Page 68 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. “What happened after the ceremony?”

“You departed, sir, to secure proper transport for your new bride. You left her here, well-provided for. But you did not return.” The innkeeper’s expression grew troubled. “Instead, another gentleman arrived—claimed to be from your estate. Said you had sent him to escort the lady to London.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “Describe this man.”

“Handsome fellow, with light hair and easy manners. Very convincing he was—knew your name, spoke as if familiar with your affairs. Called himself your steward, I believe.”

“Wickham,” Darcy said, the name bitter on his tongue.

“That was it,” the innkeeper confirmed. “The lady seemed suspicious from the first. My wife overheard him telling her you had urgent business that took you to London without delay. When she questioned him further, he implied she might be… unwell in her thinking. Suggested she had imagined certain aspects of your acquaintance.”

Fury rose in Darcy’s chest, white-hot and consuming. To attempt such manipulation, to deliberately undermine Elizabeth’s confidence in her own experience—the calculated cruelty of it was breathtaking.

“She did not believe him,” Darcy stated with certainty.

“No, sir, she did not. Clever lady, your wife. She appeared to agree, asked for time to gather her belongings, then slipped out with the Honywoods, an elderly couple traveling to London. My wife arranged for her escape, telling Mr. Wickham that the young lady had decided to return to her home in Hertfordshire. Mr. Wickham was most displeased when he discovered her absence but he took the bait.”

“I imagine he was,” Darcy said grimly. “What became of the marriage documents?”

The innkeeper shook his head. “I cannot say with certainty, sir. Reverend Michaels took the signed license with him to enter into the registry, as was proper. I do not believe there was time to issue certificates.” He hesitated.

“I recall Mr. Wickham inquiring about such papers after her departure. Seemed most interested in any documents that might have been left behind. ”

“One last question,” Darcy said, his voice low with controlled rage. “This man, Wickham—has he returned here since that day?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir. Though there have been rumors of his presence in the area. Nothing I could swear to.”

“If he should return, or if you learn of his whereabouts, I would consider it a personal favor if you would send word to me at once.” Darcy withdrew a card from his pocket, adding a second address beneath his own. “Or to Mr. Pullen at this direction.”

The innkeeper accepted the card with a short bow. “Of course, sir. If I might ask… the young lady? Is she well?”

A question that struck at Darcy’s heart—was Elizabeth well? Safe, yes. Provided for, certainly. But truly well, after all she had endured through his failure to return to her?

“She endures,” he replied finally. “Despite circumstances that would have broken a lesser woman.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Privacy,” Darcy managed. “I require privacy for the remainder of the evening.”

“Of course, sir. Supper will be sent up to you.”

After the innkeeper departed, Darcy turned to examine the small chamber.

The fireplace where Elizabeth had warmed herself while he attempted to maintain an appropriate distance.

The window where he had stood, watching the storm while struggling with the implications of their situation. The bed where…

He closed his eyes as a wave of sensation threatened to overwhelm him. Not just visual memory now but the full sensory experience of that night—the scent of Elizabeth’s hair, the feel of her hand in his, the softness of her body, his weight over her, the depth of feeling as she wept in his arms.

He removed his coat and waistcoat, loosened his cravat, and sat heavily on the edge of the narrow bed.

The mattress gave slightly beneath his weight, a small creak of protest that triggered another flash of memory—Elizabeth sitting in this exact spot, her hands twisting nervously in her lap as she confessed her family’s rejection.

The vulnerability in her eyes, the quiet dignity with which she had faced her reduced circumstances.

Why hadn’t he recognized her immediately when he’d appeared at Bellfield Grange?

Was his memory so dependent on places? Shame engulfed him at yet another failure.

He’d recognized the innkeeper immediately.

But he’d failed to place Elizabeth at the sheep farm.

Failed because of unfamiliar surroundings, and yet now, if she could be here, inhabiting this room, this bed where…

He ran his palm over the worn counterpane, trying to capture the elusive threads of recollection.

Something nagged at him—a detail just beyond his grasp.

He rose, pacing the small room with mounting frustration.

The memories were here; he could feel them pressing against the boundaries of his consciousness. Why could he not access them fully?

His boot snagged on the corner of a small rug. It hadn’t been here during the deluge. He distinctly remembered the floorboards. Wet after the shutters had blown off. He had assured Miss Elizabeth he would sleep on the floor, but the rain had made that impossible.

He bent to straighten the rug, his fingers brushing against the warped boards. Something glinted in the lamplight, wedged in a crevice. He retrieved it as his mouth dried.

A button. Small and distinctive, crafted of silver with the Darcy crest embossed upon its surface. One of a set commissioned for his jacket—the one he had worn that fateful December night.

The one Elizabeth had retrieved and brought to Bellfield Grange in her own trunk.

He remained kneeling on the hard floor, the button clutched in his hand, as more fragments surfaced—Elizabeth’s hair tumbling loose as she removed the pins, the scent of lavender rising from her skin, and her quiet confession that she was frightened not of him but of her uncertain future.

It must have been torn loose during their… intimacies… that night, rolling into the crack between boards where it had remained for nearly two years like a silent witness to forgotten love .

Forgotten no more.

Images and sensations flashed through his mind with perfect clarity—Elizabeth’s initial resistance, her gradual yielding to the inevitable, the sweet passion they had shared as the storm raged outside their sanctuary.

The way she had looked at him afterward, eyes bright with wonder and something deeper than physical satisfaction.

The hurried wedding, vows spoken with sincerity.

And then, his departure flooded back as well, bringing a fresh wave of anguish.

His promises to return quickly with appropriate arrangements for her comfort and safety.

His certainty that their marriage would be the beginning of a love story that would last their lifetimes.

The kiss they had shared in farewell, and that signet ring.

Slipping it on her finger, sealing his vows with the promise of forever.

He set his traveling desk on the small tabletop, tracing the Darcy crest. Elizabeth.

Elizabeth had endured pregnancy, childbirth, and social exile while believing herself abandoned by the man who had sworn to protect her.

She had raised their son alone, preserving his heritage and documenting his development for a father who might never return to claim his role.

She had maintained faith in their marriage when everyone else dismissed her as a fallen woman spinning fantasies to excuse her disgrace.

Dipping his quill, he began to write. He’d promised to write her, and he would return to her as the man she had married, the Fitzwilliam Darcy who’d held her through that storm-swept night, loving her and promising to protect her always.

A promise long delayed, but not forgotten. Not anymore.