Page 67 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

ROOM IN THE INN

Cold and driving rain lashed against the carriage windows as Darcy approached the Red Lion Inn.

Their visit to Meryton had taken longer than planned, with merchants, angry fathers, and even fellow militia members eager to ply Darcy’s ears with tales of woe regarding the former resident, George Wickham.

Debts, gambling, young women compromised with child, curates bribed, and even association with unsavory criminals—those used to threaten and cajole with the aim of stopping anyone from bringing a suit to the magistrate.

“The militia was glad to be rid of him,” Denny had confided. “Though no one would say it openly. There were whispers he had connections to certain highway robberies near London—gentlemen relieved of their valuables in a most selective manner. Nothing proven, of course.”

The carriage slowed through the crowded and sodden lane leading to the inn. It was another stormy evening with travelers seeking shelter. Muddy streets, carriages lined up, lightning flashing against the sheets of gray.

“This is the place.” Graham’s voice was tight. “Leaving a young lady here was unconscionable.”

“It had been deliberate,” Darcy concurred. “Miss Mary listened in to her parents’ conversations. Wickham was a frequent visitor, and no doubt heard either from her sisters or the loud, unshielded proclamations of Mrs. Bennet. He wasted little time in tracking her movements.”

“Perhaps he was a confederate with the footman and maid who stole her traveling money,” Graham said gravely. “I have no sympathy for Mrs. Darcy’s parents.”

A flash of lightning illuminated the inn’s entrance. Darcy gasped, pointing to the innkeeper collecting bags of coin at the door.

“That’s him. I can see her standing there pleading with him, soaking wet, her bonnet askew.” He pressed his nose to the window glass. “I did not know who she was, only a gentlewoman from her deportment. I intended to pay for her room, but the innkeeper said there were no more rooms.”

Graham sat silent, nodding as Darcy paused, unable to recollect what happened next.

“I must have brought her to my room.” He fumbled with the leather portfolio, stuffed full of notes and the debts he purchased.

“I must have recognized her and made a decision. I knew the impropriety and the requirement of a gentleman. She must have argued with me. Must have tried to retain her independence, but a lady abandoned at a coaching inn had little choice. The sort of men in the taproom, the ruffians lurking in the courtyard…”

“We don’t need to stop here,” Graham said. “There are other inns. ”

“This is the place,” Darcy stated. “We stay here tonight.”

The carriage lurched to a stop in the muddy yard.

Rain drummed against the roof, an eerily familiar rhythm that sent tendrils of memory flickering through Darcy’s consciousness—rain on windows, a fire crackling, soft breathing beside him in the darkness.

He closed his eyes briefly against the assault of sensation, then squared his shoulders and prepared to disembark.

The taproom was warm and noisy, filled with travelers seeking refuge from the storm.

Darcy stood just inside the doorway, water streaming from his greatcoat as his eyes swept the space.

Nothing remarkable—wooden tables, worn benches, the smell of ale and damp wool—yet his pulse quickened with recognition.

He had stood in this exact spot before, surveying this same room with different eyes.

“May I help you, sir?” The harried-looking innkeeper approached, his expression shifting from harassed to deferential as he noted Darcy’s fine clothing and commanding presence.

“I require lodging for myself and my companion,” Darcy replied, stripping off his sodden gloves. “Your best chamber, if available.”

The innkeeper bobbed his head. “Certainly, sir. The Blue Room is vacant—largest we have, with a proper fireplace and?—”

“No.” The word emerged more sharply than Darcy intended. He moderated his tone. “I prefer the room at the end of the upper corridor. The one with the eastern window.”

The innkeeper’s face registered surprise, then wary calculation. “That room, sir? It’s not our finest accommodation. Perhaps the gentleman would prefer?—”

“That room specifically,” Darcy insisted, meeting the man’s gaze with unwavering intensity. “I have stayed there before.”

“Have you indeed?” The innkeeper’s expression remained carefully neutral, though something shifted behind his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or unease. “When might that have been, sir?”

“December 1811,” Darcy replied. “The night of a storm similar to this one. ”

The innkeeper’s face paled. “I’m afraid I don’t?—”

“You do,” Darcy cut him off. “And we will discuss the matter at length. For now, the room, if you please.”

Within the hour, Darcy stood alone in the chamber that had altered the course of his life.

