Page 31 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy

Elizabeth

20th October 1812

E lizabeth stood at the window, gazing down the long, winding driveway of Pemberley. It had been three days since Darcy had departed for Matlock, and though he was expected to return in just a few days’ time, the house already felt emptier without him.

He had intended to be away for no more than three days, accounting for the four-hour journey by carriage each way. However, the previous morning, she had received a letter from him, explaining that he had been obliged to extend his stay. His aunt, delayed upon the road, had arrived later than anticipated, and his uncle had deemed it proper to request his continued presence. Not only to see Lady Catherine but also to ensure that all remaining differences were settled between them.

Fortunately, Darcy had written that Lord Matlock had proven to be amenable in convincing Lady Catherine to abandon her intentions regarding Longbourn—or rather, persuading her ever-devoted Mr Collins to relinquish them—once he understood that Darcy had entered into marriage with Elizabeth willingly, and had no desire to reverse the decision.

She sighed, leaning against the high-backed chair, her fingers absently smoothing the embroidered cushion upon its seat. The truth had settled upon her over these days apart—despite her doubts, despite her uncertainties, her heart had made its decision. She wanted to be Mrs Darcy in more than name alone. She wanted to tell him. But the time had not yet been right.

And yet, with his absence, her certainty had only deepened.

She loved him.

She could not pinpoint the exact moment when her view of him had shifted—from adversary to something more. Nor could she say precisely when admiration had blossomed into something warmer, something deeper. It had been a gradual thing, unfolding little by little, but there was no denying it now.

A life with him, a true partnership—it was what she wanted. She knew she had hesitated at first, especially after her conversation with Mary, but she knew now that he was genuine, he was good.

“Lizzy!”

Kitty’s voice echoed from the hall, drawing Elizabeth from her reverie.

“I am in the drawing room,” she called, turning as her younger sister entered, her fair curls bouncing about her shoulders.

“Have you seen Mary?”

Elizabeth frowned. “No, not since breakfast. She mentioned wanting to take a walk, but she ought to be in the gardens.”

Kitty shook her head, her expression uneasy. “I have already looked—in the gardens and the parlour. Even Georgiana helped me search, but she is nowhere to be found.”

A ripple of concern coursed through Elizabeth. “Have you checked with the groom? Perhaps she took a carriage into Lambton?”

“I have already enquired. She did not.”

Elizabeth took a steady breath. Mary’s disposition had not improved these past three days. Though she had taken meals with her sisters, she had remained quiet, responding to questions with only the briefest of answers. Elizabeth had hoped that the assurance of returning to Longbourn soon might cheer her, but even that had been met with nothing more than a half-hearted shrug and meek acquiescence.

She did not understand—what was it that troubled Mary so deeply?

“Have you looked in her chamber?” she asked.

“I knocked,” Kitty said, fidgeting with the sash of her gown. “But the door is locked.”

Elizabeth’s frown deepened. “Locked?”

All of the doors locked, of course, but she had never known any of them to lock their doors when absent.

“Lizzy, I think we must go inside. I have a dreadful feeling.”

“We cannot simply invade her privacy,” Elizabeth said, though the unease in her own chest was beginning to mount.

But before anything further could be said, hurried footsteps sounded in the hall.

“She is gone!”

Georgiana appeared in the doorway, breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked sharply.

“I asked Mrs Reynolds to unlock Mary’s chamber,” Georgiana said, gripping the edge of a chair to steady herself. “And—she is gone.”

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted.

“What do you mean, gone?”

Georgiana held out a folded letter, her fingers trembling. “She left this on her pillow.” Her voice faltered. “It says… it says…”

She swallowed, curling her hand into a fist, biting at her knuckle.

Kitty, unable to bear the suspense, snatched the letter and scanned it quickly. She gasped, her face draining of colour.

“Good heavens—she has run away!” Her voice shook.

Elizabeth snatched the letter from her sister’s hands, her eyes flying over the page. The words blurred before her as if her mind refused to comprehend them.

