Page 55 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE MAN SHE MARRIED
Darcy stood immobile in the drawing room long after Elizabeth had departed, her words echoing in the hollowness of his chest. I am already your wife.
Four simple words that had shattered the foundations of everything he believed about himself, about her, and about the child who called him “Da-see” with such natural affection.
The signet ring—his father’s ring, the one he had searched for frantically upon awakening from his long unconsciousness—had been with Elizabeth all along. Not stolen by highwaymen as he had been led to believe, but given freely as a token of matrimony.
I married her. The thought circled his mind like a wounded bird, unable to find purchase among the fragments of his broken memories. William is my son.
His legs gave way beneath him, and he sank back onto the settee, staring at his hands as if they might somehow provide confirmation of a past he could not recall.
These hands had placed a ring on Elizabeth’s finger.
These same hands had held her close through their marriage night.
These hands had loved her and promised her protection .
“My God,” he whispered into the empty room. “What have I done?”
He had offered charity to his own wife.
His wife. The woman who wore his ring against her heart, who had borne his child in exile, who had endured months of social ostracism rather than abandon the sacred vows they had exchanged. The woman he had just insulted beyond any possibility of forgiveness.
The full weight of his humiliation descended upon him, crushing in its enormity. He had patronized his own wife, offered to make his legitimate son a ward, presented his proposal as an act of magnanimous charity rather than the renewal of existing vows.
The Fitzwilliam Darcy I married respected me. You, sir, are not that man.
A sound escaped him then, something between a laugh and a sob.
The cruel irony of his situation would be comical if it were not so devastating.
He had spent weeks battling his growing attachment to Elizabeth, believing her compromised by another man, only to discover that the mysterious father of her child was, in fact, himself.
How many times had William reached for him, called for him with that near-approximation of his name?
How many times had he seen Elizabeth watching him with those fine eyes, hope and wariness battling in their depths?
The signs had been there all along, but he had been too arrogant, too certain of his own understanding to recognize them.
A soft knock at the drawing room door interrupted his spiral of self-recrimination.
“Fitzwilliam?” Lady Eleanor’s voice carried the particular quality of concern he remembered from his childhood, when scraped knees and wounded pride had seemed the worst catastrophes imaginable.
“Aunt,” he acknowledged, rising to his feet but not turning to face her. He could not bear to see the confirmation of his failure in her eyes.
“I have just spoken with Elizabeth,” she said, moving further into the room. “She told me what transpired between you.”
“Then you are aware of the depth of my disgrace,” Darcy replied, his voice hollow. “I offered charity to my own wife and wardship to my legitimate son. I believe I may have set some sort of record for conjugal stupidity.”
“Language, Fitzwilliam.” Lady Eleanor said firmly. “This situation calls for clear thinking, not self-indulgent wallowing.”
He took the indicated seat, watching as his aunt settled herself opposite him with the regal composure that had always reminded him so painfully of his mother.
“I suppose you knew all along,” he said after a moment. “About Elizabeth. About William.”
“I did,” Aunt Eleanor confirmed without apology. “Elizabeth came to me shortly after your attack, when it became clear she was with child. She showed me your signet ring and told me of your marriage at the Red Lion. I believed her immediately—unlike some other members of our family.”
The implied criticism of Aunt Catherine was clear, though Darcy’s mind caught on a different detail. “My attack,” he repeated. “Not a random act of highway robbery, then.”
“No,” Lady Eleanor said grimly. “Elizabeth mentioned a name during your fever—George Wickham. She believed he was responsible for the attack that left you near death.”
Wickham. The name struck a chord of recognition so powerful that Darcy’s grip tightened involuntarily on his glass. Images flashed through his mind—a smiling face concealing malice, a muddy road, pain exploding through his skull, darkness.
“Wickham,” he said aloud, testing the name on his tongue. “My father’s godson. The steward’s son.”
“The very same,” Lady Eleanor confirmed. “You were found near Barnet with nothing on your person—no papers, no money, no watch, no signet ring. The assumption was that highwaymen had robbed and beaten you, but Elizabeth’s account suggests something far more targeted.”
