Page 146 of Obligation and Redemption

Darcy’s hands were shaking as he read Wickham’s deceptive words.

By the end, he was breathing in quick succession as he crumbled up the paper ready to throw it into the fire.

He stopped himself just short of destroying proof of Wickham’s artifice in the flames, but only to preserve the letter should it be needed later.

Was Elizabeth so blinded by continued hatred for himself not to see through Wickham’s machinations and pretence? Had Darcy not just been reflecting upon Elizabeth’s quick wit and insight? How could she be so addled to believe in the flattery of a scoundrel such as Wickham?

Wickham’s words pained Darcy more than he could have anticipated – that his wife would prefer the profligate to himself.

But that cannot be! Darcy reminded himself yet again of the depraved man’s cunning and propensity for deceit.

Darcy had no way of knowing the validity of Wickham’s implications.

Indeed, the outlook for Darcy’s marriage was bleak.

His wife either ran off with a libertine who would ruin her good name and crush her spirit, or she was taken against her will to face the same fate.

Elizabeth had been missing for over a day now and might even at this moment be abandoned somewhere in the elements.

Could Darcy let her face the consequences of her actions at the hands of a man who would shatter her?

Darcy could not reconcile the evidence with his heart.

Somehow, he could not bring himself to believe in her guilt and felt most acutely the danger that threatened her, either from Wickham or the elements.

Regardless, nothing could be done this night towards restoring Elizabeth to her home.

Darcy had to decide his purpose and possible outcome should his wife be found with Wickham, but he still could not let his mind meditate on the painful possibility.

Regardless of her desires or the events leading up to her disappearance, she was his wife.

He must do everything within his power to recover her.

And then anything beyond that hope would be tied to her wishes and expectations.

THAT NIGHT, DARCY SLEPT LITTLE as he contemplated what his cousin and the footman had told him.

He continued to review the words from Wickham’s letter, unable to find rest from his painful speculations.

He had the nagging feeling that he had not heard everything and hoped that the next day would bring answers.

He planned to send more men out to explore the towns, going as far as twenty miles in each direction.

It had been raining, so the roads would slow things down a bit, but he could hopefully get news by the following day.

Then he remembered his cousin’s recommendation to check the Darcy jewels.

He never could have conceived that Elizabeth might steal from him, even if she preferred Wickham, but he had to look for himself.

He planned first to go into her room to see if there were any clues as to her possible location – a letter, a map, anything that might give direction.

Darcy walked into Elizabeth’s dark chamber, lighting some candles along the way to illuminate the area.

He had rarely been in this room over the past ten years.

He had a strange, dual feeling of comfort and loss.

This had been his mother’s chamber, so as a child, he would come to her side when afraid or sad, seeking her soothing words, but that was years ago.

Now, he felt a sense of regret for the past six months – all of his mistakes, the pain he had caused, giving Elizabeth reason to hate him.

If she were with the blackguard, Darcy was certain that he himself drove her there.

In the presence of her own bedchamber, he remembered her to be a kind-hearted, lovely woman, who must have been pushed towards Wickham by Darcy’s own malignant pride.

Darcy had tried to repair the damage, to atone for his sins, but it must have been too late – too late to prevent her pregnancy anyway.

It must be true that she carries Wickham’s child, or why else would she have left?

She has everything a woman could want here at Pemberley – fine clothes, elegant surroundings, the very best food, a wide-open park – but she did not have love, or so she thought.

That is what she wanted most, for she said so.

Elizabeth did not care for my wealth. That is why she left to follow a pauper like Wickham.

He made her feel loved. I should have told her that I love her!

But was it already, even then, too late?

Darcy sat on the floor leaning against the side of the bed and wiped tears away with his shaking hands.

He then prayed out loud, something that even now, he had rarely done, but that seemed right.

Darcy asked for resolution, for elucidation, for hope.

He prayed for Elizabeth, that she would finally find happiness, and for his family who would suffer with him.

Then he made an appeal for wisdom and clarity, so that he would know the next steps to take.

This was an odd prayer for Fitzwilliam Darcy.

He had always felt confident and secure in his own merit, but he had finally come to see his failings and needs.

Since his time in London alone during the winter, Darcy’s faults plagued him more each day; however, at the same time, he found solace in finally being made aware of these weaknesses.

He acknowledged that he was not perfect and was not expected to be so.

Elizabeth had certainly known his faults but seemed to care about him anyway.

Darcy had begun to trust in a plan bigger than himself – that perhaps Providence had caused his marriage to come into being, but now his doubts seemed to torment him.

How long he sat there, he could not know, but he felt a peace come over him that he could not have explained.

He stood and walked over to Elizabeth’s writing desk and opened it, then sat down on the dainty chair – that was made more for a petite woman than a statuesque man as himself – and began to sift through her papers.

He felt a stab of guilt at first, for he was a firm believer that private correspondence should be kept confidential.

He bristled at the idea of anyone reading his own mail, even letters of business, but he could not overcome the feeling that there was more to know.

He had already read the one letter from Wickham; could there be more?

He pulled out all of the papers and divided them into letters and what appeared to be journal entries.

She keeps a memoir? He decided to avoid reading her journal unless absolutely necessary.

The first letter he opened was the one from her aunt, received on that day that she learnt of Jane’s engagement to Bingley.

He read in her aunt’s own hand that Elizabeth even then had suspected she was with child, but there was no hint as to why she kept the information hidden.

Her aunt seemed to believe that Darcy was the father, but then why would she suspect otherwise unless Elizabeth had told her so?

And why did she not want me to read it? I guess she wanted to keep her pregnancy hidden, but then why is that?

He next opened Jane’s letter and shared in the joy of her happiness.

He smiled as he remembered Elizabeth’s tears of joy when she read it.

That was no affectation he beheld that day.

I feel certain she had forgiven me of my officious meddling into Bingley’s affairs.

He then moved on to more recent correspondence. There was a letter from her mother, written just over two weeks ago. He read aloud, “ All great men like Mr. Darcy have a mistress, Lizzy, so you need not suffer through his attentions since you are with child.”

“What could she mean by that? ‘All great men have a mistress!’ That fool of a woman is filling Elizabeth’s head with aspersions on my character!

Surely Elizabeth does not believe that drivel!

” He continued on with the letters. Mary had written Elizabeth, telling her about his trip to Rosings.

Checking the date, he surmised this must have been the letter that Elizabeth had received the night before he left.

But Elizabeth said nothing about my trip.

Could she have wanted to come? Or at least have been asked?

Then he saw his own hand – the express that he had sent just days ag o.

She crushed the missive into a ball, it would seem, and then spread it back out. What could that signify?

He saw another from Mary and two from Miss Lucas, which he did not read.

He knew Wickham’s writing well, but saw no other letters to match.

He was beginning to grow sleepy as he sat in the darkened room.

Rather than walk to his own, he crawled into Elizabeth’s bed, gathering one of her pillows into his arms. Her floral scent permeated his nostrils as he breathed in deeply.

Oh, Elizabeth, where are you? Be safe, my love!