Page 18 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MATTERS OF TRUST

That first moment of wakefulness, the realization that one is no longer dreaming, always sprang Darcy to action.

Pain, instead, greeted him, sharp and slicing through his shoulder.

He opened his eyes, blinking at the light of another day.

How many days had passed since the duel?

Where would Georgiana be? He needed news from Colonel Fitzwilliam, her other guardian.

The fever drained him, but he had a responsibility. To write his sister so she knew he was alive. To ensure her safety. And others required his attention: his steward at Pemberley, his solicitor in London, even his aunt at Rosings, though that particular correspondence held little appeal.

The door opened with a soft click, admitting a gentle breeze and Elizabeth. She entered carrying a small tray. Her smile was a welcome sight, despite what must have been a restless night tending to his fever.

“Good morning, Darcy,” She set down the tray and drew back the curtains. Sunlight spilled across the room, catching auburn highlights in her hair. “I’ve brought tea, though Mr. Johnson suggests you might try some broth as well.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said, surprised by how her presence brightened the chamber. “Though I find myself with little appetite.”

Elizabeth pressed her hand to his forehead, her touch cool and welcome. “Your fever is rising again,” she observed, her smile fading to concern. “I had hoped yesterday’s improvement would continue.”

“As did I.” He watched as she poured tea into a delicate china cup. “Miss Bennet, there is a matter I must address while I remain… coherent.”

“Your correspondence,” she said. “Mr. Bingley mentioned you were concerned about contacting your family.”

Darcy nodded, accepting the cup she offered. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and he found himself unreasonably aware of the brief contact. “My sister will be distraught. I should have written days ago.”

“Mr. Bingley took the liberty of sending an express to your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, immediately after the duel,” Elizabeth informed him, moving to prepare fresh bandages.

“He received a reply yesterday stating that the Colonel would collect your sister from Pemberley and bring her to Netherfield.”

Relief washed through Darcy. “When might they arrive?”

“Tomorrow, perhaps the day after.” Elizabeth approached with a basin and cloths. “Now, let me check your wound before we concern ourselves with letters.”

She set about changing his bandages with gentle efficiency, though Darcy could not help noticing the way she bit her lower lip in concentration—a habit he had observed when she had tended Jane. The familiar gesture struck him with unexpected poignancy.

“This looks angrier than yesterday.” Her brows furrowed as he winced. “And hot to the touch.”

“Mr. Johnson assured me some inflammation is to be expected.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t care for this particular shade of red.” She cleansed the wound gently, although every dab felt like a stabbing. “I shall make a note of it for the surgeon’s next visit.”

Darcy gritted her teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead, while Elizabeth diligently documented his condition in a leather-bound notebook.

“You slept poorly,” he observed, noting the shadows beneath her eyes despite her cheerful demeanor.

“As did you. The fever returned quite forcefully around midnight.”

“I apologize for disturbing your rest.”

“There is no need,” she replied, resuming her ministrations. “It is precisely why I am here.”

A silence fell between them as she finished dressing his wound.

Darcy tried to stay still, not wanting to express the pain, so he studied the curve of her neck as she bent over her task, the way a strand of hair had escaped its pins to curl against her cheek, and her long, lush eyelashes and how they framed those striking eyes of hers.

“There,” Elizabeth said, securing the bandage. “That should hold until this evening.”

“Thank you.” He hesitated, then added, “Miss Bennet, about my correspondence…”

“Yes?” She moved to wash her hands in the basin, but glanced back at him over her shoulder, her expression warmer than it had been in days past.

“I find myself unable to write,” he said, gesturing to his immobilized right arm. “My left-handed script would be illegible at best.”

Elizabeth turned to face him, drying her hands on a small towel. “Would you like me to ask Mr. Bingley to assist you? Or perhaps…” She hesitated, but continued with a small smile. “After our literary endeavors yesterday, you might trust me with the task?”

“Actually,” Darcy began, then faltered. To ask Elizabeth to write private letters that he dictated would require a level of trust he was not entirely sure he should extend. Not when questions about her relationship with Wickham remained unanswered.