“The marriage certificate,” Darcy said, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. “He took it, didn’t he? Along with any other proof of our connection.”
Lady Eleanor nodded, her expression grave. “It seems likely. When you were brought to London, unconscious and barely alive, you had nothing that might identify you. It was only through the recognition of a former acquaintance that you were eventually identified as Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“And Elizabeth? What became of her after…” He could not finish the question, the weight of his abandonment—however unintentional—pressing upon his chest like a sack of lead.
“She escaped with remarkable presence of mind,” Lady Eleanor replied, a note of pride evident in her tone. “Wickham arrived at the inn, claiming to have been sent by you to escort her to London. He suggested she was suffering from delusions regarding your relationship.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched at the audacity of it. “She saw through him.”
“She did. With the help of the innkeeper’s wife, she secured passage with an elderly couple, the Honywoods, who were traveling to London. They brought her directly to the Gardiners in Gracechurch Street.”
“The Gardiners,” Darcy repeated, the name stirring another fragment of memory. “Her uncle and aunt.”
“Yes. They sheltered her through the early stages of her pregnancy, but as her condition became impossible to conceal, a more permanent solution was required. Elizabeth came to me, showed me your signet ring, and explained the circumstances of your marriage. I believed her immediately and offered her refuge at Bellfield Grange.”
Darcy absorbed this information in silence, trying to reconcile the narrative with the scattered images that surfaced in his mind— Elizabeth at an inn, rain lashing the windows; warming her shivering body in the single bed…
“I went to London,” Lady Eleanor continued, “to search for evidence of your marriage and to investigate Wickham’s whereabouts. The results were concerning.”
“Tell me,” Darcy demanded, setting aside his barely touched brandy.
“Wickham is deeply in debt, desperate for funds, and absolutely denies any connection to events at the Red Lion. His desperation makes him dangerous—he offered to ‘investigate’ the matter for payment, clearly hoping to exploit the situation further.” Lady Eleanor’s expression hardened.
“He is playing a longer game, I suspect. The marriage certificate and registry page have vanished without a trace.”
“Without the certificate…” Darcy began, a new horror dawning on him.
“Yes,” Lady Eleanor confirmed grimly. “Without it, William’s legitimacy could be questioned.
Even if you and Elizabeth were to marry now, it would not retroactively legitimize him in the eyes of the law.
He would remain vulnerable to challenges regarding his inheritance rights, particularly for entailed properties like Pemberley. ”
The full scope of Wickham’s villainy finally became clear. He had not merely attacked Darcy or stolen valuables—he had struck at the very foundation of Darcy’s family line, placing the rightful heir to Pemberley in permanent legal jeopardy.
“He has stolen my son’s birthright,” Darcy said, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.
“It would appear so,” Lady Eleanor agreed.
“Though there may yet be ways to mitigate the damage. The marriage was performed by special license, which would have left records with the ecclesiastical authorities. The witnesses might be located. The parish’s registry, while tampered with, might be examined by experts for evidence of alteration. ”
Darcy rose from his chair, unable to remain seated as the implications raced through his mind. “I must find him,” he said decisively. “Wickham must be made to account for his actions and return what he has stolen.”
“Fitzwilliam,” Lady Eleanor cautioned, “Wickham is dangerous and desperate. Confronting him directly may only compound the disaster.”
“What would you have me do?” Darcy demanded, frustration finally breaking through his careful control. “Sit here at Bellfield while my son’s future hangs in the balance? Allow the man who attacked me, who attempted to deceive my wife, who stole my child’s inheritance, to escape justice?”
“I would have you think strategically rather than react emotionally,” Lady Eleanor replied with imperturbable calm. “Wickham has had nearly two years to cover his tracks. The documents may be well-hidden or destroyed. A direct confrontation might endanger you without securing what you seek.”
Darcy paced the length of the library, his mind racing.
“I cannot remain passive any longer,” he said finally.
“I have already failed Elizabeth and William through my inaction. I will not compound that failure by hiding behind my injury or memory loss when their future security depends upon my intervention.”
“And what of your relationship with Elizabeth?” Lady Eleanor asked quietly. “Will charging off in pursuit of Wickham repair the damage your proposal has caused?”