Page 30 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious “Miss B”

Elizabeth

E lizabeth had not slept. She lay in her bed as the grey dawn light crept through the curtains, her mind turning over Wickham’s words like stones in a tumbler, each revolution making them sharper and more cutting.

She had read the letters he’d left her—all of them a damning judgement upon a man who had mistreated his tenants, cast them out into nothing.

She rose and dressed instinctively, her movements sluggish from exhaustion.

In the looking glass, her reflection appeared wan and hollow-eyed.

How could she have been so wrong about Darcy’s character?

The man who had been so gentle with Lydia, who had paid Longbourn’s debts without hesitation, who had looked at her with such apparent tenderness—was it all performance?

Yet as she descended to breakfast, doubts crept in.

Wickham’s story, whilst compelling, had been thin on specifics.

Even the letters had been somewhat vague on details.

There were names, dates—but no addresses she could use to verify the information within.

It was all very convenient, she thought, that every piece of evidence supported Wickham’s version whilst being impossible to verify.

She picked at her breakfast, earning concerned glances from her aunt, who wisely did not press for conversation.

Lydia chattered cheerfully about plans for the day with Georgiana, whilst Mary inquired about a book she had borrowed from Darcy’s library.

The ordinary domesticity felt surreal against the turmoil in Elizabeth’s mind.

When Darcy’s carriage arrived to collect her for their morning walk—a habit they had fallen into over the last few weeks—Elizabeth could not find excitement in the prospect.

She watched from the drawing room window as he approached the house, noting the spring in his step, the slight smile on his face.

He appeared every inch the man who had begun to court her in earnest, not the cold calculating man Wickham had described.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said as he entered the room, his voice warm with affection. “You look rather pale this morning. I hope you are not unwell?”

“I am quite well, thank you.” The words came out more curtly than she intended, and she saw him pause.

“Perhaps we might speak privately?” she continued. “I have matters I wish to discuss with you.”

If her formal tone puzzled him, he gave no sign. “Of course. Shall we walk in the garden?”

The garden felt different in daylight, less sinister than it had the evening before. They walked in silence for several minutes before Elizabeth found the courage to speak.

“Mr Darcy, I must ask you about something that has come to my attention. Yesterday, I was approached by a Mr George Wickham.”

Darcy stopped walking so abruptly that Elizabeth took two more steps before realising he was no longer beside her. When she turned, his face had gone ashen.

“Wickham approached you?” His voice was tight with suppressed emotion. “What did he want?”

“He wished to inform me about your character,” Elizabeth said, watching his reaction. “He told me things… troubling things about your treatment of him, and others.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “What manner of things?”

Elizabeth forced herself to meet his eyes.

“He claims you denied him a living that was promised to him by your father. That you have dismissed faithful servants from Pemberley for minor infractions. That Mr Bingley was present when you refused him the living a second time and did nothing to defend him.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Darcy turned away from her, his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders rigid with tension.

“I see,” he said finally. “And you believed him.”

It was not a question, and the quiet devastation in his voice made Elizabeth’s chest tighten. “I… I do not know what to believe.”

“I see.”

“I found it peculiar that you would never have told me about a man such as him, someone you have known from childhood. He said your father held him in high regard.”

“He did,” Darcy said through clenched teeth. “What else did he say?”

“That you refused to help him. That you cast him out. He… he said you told him he had made his choice and must live with the consequences.”

“Those were indeed my words,” Darcy said. “But the circumstances were rather different than he led you to believe.”

“Then tell me,” Elizabeth said, surprising herself with the urgency in her voice. “Tell me the truth.”

Darcy studied her face for a long moment. “You would believe my word over his?”

“I want to believe you,” Elizabeth said. “But I need to understand. If you are innocent of these charges, then why would he make such accusations? What could he possibly gain?”

“What evidence did he provide for these accusations?” Darcy asked.

Elizabeth hesitated, then reached into her reticule and withdrew the letters. “He gave me these. Letters from tenants you supposedly dismissed.”

Darcy took the papers with hands that trembled slightly with suppressed rage. As he read, his expression grew darker, and Elizabeth heard him mutter something under his breath that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary. He shook his head in disgust and thrust the letters into his coat pocket.