Elizabeth seemed to sense his hesitation. “Mr. Darcy, if you wish me to assist with your correspondence, you need only ask. If you would prefer another arrangement, I shall not be offended.”

Her directness, offered without pressure, eased something in his chest. “I would be grateful for your assistance, though I hesitate to add to your duties.”

“It is no burden,” she assured him, moving to the writing desk. “Shall we begin with a letter to your sister? I imagine that is your greatest concern.”

Darcy studied her as she arranged paper and ink, her movements graceful despite her fatigue.

This was not the same woman who had rejected him so decisively at Hunsford—or rather, it was, but circumstances had revealed facets of her character he had not fully appreciated before.

Her composure in crisis, her steadfast care despite their complicated history, her willingness to set aside personal feelings to attend to practical necessities—all spoke to a strength of character he had glimpsed but never fully acknowledged.

Yet there remained the matter of Wickham’s accusations.

The thought of her carrying a child was absurd—Elizabeth Bennet was not the sort of woman to engage in such improprieties.

But Wickham had spoken with such conviction that Darcy could not entirely dismiss the possibility without addressing it directly.

He needed to know the truth before entrusting her with his family’s private affairs. Yet how to broach such a delicate subject without causing offense?

“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth prompted, pen poised over the paper. “Shall we begin?”

“Before we commence, there is a matter I feel must be addressed.”

Elizabeth set down the pen. “Yes?”

Darcy chose his words with extreme care. “During the duel, Wickham made certain… claims that have troubled me.”

A flicker of understanding crossed her features, followed by her posture stiffening. “I see.”

“I do not wish to cause you discomfort, but I find myself unable to proceed without some clarification.”

Elizabeth rose from the desk and moved to stand near the window, her profile illuminated by the morning light. She gazed out at the gardens below, her expression pensive.

“You are concerned about the nature of my acquaintance with Lieutenant Wickham.”

“Yes,” he admitted, relieved that she had spared him from being more explicit.

“Mr. Darcy.” Her hands were clasped so tightly that her knuckles had whitened. “You believe I could be party to such a scheme?” The question was soft, almost wondering in its disbelief.

“I do not know what to believe,” he admitted. “Wickham’s claims were public and specific. I cannot dismiss them without?—”

“Without questioning my honor.” She completed his thought, her voice still unnaturally calm. “Without determining whether I am the kind of woman who would align myself with a man like Wickham

Darcy had seen many displays of feminine emotion throughout his years in society.

He had witnessed Caroline Bingley’s practiced swooning, designed to draw his attention.

He had endured Lady Catherine’s theatrical outbursts, calculated to bend others to her will.

He had even seen Georgiana’s genuine grief after Wickham’s betrayal.

This was different. This was fury contained by sheer force of will—the outrage of a woman whose very character had been impugned.

“I understand this is… difficult,” he said. “But I must have clarity on this matter.”

Elizabeth turned to face him, her chin lifted slightly in a gesture that reminded him of her refusal at Hunsford. “You suggest I might have formed an alliance with Wickham against you. Do you truly believe that my character is so fundamentally corrupt?”

The question pierced him unexpectedly. Did he believe it?

He thought of her dignity during their previous encounters, her intelligent questions about Pemberley during their conversations at Rosings, and her forthright rejection of his proposal when a mercenary woman would have accepted despite her personal feelings.

These were not the actions of a woman without principle.

She took a step toward the door, her back rigid. “I believed my indiscretion in sharing your proposal was my greatest error in judgment. I see now that my true mistake was in thinking you might ever regard me with the basic respect due to any woman of character.”

Darcy watched her transformation from controlled politeness to contained fury. Beyond the insult to her honor and the impropriety of his questioning, he was causing her genuine pain.

The pain in his shoulder flared sharply as he shifted forward, as if he could physically prevent her departure. “Miss Bennet…”

“If you believe me capable of such depravity,” she continued, her voice breaking, “then I cannot remain here.”

