Page 8 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER SIX

A SISTER’S CONSCIENCE

Darcy supposed boredom was preferable to controversy. Weeks had passed since Aunt Catherine had dispatched Collins to Hertfordshire to ensure the Bennet version would stay discredited while respect for the Darcy and de Bourgh names would prevail.

So why did he feel like a complete scoundrel at this turn of events?

Elizabeth Bennet had fired the first shot by divulging his most private conversation to his worst enemy, and together they had conspired to ruin his reputation—with the truth, no doubt heavily embellished. Yet the justification felt increasingly hollow with each passing day.

Darcy rolled his neck to dispel the stiffness. He was trapped.

Had been trapped at Netherfield Park, at the backwater estate Bingley rented not three miles distant from Longbourn and Elizabeth Bennet.

He was as much a prisoner of this botched affair as she.

He couldn’t appear in London without encountering the smirks and whispers of the ton , and even Pemberley was not safe from speculation.

Instead, his strategy of braving the winds of conflict by facing them down at Netherfield seemed as futile as trying to hold back a storm with his bare hands.

Bingley was holding another garden party. The July morning had dawned clear and warm, and the servants prepared games and competitions—shooting for the gentlemen and lawn games for the ladies. Half of Hertfordshire had been invited, with the notable exception of the Bennet family.

Meanwhile, Charles had continued his private calls to Longbourn with the persistence of a man courting social suicide. Neither he nor Charles’s sister, Caroline, could dissuade him from visiting Miss Jane Bennet.

Jane, of course, was not at fault for Elizabeth’s transgressions, but for Charles to align himself privately with the Bennets showed a considerable lack of discernment.

His jaw tightened at his friend’s neutrality and insistence that Elizabeth was repentant.

She broke down completely , as Bingley had reported two weeks prior. Genuine tears, Darcy. She acknowledged her fault in sharing private matters and expressed honest regret for her indiscretion. She said she wished the entire affair at Hunsford had never happened.

Darcy had refused to hear Charles’s report, but the words haunted him.

The image of Elizabeth Bennet reduced to tears?

He found it hard to believe. She, who had faced down his proposal with such magnificent fury?

Yet Bingley was not given to exaggeration, and the genuine distress in his friend’s voice had been unmistakable.

She’s barely twenty, Charles had persisted. I have five sisters—I know how young ladies react to poorly delivered proposals. Your honesty about struggling with your feelings, however well-intentioned, must have felt like a catalog of her inadequacies.

Darcy rankled at the suggestion that his proposal had been poorly delivered.

He had meant to highlight the difficulties he’d found himself in—having to answer to society’s demands while assessing his feelings, of the condescension he had to extend to a woman whose family was of little consequence, lacking a dowry and the manners required to secure esteem with those higher echelons.

A prediction fulfilled when Elizabeth ran to the basest of all men and sought comfort in his words, if not his arms.

“Brother?” Georgiana’s soft voice interrupted his brooding. “You look as though you’re contemplating something quite dreadful.”

He turned to find his sister approaching with the careful expression she wore when venturing into difficult territory.

“Nothing that needs concern you, my dear,” he replied, though he suspected she would not be easily deterred.

“Perhaps we might walk a little?” she suggested. “The gardens are quite lovely, and I find myself in need of quieter company than the main party provides.”

Darcy glanced at Caroline Bingley in deep and speculative conversation with Mrs. Long, one of the neighborhood’s most pernicious gossipers, while Sir William Lucas held the attention of Colonel Forster. Georgiana was right—whatever company his sister provided would be less contentious.

Together, they moved to the secluded paths that wound through Bingley’s carefully tended grounds.

“Brother, do you think often about Elizabeth Bennet?” Goergiana began.

Darcy felt his shoulders tense. “Georgiana?—”

“I liked her. When I met her in London with her aunt and uncle, she was kind to me. She spoke to me as a person, not as your sister or as an heiress. She asked about my music with genuine interest.”

“One pleasant conversation hardly reveals a person’s true character,” Darcy said, more harshly than he intended.

“No,” Georgiana agreed with unexpected firmness. “But neither does one misstep reveal a person’s entire worth. You taught me that, William.”

The gentle rebuke struck deeper than any argument could have. After Wickham’s near-seduction of Georgiana, Darcy had indeed counseled her that a single error in judgment did not define her character or her worth. That good people could make poor choices in moments of vulnerability.

Now his sister was applying that same wisdom to Elizabeth Bennet, and he found himself without a ready counter-argument.

“You were manipulated by a practiced deceiver. Miss Bennet deliberately shared private matters with the very man she knew to be my enemy.”

“Was it so different?” Georgiana asked with the devastating directness that reminded him of their father. “I trusted someone I believed to be my friend.”

Darcy felt something crack in his chest at the pain in her voice. Georgiana so rarely spoke of her near-ruin at Wickham’s hands, preferring to bury the memory beneath careful composure and determined cheerfulness.

“Wickham was after your fortune. He deceived you,” he said gently. “This is hardly comparable.”

“When Wickham convinced me that he loved me, I believed him because I wanted to be loved. I shared my fears, my loneliness, not because I wished to hurt you, but because I was in pain and he seemed to offer comfort.” Her voice trembled slightly.

“Is it not possible that Elizabeth sought comfort from a friend after a distressing encounter?”