“These are fabrications,” he said coldly. “Complete and utter lies.”

“But they have names, dates—”

“Anyone can invent names and dates, Elizabeth. These are forgeries designed to deceive you.” His voice was growing sharper. “How did Wickham come to approach you? How did he know where to find you?”

“James Morton brought him,” Elizabeth said. “They came to the garden yesterday whilst I was returning from our walk.”

Darcy’s face went white with fury. “James Morton?” His voice was incredulous. “You believed accusations brought to you by James Morton and his associate? After everything that man has done to your family?”

“Mr Wickham seemed—”

“I don’t care how he seemed!” Darcy’s control snapped.

“Elizabeth, how could you even consider trusting anything connected to that vindictive, manipulative—” He stopped himself, running his hands through his hair.

“Good God, when Morton said this was not over at Vauxhall, I should have known he would find some way to strike back.”

“You think this is all some plot by James?”

“Of course it’s a plot! Wickham is nothing more than a convenient weapon for Morton to use against us.” Darcy’s eyes blazed. “And you—you believed them. Without question, without even speaking to me first, you believed the word of your family’s greatest enemy.”

Her eyes watered again. “I… I was confused. The letters seemed so detailed—”

“The letters are lies, Elizabeth. Every word of them.” Darcy’s voice was bitter now. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? The damage is done. You’ve shown me exactly how much you trust my character.”

“That is not fair—”

“Isn’t it?” Darcy stepped back from her. “When faced with accusations from a stranger allied with a man who has tried to destroy your family’s happiness, you chose to believe them over everything you know about me. What does that say about your feelings for me? About this engagement?”

“Fitzwilliam, please—”

“No.” His voice was cold, distant. “I think we both know where we stand now.”

He bowed stiffly. “Good day, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth watched him stride away, his shoulders rigid with hurt and anger, and felt immediately dreadful. What had she done?

Elizabeth stood alone in the garden, tears streaming down her face. The immediate regret was overwhelming—she had wounded the man she loved based on lies from his enemies. How could she have been so foolish? How could she have let James Morton’s vindictiveness poison her mind against Darcy?

She thought of Darcy’s face, the hurt and betrayal in his eyes when he realised she had believed the worst of him. He was right—she had chosen to trust accusations from James Morton, of all people, over everything she knew about Darcy’s character.

The letters in his pocket were forgeries. Of course they were. James had orchestrated this entire attack, using Wickham as his weapon to destroy her happiness just as she had thwarted his plans for Jane. And she had walked directly into his trap.

Elizabeth sank onto a garden bench, burying her face in her hands. What if she had destroyed everything? What if Darcy could never forgive her lack of faith? The thought of losing him—truly losing him—made her feel sick with despair.

She had to find a way to make this right. But first, she needed to understand the full scope of James’s deception and Wickham’s lies. If she was going to beg Darcy’s forgiveness, she needed to come to him with the complete truth.

Elizabeth hurried inside, unable to bear being in the garden where their quarrel had taken place. She made it to the drawing room before the tears overcame her completely, and she sank into a chair, sobbing into her hands.

“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice was full of concern as she entered the room, dressed for her outing with Bingley. “Whatever is the matter?”

Elizabeth looked up, her face streaked with tears. “Oh, Jane, I have made such a dreadful mistake.”

Jane immediately abandoned her plans and came to sit beside her sister. “Tell me what has happened.”

Before Elizabeth could speak, Lydia burst through the door. “Lizzy! What is wrong? I saw Mr Darcy leaving and he looked thunderous—” She stopped when she saw Elizabeth’s tears. “What has happened?”

“Lydia,” Jane said, “perhaps you might give us a moment? I shall explain everything later.”

Lydia looked between her sisters, clearly wanting to stay, but something in Jane’s tone convinced her. “Very well, but I shall expect a full account,” she said, reluctantly withdrawing.

When they were alone, Jane took Elizabeth’s hands. “Now, tell me everything.”

Through her tears, Elizabeth related the entire sorry tale—Wickham’s accusations, the forged letters, Darcy’s fury when he learned James Morton was involved, their terrible quarrel.

“I feel so foolish,” Elizabeth whispered. “The moment he walked away, I knew I had been wrong.”