She turned fully toward the door, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle. In that moment, with her back to him, profile illuminated by the window’s light, Darcy was struck by an unwelcome truth—despite everything, he still found her utterly captivating.

“Elizabeth.”

Her given name fell from his lips without conscious thought. It tasted unfamiliar yet somehow right, as if he had been waiting to speak it aloud.

She froze, her back still to him.

“I do not wish to believe it,” he said quietly. “But I must know the truth, whatever it may be.”

“The truth is, Mr. Darcy,” she turned to face him, cold fury glistening in her eyes. “The only gentleman with whom I have ever been unescorted is you, sir—a fact of which you are well aware.”

“At Hunsford,” he said slowly, “I ought to have told you that my feelings would not be repressed—that they would not alter, even in the face of your refusal.”

She stared at him, clearly surprised by this change in direction. A single tear escaped, trailing down her cheek in silent testimony to her distress.

The sight affected him more than he could have anticipated.

“I believed then that I knew your character,” he continued, the words coming with difficulty.

He paused, searching for words adequate to the moment. “I have known Wickham since childhood. I have seen his ability to deceive those of good character. My own sister—” He broke off, unwilling to speak of Georgiana’s near-ruin even now.

“I know his methods,” he continued more carefully. “I know how he uses charm and sympathy to gain confidence. Even the most discerning can be deceived by him.”

Elizabeth remained silent.

“But I also know what I see before me now,” he said. “And what I see is not deception or artifice.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Darcy?”

“I am saying,” he replied, meeting her gaze directly, “that I believe you.”

The three simple words hung between them. Elizabeth’s eyes widened, her carefully maintained composure faltering.

“You believe me?” The question was barely audible.

“I do,” he confirmed, and found that he meant it completely. “Forgive me for asking, but I needed to hear it from you. And having heard it, I cannot doubt your word.”

Relief flickered across her face. She brushed the tear from her cheek with a quick, almost embarrassed gesture.

“Very well,” she said, her voice steadier now. “Then we have established that I am not aligned with Wickham against you.”

“We have,” he agreed, wanting to say more but unsure what to add.

Elizabeth moved slowly to the writing desk and withdrew a folded letter from the drawer. “I have been considering whether to share this with you.”

Darcy’s pulse quickened. “What is it?”

“The letter from Charlotte Collins,” she said, unfolding it. “She mentions that Lieutenant Wickham has been spotted in Kent, not three miles from Rosings Park.”

Darcy felt his blood run cold despite his fever. “Wickham? Near Rosings?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth handed him the letter. “Charlotte could not imagine what business he might have there, nor can I.”

Darcy focused his hazy gaze on Charlotte’s neat handwriting.

My dear Lizzy,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I fear the circumstances of its writing may add to your current difficulties.

Mr. Collins has been most insistent in his accounts of your visit to us, claiming repeatedly that I never once left you unattended during your stay.

While his memory of events may differ from my own, I find it prudent to support his recollection in public matters.

You must be cautious, Lizzy, for Mr. Wickham has been spotted in Kent, not three miles from Rosings Park. His presence here is most unexpected and, I confess, concerning given recent events in Hertfordshire of which we have received reports.

Mr. Collins speaks often of your situation, always with the deepest concern for your reputation and future prospects. His sentiments are, of course, influenced by his desire to please his patroness, whose opinions on the matter are quite fixed.

I remain, as ever, your friend,

Charlotte Collins

“This is concerning.” Darcy looked up at Elizabeth. “I should apprise Colonel Forster of Wickham’s location and send word to my aunt, although I doubt she would allow my cousin Anne to converse with him.”

“I agree.” Elizabeth gave a slight huff. “Lady Catherine is far too discerning to be taken in by George Wickham’s false charms.”

“Nevertheless, I’ll need to inform her of my concerns. Most urgently.”

“Of course.” Elizabeth picked up a pen, ready to do his bidding. And Darcy couldn’t help but realize what a true blessing she was to him. The honesty, brutal as it had been, had somehow brought them closer, partners facing a common threat.