The possibility had haunted him for weeks, though he had fought against acknowledging it. If Elizabeth had genuinely sought comfort from Wickham, if she had trusted him as Georgiana once had…

“Even if that were true,” he said, struggling to maintain his certainty in the face of his sister’s quiet logic, “it does not excuse her actions. She made me an object of ridicule throughout Hertfordshire.”

“And you have made her an object of suspicion and disbelief throughout the same community,” Georgiana observed. “Which of you has suffered more from this exchange, I wonder?”

The question hung in the air, uncomfortable in its accuracy. Elizabeth’s reputation—indeed, the reputation of her entire family—had been severely damaged by his denial. His own standing, while somewhat diminished, remained largely intact due to his wealth, connections, and position in society.

“Elizabeth prides herself as a discerner of character,” he maintained. “She uses her wit and that sharp tongue of hers as a weapon. You, meanwhile, have not been out in society, and hence you were vulnerable to deceptions.”

“I think you misjudge her,” Georgiana said. “Pain makes all of us vulnerable to poor decisions. You wounded Elizabeth with your declaration.”

“You’ve been listening to Caroline, haven’t you?” Darcy retreated to his role as older brother. “I had hoped to spare you the details of this sordid affair.”

“Except, Brother, I believe your methods were awkward, and you didn’t mean to wound Elizabeth. You were too honest, and yet, she might have reacted to her pain by making a jest of the situation. She wanted to believe she wasn’t severely hurt.”

Darcy closed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He could see Elizabeth’s face during his proposal, not just her anger, but the hurt that had flashed across her features when he spoke of his struggles, his reservations, and his sense of condescension in offering for her.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, a note of genuine bewilderment entering his voice. “Admit that I lied? Confirm her story and reveal myself as a man who would deny the truth to protect his pride?”

“I would have you be the brother I have always admired,” Georgiana said simply. “The man who taught me that integrity matters more than appearances, that honor requires us to acknowledge our mistakes, however painful that acknowledgment might be.”

She hesitated, then added with quiet emphasis, “The man who showed me that a single error in judgment need not define us, if we have the courage to make amends.”

Darcy turned away, unable to meet her gaze as the full weight of his hypocrisy settled upon him. He had indeed taught Georgiana those principles, had lived by them himself—until Elizabeth Bennet’s rejection had wounded his pride so deeply that he had abandoned them all in pursuit of petty revenge.

“It may be too late,” he said softly. “The damage is done. Miss Bennet’s reputation is already compromised.”

“It is never too late to do what is right,” Georgiana replied. “Though the consequences may be painful, the alternative is to live with the knowledge that one had the chance to correct an injustice and chose not to take it.”

She laid a gentle hand on his arm. “William, I know you better than perhaps anyone in the world. You are a good man—principled, honorable, and compassionate. This situation has brought out qualities in you that are not your true self. Whatever Miss Elizabeth did or did not do, I cannot believe you truly wish to see her ruined.”

Darcy covered her hand with his own, startled to find his fingers trembling slightly. “I do not,” he admitted. “I never intended… that is, I did not consider the full consequences of my denial.”

The irony was bitter beyond bearing: in seeking to punish Elizabeth for her supposed betrayal, he had betrayed everything he claimed to value about honor, justice, and protecting those who could not protect themselves.

Yet even as this devastating realization washed over him, another thought—equally painful—rose to the surface.

The image of Elizabeth turning to Wickham for comfort after his proposal, selecting his greatest enemy as the recipient of his most private humiliation.

Had Wickham’s false gentleness been everything Darcy’s brutal honesty was not?

Had she found solace in those blue eyes that had charmed so many women before her?

The jealousy burned through his chest like acid, warring with his growing recognition of his own moral failure.

“Forgive me, Sister.” Turning abruptly, he headed toward the house, eager to retire to the study. “I’m not finding this garden party to my liking.”

Raised voices from the direction of the house drew their attention. The butler’s protests were followed by a tumult of voices, and a familiar voice that made Darcy’s blood freeze in his veins.

“I assure you, I have urgent business with the gentlemen present. Stand aside.” Wickham’s voice carried across the grounds.

“Brother, is that?” Georgiana’s face went pale.

“Go inside,” Darcy commanded. “Find Mrs. Annesley and remain with her until I say otherwise.”

“But, what is he doing here? Bingley would never have invited him.”

“Go now, please.”

“Be careful, Brother. He can be up to no good.”

And then she was gone, hurrying toward the safety of the house.

Wickham strode through the garden like a general surveying his troops. His militia uniform was immaculate, and he smiled, greeting the assembled guests as if he were the host.

Bingley approached, stopping him in his tracks. “Mr. Wickham, I don’t believe you’ve been invited.”

“Oh, but I have urgent news that cannot wait for proper social niceties,” Wickham replied, speaking louder than warranted.

“Perhaps we can speak in private?” Bingley suggested. “In my study?”

“What I have to say touches upon the very foundations of decent society,” Wickham announced, pausing theatrically until he had the full attention of the gathered guests. “Indeed, it concerns the protection of innocent young women from those who would take advantage of their trust.”

A terrible premonition settled over Darcy. Something in Wickham’s manner—the calculated publicity of this confrontation, the gleam of anticipated victory in his eyes—spoke of a trap about to be sprung.

“This sounds dire,” Caroline Bingley said. “Pray, tell us more.”

Wickham’s eye gleamed as he noted the audience. “I come to right a serious injury. I come on behalf of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, whose condition can no longer be concealed.”

“What condition?” Bingley asked, his voice tight with growing alarm.

Wickham pointed directly at Darcy. “Ask him.”