Jane was quiet for a moment, studying her sister’s face. “Lizzy, why would you believe anything James Morton had to say? After everything he has done to our family?”

Elizabeth wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “I do not know. I suppose… I have been so happy with Darcy these past weeks. Perhaps I was expecting something dreadful to happen.”

“Why would you expect that?”

“Because I am not his equal, Jane. I know we pretend otherwise, but I am not. He could have anyone—why would he choose me?” Elizabeth’s voice broke. “I suppose part of me has been waiting for him to realise his mistake.”

“Elizabeth Bennet,” Jane said firmly, “you are speaking nonsense. You and Mr Darcy are perfectly suited in station. He is a gentleman, you are a gentleman’s daughter. Your birth is equal to his.”

“But his fortune—”

“Has nothing to do with your worth as a person or your suitability as a wife.” Jane squeezed her hands. “Lizzy, you have never felt this way before about any man, have you?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Never. I have never… I did not know it was possible to feel this way about anyone.”

“Then perhaps that is why you are so afraid of losing it. You don’t trust something that feels too good to be true.”

Elizabeth wiped her eyes. “Jane, do you ever doubt Mr Bingley? At all?”

“No,” Jane said simply. “Not anymore.”

“But how can you be so certain? He left before, he hurt you—”

“He did hurt me,” Jane acknowledged. “But we have spoken honestly about what happened, and I understand his reasons now. I am certain of his feelings for me, just as I am certain of my own for him.”

Elizabeth stared at her sister. “I wish I had your confidence. Perhaps Mr Darcy and I are not meant to be if I cannot trust him as you trust Mr Bingley.”

“Lizzy, you and Mr Bingley had very different circumstances. Charles and I had time to know each other’s hearts before we were separated. You and Mr Darcy… your courtship has been rather unconventional, has it not?”

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. “But what if I have destroyed everything? What if he can never forgive me for doubting him?”

“If he loves you—and I believe he does—then he will forgive you. But Lizzy, you must understand why you doubted him before you can ask his forgiveness.”

“You mean why I believed this Mr Wickham?”

“Yes. What exactly did he tell you about Mr Darcy?”

Elizabeth related Wickham’s accusations—the living, the dismissed tenants, his claims about Darcy’s cruelty.

“But when Darcy asked how Wickham had found me and I told him about James, he said they were all lies designed to hurt me. Which I can believe but what I do not understand is why Darcy never once told me about this Mr Wickham, if they were so close as children.”

The door opened again, and Lydia appeared, looking defiant. “I know you told me to go away, Jane, but I cannot. Not when Lizzy is crying and it involves Mr Darcy and someone called Wickham.”

Jane sighed. “Lydia—”

“No, listen. If this is about George Wickham, then I must tell you what Georgiana told me.” Lydia came and knelt beside Elizabeth’s chair. “Lizzy, Georgiana confided in me about what happened at Ramsgate last summer.”

Elizabeth looked up sharply. “What about Ramsgate?”

“Mr Wickham tried to elope with her. For her fortune. Mr Darcy arrived just in time to stop it.” Lydia’s young face was serious. “Georgiana was only fifteen, Lizzy. She was completely taken in by his charm, and he very nearly ruined her.”

The blood drained from her face. “Georgiana told you this?”

“She swore me to secrecy, but if this man has been telling lies about Mr Darcy, then you need to know the truth.” Lydia’s voice was fierce. “Mr Darcy saved his sister from a fortune hunter and a scoundrel. That is the kind of man he is.”

Elizabeth buried her face in her hands again. Now she understood why Darcy had not told her about this man—he could not speak of Wickham’s true character without exposing his sister’s private shame. He had been protecting Georgiana even at the cost of his own reputation with Elizabeth.

“Oh, what have I done?” she whispered. “He must hate me now.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Jane said. “But you must go to him, Lizzy. You must tell him that you understand now, and that you are sorry.”

“But what if he won’t see me? What if it is too late?”

“Then at least you will have tried,” Jane replied. “But I do not think it is too late. A man does not fall in love as deeply as Mr Darcy has without the capacity for forgiveness.”

Elizabeth looked between her sisters, drawing strength from their love and support. Jane was right—she had to try to make this right. She only hoped that Darcy’s love was strong enough to overcome the wound her lack of faith had inflicted.