Page 36 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

STALLED BUT NOT DETERRED

The pain in Darcy’s shoulder had subsided to a dull throb as he descended the stairs to breakfast. Though still weak, each day brought increased strength and clarity of mind. His fever had broken completely, and Mrs. Porter had reluctantly approved short carriage rides.

Even though the day was dreary with the threat of thunderstorms, he would visit Longbourn again—not to press Elizabeth for an immediate answer, but to assure himself of her well-being before his departure to Pemberley.

Netherfield’s morning room welcomed him with the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread. Charles and Caroline were already seated with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Georgiana.

“Darcy!” Bingley rose, genuine pleasure lighting his face. “You’re looking considerably improved.”

“The wonders of regular sleep without fever,” Darcy replied, easing himself into a chair next to Georgiana. The simple act of sitting still required careful negotiation with his injured shoulder.

“Brother, you should not overtax yourself,” Georgiana cautioned as she poured his coffee. “Mrs. Porter said you must take care with sudden movements.”

“I am perfectly capable of managing breakfast,” Darcy said, softening his words with a small smile. “And a short carriage ride afterward.”

Caroline Bingley’s eyebrows arched delicately. “A carriage ride? Surely you don’t intend to venture out so soon after your… ordeal.”

“I plan to call at Longbourn,” Darcy stated flatly, his tone discouraging further comment.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, ever attuned to tensions in conversation, intervened smoothly. “The weather may not cooperate, cousin. Storm clouds are gathering to the west.”

“A summer shower will not deter me,” Darcy replied, accepting a plate of eggs and toast.

Bingley glanced out the window, frowning at the darkening sky. “It looks rather more substantial than a shower, old man.”

“At least it won’t be as oppressively hot as the day before,” Darcy said, noting the ominous bank of clouds on the horizon.

Still, he would not be dissuaded. Not when Elizabeth awaited his visit, perhaps even expecting it after their conversation in the garden.

After all, she hadn’t said how long it would be before he could visit again and reapply his offer.

Not that he would pressure her, not at all, but should she change her mind…

The breakfast conversation drifted to Georgiana’s music practice, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s regiment, and Caroline’s plans for returning to London. Darcy contributed little; his mind was occupied with thoughts of Elizabeth and perhaps an interview with Mr. Bennet.

A commotion in the hall drew his attention. Raised voices, hurried footsteps, and the breakfast room door bursting open. Patterson, Bingley’s butler, stood in the doorway.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Bingley,” he said. “There’s a boy from the village with an urgent letter for Mr. Darcy. Says a lady might be in trouble, in a fancy-like carriage. Demanded an extra coin for his haste.”

Darcy’s pulse quickened, unease spreading through him like frost. “Bring him in.”

“I’ve taken the letter, sir,” Patterson replied, producing a folded paper from his pocket. “The boy is waiting for payment.”

“Very well.” Darcy withdrew a coin from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on Patterson’s silver salver. “Give him this for his trouble.”

The butler presented the letter with a slight bow. Darcy recognized Elizabeth’s handwriting immediately. Why would she write rather than await his visit? What urgency had prompted this unexpected communication?

He broke the seal with hands that suddenly felt clumsy. The first lines made his blood run cold.

Mr. Darcy,

I write to inform you that I have eloped with Mr. Wickham, the true object of my affection…

The words blurred before his eyes, impossible, inconceivable. This could not be Elizabeth’s voice, could not be her sentiment. Not after what had passed between them in the garden. Not after the intimacy of their conversations during his illness. Not after she had admitted to loving him.

“Darcy?” Bingley’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “You’ve gone white as a sheet. What is it?”

Unable to form words, Darcy thrust the letter at his friend, rising from his chair with such violence that it toppled backward.

Bingley scanned the letter, his expression shifting from concern to shock. “This cannot be right,” he said, looking up at Darcy with bewilderment. “Miss Elizabeth would never?—”

“Read it,” Darcy commanded hoarsely. “Read it aloud.”

Bingley hesitated, glancing at the assembled company, but at Darcy’s insistent nod, he began to read.

Mr. Darcy,

I write to inform you that I have eloped with Mr. Wickham, the true object of my affection.

Your failure to acknowledge our child has left me no alternative but to seek protection from a gentleman willing to give his name to the innocent.

By the time you receive this letter, I will be Mrs. Wickham, and beyond your reach forever.