Graham had gone to interview the stable hands, seeking information about Wickham’s connections to local ruffians.

The innkeeper’s wife had brought up a tray with a light supper, her curious glances suggesting she, too, remembered something of significance.

The room itself was unremarkable—a narrow bed, a washstand, a small table beneath the window, a worn rug covering rough floorboards.

Yet standing within its confines sent waves of sensation washing over Darcy’s skin.

His fingertips tingled with the ghostly memory of touching something—someone—precious.

Rain lashed against the window, just as it had that night.

Darcy moved toward it, drawn by some instinct beyond conscious thought.

He rested his palm against the cold glass, feeling the vibration of raindrops striking the other side.

Beyond the glass lay darkness, just as it had when he stood here with Elizabeth, both of them trapped by circumstance and weather.

Elizabeth.

Her name whispered through his mind, and with it came a flash of memory so vivid it stole his breath—Elizabeth standing in this very spot, her slender figure silhouetted against the storm-dark window, her shoulders hunched with the weight of her family’s betrayal.

Darcy closed his eyes, willing the memory to continue, to unfold its secrets. Instead, it slipped away like water through cupped fingers, leaving only the ache of absence behind.

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.

“Enter,” he called, turning from the window.

The innkeeper appeared, carrying a decanter of brandy and two glasses on a small tray. His manner was respectful but guarded.

“I thought you might appreciate something to warm you after your journey, Mr. Darcy,” he said, setting the tray on the small table. “The storm shows no signs of abating.”

“Much like the last time I was here,” Darcy observed, watching the man’s reaction closely.

The innkeeper’s hands stilled momentarily before he straightened, meeting Darcy’s gaze. “As you say, sir.”

“You remember me.”

It was not a question, but the innkeeper nodded cautiously nonetheless. “I do, sir. Though you look different now.”

“In what way?”

The innkeeper considered his words carefully. “More solemn, perhaps. That night, despite the circumstances, there was a certain anticipation about you.”

Anticipation—yes, that would have described his state perfectly. Anticipation of a life with Elizabeth, of bringing her to Pemberley, of building something true and lasting from the unlikely beginnings of a stormy night.

“Tell me what happened,” Darcy commanded softly. “Everything you recall about that night and the following morning.”

The innkeeper glanced toward the door, as if ensuring they were truly alone. “Sir, I make it a policy not to discuss my guests’ private affairs?—”

“This is not idle gossip,” Darcy interrupted, shaking coins from his jingling bag. “I was injured shortly after leaving here. My memories of that night are incomplete. I need to recover what was lost.”

The innkeeper’s expression softened at either his tone or the coins. He poured brandy into both glasses, offering one to Darcy before beginning his account.

“You arrived late, sir, during the worst of the storm. The young lady was already here, having been refused accommodation due to her solitary state. She was soaked through, half-frozen, her trunk discarded by the hired coach.”

Darcy closed his eyes briefly, the image of Elizabeth standing alone in the rain searing itself across his consciousness .

“You intervened,” the innkeeper continued.

“Claimed acquaintance with the lady, offered her your chamber. There was something in your manner that brooked no refusal. Very much the gentleman, you were—insisted on sleeping by the fire rather than… well.” He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“By morning, matters had evidently… progressed. You sent for Reverend Michaels, who was staying here while traveling to his brother’s for Christmas. ”

“Michaels,” Darcy repeated, the name triggering another flicker of recognition—a thin balding man.

“Indeed, sir. A special license was produced. He was… accommodating in making the modifications. The ceremony took place here, in this room. My wife and I stood witness. All very proper.”

Darcy’s hand tightened around his glass. “And the marriage license?”

“Signed by all parties, sir. The lady wrote her name with a steady hand, I recall—no bride’s nerves about her. Quite remarkable, considering.”

Another fragment surfaced—Elizabeth’s fingers, slender and sure, forming the words “Elizabeth Rose Bennet.” The pride he had felt watching her poise, the fierce protectiveness that had surged through him.

“Where is this Reverend Michaels now?”

“He is not in residence, although he holds several livings in remote parishes and travels his circuit regularly.”

Darcy’s pen poised over his notes. “Name them. I intend to seek him out.”

“It might be better to ask his curate, a Mr. Collins, hired about a year ago to cover his pulpit.”