Dear sisters,

By now, I am certain you have invaded my privacy and entered my locked room. It is no less than I expected. But whatever the case, you now know that I am gone.

Do not fret. I am safe. I am with someone who values me more than any of you ever could—someone who truly understands me. My dear George Wickham. He has been as misunderstood by the Bennets and mistreated by the Darcys as I have.

He and I shall be married and settled elsewhere, far away from your influence. I know Mr Darcy will fill your ears with tales of horror about George, but they are as empty as Darcy’s proclamation to care about our family. He is all about appearances, nothing else.

In any case, once we are settled, I shall send you my address, but not before then. I do not wish for you to interfere.

This is my wish to you: Do not. Do not come for me. Do not search for me. I do not wish to be found. Trust that I know what is best for me.

Mary

Elizabeth’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“George Wickham?” she whispered. “How is she even in contact with him? She scarcely spoke to him at Longbourn—and when she did, it was never with favour.”

“Indeed,” Kitty murmured, still pale. “She used to tease Lydia for being so enamoured of him.”

Elizabeth turned to Georgiana, whose slippered foot was tracing anxious patterns on the marble floor.

“Georgiana,” Elizabeth said, her voice carefully measured. “Do you know something?”

Georgiana hesitated before nodding. “I think I do.”

Elizabeth’s stomach clenched. “Tell me.”

Georgiana exhaled. “I saw him. In Lambton. About two months ago. Do you remember, Kitty? The day we went to town for shaved ice—when you stubbed your toe and returned home early?”

Kitty blinked, then nodded.

“It was then,” Georgiana continued. “I saw Mr Wickham walking, and Mary… she was watching him. I pointed him out, and she said she had seen him before—at the convalescent home, visiting a friend.”

Elizabeth’s hands clenched around the letter.

“Why did you not tell your brother?”

Georgiana bit her lip. “Because Fitzwilliam loathes him. And things were so peaceful—you and he were getting along, the house was happy… I did not think there could be any harm in it. Mr Wickham has friends in Lambton—he always had. I did not think he and Mary would do more than exchange a few words. And she has heard much about him by now to know what he is …”

Elizabeth pressed a hand to her forehead. Mr Wickham, again. Always Mr Wickham.

Elizabeth’s breath came in shallow bursts as she stared at the letter in her trembling hands. The words burned into her mind, the finality of Mary’s decision crashing over her like a wave. How had this happened? How had they not seen it?

Her mind raced, sifting through memories, searching for any clue—any indication—that Mary had been capable of such recklessness.

And then, like the pieces of a puzzle slotting into place, she saw it.

Mary’s change in demeanour.

It had begun slowly, almost imperceptibly. A growing detachment. A quiet withdrawal. When they first arrived at Pemberley, Mary had been solemn but composed—at times, even cheerful. But not long after that outing to Lambton, something had shifted. She had become restless, prone to long walks alone, lost in thought. There had been moments when she had seemed almost hopeful, only for that hope to flicker and dim just as swiftly.

Could it have been him?

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. Mr Wickham—that despicable man! Had he sought her out? Had he charmed his way into her heart as he once attempted with hers?

She thought of her own history with him—how easily she had once believed his words, how convincingly he had painted himself as the victim of Darcy’s cruelty. He had preyed upon her own prejudices, feeding her carefully constructed lies, knowing exactly what she had wanted to hear. Had he done the same to Mary?

Mary, who had always felt overlooked, who had never quite fit among her sisters.

Mary, who had been uprooted from everything familiar, placed in an unfamiliar house, among unfamiliar people, with no clear sense of her future.

Had she been lonely enough to believe him?

A fresh wave of guilt crashed over Elizabeth. She had warned Mary once, cautioned her not to trust her emotions when it came to Darcy. But now she saw that her sister’s words that day had not truly been about Darcy at all.

Elizabeth took a steadying breath. She’d let Mr Wickham influence her again—albeit it not directly. But he had. She pushed the thought aside, aware she had to reckon with it at some point but for now, they had to act. Immediately.