toll, and my own health began to decline at a rapid pace. The attacks increased in frequency, sometimes occurring as often as twice in a single week, and the warning signs I had come to rely upon were brief—if I noticed them at all.

“Before he died—and with my knowledge and permission—my father shared the details of my affliction with my uncle, the Earl of Matlock, and later with my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, with whom I had always been close. He also arranged for me to consult with a physician in Edinburgh, a man reputed to have success in treating cases like mine. It was my father’s final wish, and my uncle vowed to see it through. Five years ago this summer, Lord Matlock fulfilled that promise.”

Across from him, Elizabeth’s eyes grew round as realization struck. “Five summers ago… That was where you were going? When we met in Yorkshire?”

He hesitated before nodding. “Yes.”

For a moment, her expression grew distant, and Darcy wondered whether she was thinking back to that long ago day, but after a moment she merely nodded, prompting gently, “And the physician? Was he able to help you?”

Darcy’s lips pressed together, the memory drawing a scowl. “The physician —if I can even use such an appellation to describe the gentleman—was little more than a charlatan. His methods were crude, and his conclusions were of little use. He declared there was nothing to be done beyond avoiding strain and keeping to a quiet life. Worse still, he helpfully informed me that there were still those in the medical profession who viewed my condition as a form of madness—grounds for being cast into Bedlam.”

Elizabeth’s breath hitched, her shock evident, but Darcy pressed on, his tone grim. “You will understand, then, why I resolved that I could not remain on English soil. To become fodder for gossip—to risk tarnishing the Darcy name, or worse, finding myself consigned to a madhouse—was something I could never endure. Were it not for Georgiana, I would have left these shores long ago.”

“So, that is why you wish to see her married so soon,” Elizabeth murmured, and Darcy nodded in reply.

“My father entrusted Georgiana’s guardianship to Colonel Fitzwilliam, along with myself, for reasons you can no doubt appreciate. As I did not wish to leave the full burden of her care to my cousin, I agreed to remain in England long enough to see my sister happily settled. But that decision was not without risks. If anyone were to discover the truth…”

Elizabeth stared back at him, nodding her understanding. “And that is why you rarely leave Pemberley,” she said quietly, her expression serious. “To minimize the chances of anyone finding out.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Can you imagine what hope Georgiana would have of securing a respectable husband if rumours of lunacy within the family ever arose? The only gentlemen who would even look at her would be the ones with pockets to let, or worse. And once they gained control of her assets…who knows what would become of her—or of Pemberley? They could drain the coffers within a year.”

“But, I do not understand,” Elizabeth replied. “You would leave her Pemberley?”

Darcy responded with a solemn nod. “It is already done. Once I am gone, everything will pass to her, save a modest sum I shall use to establish myself far away from here.”

“I see. And Mr Walsh?”

Darcy inclined his head, considering her words. “He will not be accompanying me, if that is your question. He has already rendered me a great service—one I can scarcely hope to repay.” He paused for a moment before continuing in a low voice, “Upon my return from Scotland, once I realized that a cure was not possible for me, I sought out Walsh and made him an offer. I would hire him to take charge of my financial affairs, and in return, he would reside here at Pemberley to be of service in a more…personal capacity. His compensation has been generous, ensuring that by the time I am prepared to depart England, he will have the means to pursue whatever course he chooses—be it the law, continued financial consultancy, or even the purchase of a small estate, should that be his inclination.”

Elizabeth nodded, her expression pensive. When she did not speak, Darcy looked away, before continuing in a brusque manner.

“Well, now you know everything, and I can only beg your forgiveness. It was never my intention to humble myself in such a way, nor for you to witness…” His voice faltered, his jaw tightening as the memory of the humiliating scene returned unbidden. “…what you observed here today. But perhaps it is for the best. I have no reason to doubt your discretion, and now you will understand what I told you in the orangery—that there can be nothing further between us.” He hesitated, then added, his tone edged with bitterness, “No doubt you will leave here counting yourself most fortunate to have escaped unscathed.”

Elizabeth arched a brow, incredulity sharpening her voice. “Unscathed? Forgive me, Mr Darcy, but no—I am afraid I do not understand you in the least.”

Darcy exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists at his side. Does she not see? Can she not comprehend what I am trying to spare her? His chest tightened, torn between reason and the unbearable pull of longing.

“Elizabeth, please! You are far too clever not to recognize the imprudence of such a match. Surely, you must see that I can never marry.”

She stared at him for a long moment before rising abruptly, the sweep of her skirts brushing against the floor. Crossing to the window, she stood with her back to the room, the tension in her frame betraying her struggle for composure. When at last she turned, her expression was one of quiet defiance.

“You are right about one thing,” she said, her voice brimming with intensity. “I shall never speak of what happened here today, nor of what you have confided in me, if that is your wish. But you are utterly mistaken if you believe any of it justifies your refusal to marry.”

“Refusal?” His laugh was bitter. “Is that what you believe this to be, after everything I have told you? I am damaged , Elizabeth! Can you not see that? Marriage is out of the question. I could never— would never—saddle any woman with such a burden, least of all a woman I—” He broke off, his throat tightening as he turned away. “Least of all you. And even if I were selfish enough to make you my wife, there would be no children. On that, I am resolved. I could never risk passing on an affliction such as this to any offspring of mine.”

To his astonishment, when he finally dared to meet her gaze, there was no pity in her dark eyes—only a fiery resolve. A blazing challenge that stole his breath.

“And if I should choose to marry you in any case?” she enquired. “Should that not be my decision to make?”

“No. You are young, and you are not thinking clearly. Can you not see what your future would be? In the best of circumstances, you would be nursemaid to a recluse who rarely leaves his rooms. And in the worst, you would be bound to a madman committed to Bedlam. Is that truly the life you would choose for yourself?”

Elizabeth parted her lips, a retort already forming, but before she could speak, Darcy turned away, his tone clipped and final.

“This conversation is over. I have nothing more to say on the matter. Marry Bingley, Elizabeth. He will give you the life you deserve.”