Your fortune and position mean nothing to me compared to genuine affection. Mr. Wickham has long possessed my heart, despite the obstacles you placed in our path. Now, we shall have the happiness you sought to deny us.

Do not attempt to follow us. Your interference would only cause further scandal, something I’m certain you wish to avoid.

Elizabeth Bennet

A stunned silence followed. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood, his military bearing in full evidence despite his civilian clothes. “There is more,” he observed, indicating the postscript that Bingley had not yet read.

Bingley cleared his throat uncomfortably.

P.S. When first I gazed upon thy face divine, my soul was struck as by a thunderbolt.

The gentleman with countenance so stern, matched only by the lady’s sharp discern.

I journey now to thistle’s fair expanse, like petals of the reddest rose.

Remember our poetic exchange, and know that in ourselves are triumph and defeat.

“What nonsense is this?” Caroline exclaimed. “Poetry at such a moment? The girl has lost her wits entirely.”

“Or she never had them to begin with,” Colonel Fitzwilliam muttered, studying Darcy’s face with concern.

But Darcy’s mind had seized upon the postscript like a drowning man grasping at flotsam.

Those lines—he recognized them instantly.

They were fragments of the poems he and Elizabeth had concocted during his fever, verses they had mocked for their overwrought sentiment, lines they had composed jointly in an hour of shared laughter.

And then, the revelation struck him. “Thistle’s fair expanse.”

“I beg your pardon?” Bingley asked.

“Scotland,” Darcy said, the fog of confusion clearing from his mind. “The thistle is Scotland’s emblem. She’s telling me they’re headed to Gretna Green.”

“But surely you don’t believe—” Georgiana began, only to be interrupted by her brother.

“This letter is not what it appears,” Darcy declared, his voice steadying as certainty replaced doubt. “Elizabeth has been taken against her will. The body of the letter was dictated to her, but the postscript is her own—a message she knew only I would understand.”

“Taken?” Georgiana gasped, her face paling. “By Wickham?”

She swayed in her chair, and Colonel Fitzwilliam moved swiftly to her side, steadying her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Yes,” Darcy confirmed grimly. “And we must act immediately. Charles, I need your fastest horses. Richard, can you ride to Meryton and alert Colonel Forster? Wickham is still technically under his command, a deserter now.”

“Of course,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied without hesitation. “But Darcy, in your condition?—”

“My condition is irrelevant. I will not remain here while Elizabeth is in danger.”

A distant rumble of thunder punctuated his words, as if nature itself acknowledged the gravity of the situation.

“This is absurd,” Caroline declared. “You mean to chase halfway to Scotland for a woman who has spurned you? Madness. You are in no condition to ride.”

“I will take a carriage,” Darcy countered, already moving toward the door. “Bingley, will you accompany me?”

“Without question,” Bingley replied, rising from his seat.

“Charles!” Caroline protested. “You cannot seriously intend to chase after that girl based on some fanciful interpretation of bad poetry.”

“That’s enough, Caroline,” Bingley said, his normally genial countenance hardening. “Miss Elizabeth is in danger, and I will not stand by and do nothing.”

“But the scandal! The impropriety!” Caroline sputtered, her face flushing with indignation. “Miss Elizabeth may well have meant to marry this handsome lieutenant. Why would you interfere?”

“If you cannot be useful, Caroline, at least be silent,” Bingley replied with uncharacteristic sharpness. “Better yet, make yourself useful by staying here with Miss Darcy. She needs comfort, not your speculation about scandal.”

Georgiana had indeed grown paler, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the table. “He will hurt her,” she said. “You must stop him.”

Darcy crossed to his sister, kneeling despite the pain to meet her eyes. “Georgie, listen to me. Wickham will not succeed in this scheme. I will find Elizabeth and bring her home safely. I promise you.”

“I’ll see to maps and provisions,” Bingley assured him, pulling the bell rope to summon Patterson. “We can be on the road within the hour.”

Another rumble of thunder, closer now, underscored the urgency of their preparations. Rain began to patter against the windows, light at first but rapidly increasing in intensity.

“The weather,” Caroline observed with vindictive satisfaction. “You’ll make no progress in this downpour. The roads will be impassable.”

“Then we shall swim,” Darcy replied coldly, his patience for Caroline’s interruptions exhausted.