Page 36 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy
Darcy
A s he and Elizabeth ascended the grand staircase, an air of urgency surrounded them. Elizabeth stopped outside the door, her apprehension tangible. Darcy looked at her, gave a single resolute nod, and then reached for the door handle.
Upon entering the room, the sight that met their eyes confirmed their worst fears. Mary seemed distraught, traces of tears glistening on her cheeks.
“Mary,” Elizabeth called gently. The instant their eyes connected, Mary looked up, her composure faltering as she darted forward, seeking solace in her sister’s embrace.
“I think I’ve made a dreadful mistake,” Mary murmured, her voice trembling with a mixture of sorrow and regret.
Darcy could contain himself no longer. “Indeed, she most certainly has,” he grumbled under his breath, frustration simmering just below the surface.
“Darcy, please,” Elizabeth urged, glancing back at him with a firm yet pleading look, “allow me to speak with my sister first.”
Mary could hardly meet his gaze. They settled on a settee, and Mary’s tears flowed freely as she confessed, “I feel like such a fool.”
Elizabeth felt a rush of sympathy for her sister and gently pressed for clarity. “What do you mean, Mary?”
In a trembling voice, Mary shared, “I overheard Mr Wickham and Mrs Young speaking this morning. They thought I was asleep, but I was not.” Her words came rushing forth, recounting how she had woken at dawn, filled with excitement for the new life she envisioned with Mr Wickham. Yet, her dreams had been dashed when she descended to find the two of them seated at breakfast, conspiring.
“Mr Wickham talked to Mrs Young about their plans. We were to remain in London for a few days, ostensibly to afford you and Mr Darcy time to find us, so that he could extract payment from Mr Darcy,” Mary continued, her expression a mixture of disbelief and heartbreak.
Darcy scoffed, unable to keep his opinions concealed. “Just what I expected,” he muttered, his disdain for Wickham clear in his tone.
Mary gave him a fleeting glance before returning her attention to Elizabeth, tears pooling in her eyes. “I thought he loved me,” she admitted, her voice cracking. “I was so foolish.”
Sighing, Darcy took a step closer and sank into the armchair nearby, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon him. “Mary, it truly was unwise to run away with Wickham,” he said, his tone firm yet measured. “But you are not the first to fall for his charms.”
She lifted her head to look at him quizzically.
“My own father often favoured him. Indeed, sometimes it seems he esteemed Wickham more than he did me. It is a bitter truth I do not care to share often but it is true.” Darcy lamented.
Elizabeth shook her head, unwilling to accept such a notion. “I am certain that is not true!” she protested.
“Wickham was always likable, more vivacious than I,” Darcy shook his head sadly as he continued, his voice tinged with a blend of nostalgia and weariness. “I have always been bound by duty, whilst he projected an air of freedom and joy.”
Mary spoke up, her voice a mere whisper. “Mr Wickham told me the opposite, you know. He claimed he was never important to anyone. That you, Mr Darcy, were the favoured child, loved and admired, while he remained but a shadow, neglected and ill-treated.” Her words hung heavy in the air, a subtle indictment that made Elizabeth’s heart ache.
“That is simply not true, and I wish you would see it for what it is,” he replied sharply. “Wickham may have spun such tales, preying upon your sympathy as he has done with so many others. He attempted it with my sister, Georgiana. Making himself into the poor lad starved of attention and affection. He fancied himself a victim then, just as he likely is now,” he stated, a tense disapproval evident in his voice.
“Unfortunately, I am not as wise as Georgiana,” Mary lamented, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her own feelings of inadequacy.
“That is not what I meant,” Darcy said softly, trying to ease her pain. “You must not feel as if you are lesser than anyone else.”
“No, I always feel like a fool,” she insisted. “I feel like I am merely an afterthought, never special to anyone. I’ve always felt this way and he…” Her voice broke off and Elizabeth’s heart shattered for her sister as she rushed to comfort her.
“Oh, Mary! That is not true at all. If you are sometimes overlooked, it is only because you are so dependable. You are the one we trust to do what is right.” Elizabeth’s voice was soothing, her affection pouring forth. She understood how Mary’s reliability might lead to a sense of being disregarded. “I am truly sorry if I have contributed to that feeling,” she added earnestly.
Curiosity sparked within Elizabeth, and she sought to uncover the truth. “Is this why you allowed Mr Wickham to pursue you?” she asked gently, hoping to understand her sister’s motivations.
“It is,” Mary admitted, her voice small. She then spoke of their first encounter when Mr Wickham visited the convalescent home to see a friend. “I recognised him instantly and was immediately on my guard, yet after his visit, that friend spoke very highly of him. I began to question my initial wariness.”
“When he returned, I made it a point to greet him. He asked me not to disclose his real name, claiming that he had run away from the militia,” she recounted, a mixture of disbelief and regret evident in her eyes. “I was shocked by his audacity, but he spun a tale of mistreatment and hardship, implying that he had no choice but to escape. He claimed his superiors were difficult and treated him harshly.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, shaking her head ruefully at the extent of Mr Wickham’s deception. “And you believed him,” she murmured, not as a question but as an acknowledgment of the vulnerability that love can instil.
Mary nodded, her voice now barely above a whisper. “At the time, I was infatuated. He came often after that first visit, always using a false name, and before long, he asked me to accompany him on walks.” The memory was bittersweet, and she looked down as she continued, “I welcomed his company, but eventually began to fall in love with him. He would tell me how special I was, how foolish I had been to overlook my own worth.”
“Mary, that is precisely the sort of manipulation Mr Wickham is known for!” Elizabeth cried, feeling a surge of protectiveness for her sister. “He preyed upon your feelings, drawing you into a web of deceit.”
Mary’s expression softened, her gaze dropping to the floor as if she wished to retreat within herself. “He spoke poorly of your character, Mr Darcy,” she admitted, swallowing hard. “Hearing him lament your presumed shortcomings reminded me of my own misguided feelings towards you.”
Darcy’s features hardened, but he maintained his composure. “I acknowledge I have done things I am not proud of,” he said quietly. “However, I have striven to rectify my past grievances. I merely wished to show you my true character, to demonstrate that I am deserving of your respect.”
Mary’s eyes filled with conflict as she uttered, “He persuaded me that your kindness was merely performative, an act to impress Elizabeth.”
Darcy’s expression softened. “You must understand, Wickham has proven time and again himself to be a cad. I would never wish you to believe that I could orchestrate such nefarious plans against you.”
“But, I thought…” Mary trailed off, doubt surfacing within her.
Darcy reached out, his voice gentle yet firm. “Wickham expressed intentions that were misguided at best. He attempted to manipulate your feelings, and in doing so, misrepresented my own.”
Elizabeth squeezed Mary’s hand reassuringly. “You must see him for what he is—a man unworthy of your trust.”
“I remember our discussions of your childhood.” Mary’s voice quavered. “I believed it echoed the reality of his words. The way he described how Darcy treated people…” She faltered, glancing between the two of them, torn by her conflicting loyalties.
Darcy lowered his gaze, acknowledging the truth in her words. “I admit I have made mistakes, but Wickham’s tales are exaggerations, designed to lure sympathy and wrath in equal measure.”
Mary appeared to be caught in a storm of conflicting emotions. “I thought I could help him see a different world, one where he could belong and not feel abandoned, and in turn he would make me feel wanted. But now, I feel that I am merely a means to an end for him.”
“You must release that idea from your heart,” Elizabeth urged. “Mr Wickham is not the solution to your feelings of loneliness, he is the cause. You deserve a life free from manipulation and deceit.”
Mary nodded slowly, the fight leaving her. “I do understand now, it was all a fabrication.”
Darcy inhaled deeply. “Moreover, I must inform you that I will reach out to the proper authorities regarding Wickham. He cannot be allowed to continue this ruse. You must not fear him any longer.”
“But what if he retaliates?” Mary questioned, anxiety creeping back into her voice.
Darcy’s expression sharpened into determination. “Wickham’s threats are hollow. If he thinks through manipulation he shall retain power over you, he is mistaken.”
With a newfound resilience, Mary met Darcy’s gaze. “It is still daunting to confront my own naivety. I wish I had seen through him before allowing myself to become so entangled.”
“Regret only serves to cloud the future,” Darcy stated, his tone firm yet encouraging. “Instead, let us look ahead with hope.”
Just then, the ominous sound of a door opening echoed up the staircase, jolting them from their intimate exchange. Wickham’s voice floated through the air, announcing his arrival. The moment of confrontation had arrived, and they braced themselves for the storm that would surely follow.