Chapter Thirteen
Darcy
Darcy’s boots crunched against the gravel as he approached Netherfield’s imposing entrance. Each step towards the house felt like walking towards his own execution.
He paused at the foot of the steps, staring up at the windows where warm light spilled out against the grey dawn. Behind those walls waited Lord Hartford’s questions, Lady Elizabeth’s expectations, and the moment when his lies would either save or damn them all.
His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his coat. The sleepless night showed in the shadows beneath his eyes, in the careful way he held his shoulders as though bracing against a blow. How many times had he rehearsed the words?The lighting was poor… I cannot be certain… It happened so quickly…
Each phrase felt like swallowing glass.
A groom appeared to take his horse, offering a respectful nod that Darcy returned automatically. The man’s easy deference made his stomach clench. How long before such courtesy transformed into suspicion? How long before whispers followed his passage through Netherfield’s corridors?
You are protecting an innocent man, he told himself for the hundredth time since dawn. Mr Wickham—the gentle soul who had raised him, who had given him purpose when his world crumbled—deserved peace in his declining years. Theshock of learning his son had attempted to compromise an earl’s daughter would surely kill him.
Yet as Darcy climbed the steps, Lady Elizabeth’s face rose in his memory. The trust in her eyes when she had looked to him for protection. The way she had spoken his name with such confidence, such certainty that he would ensure justice prevailed.
I cannot swear to what I am not certain of, he would tell them.
But it was a lie. A careful, calculated lie designed to protect one person at the expense of another.
His hand hesitated on the brass door knocker. There was still time to change course, to stride into that morning room and declare with absolute certainty that George Wickham had forced his attentions upon Lady Elizabeth. Justice would be served, her reputation restored, the truth vindicated.
And an old man’s heart would break.
Darcy closed his eyes, seeing Mr Wickham’s weathered face as clearly as if he stood before him. The quiet pride when George had finally taken orders. The way his eyes lit up when letters arrived from his son’s parish. The way he had hidden his disappointment through years of gambling debts and drinking, of scrapes that required rescue and promises that proved worthless.
This would destroy what little faith he retains in his son.
The knocker felt cold beneath his palm as he finally lifted it, letting it fall with a sound that seemed to echo through the morning air like a death knell. There was no turning back now. The choice was made, and the die was cast.
Footsteps approached from within, and Darcy straightened his shoulders, arranging his features into what he hoped resembled composure. In moments, he would face Lady Elizabeth’s expectations and Lord Hartford’s questions. He would speak his lies and watch trust die in a young woman’s eyes.
For the sake of an old man who deserved better than a son like George Wickham.
The door opened, revealing Peters’ familiar face. “Mr Darcy, sir. Her ladyship is expecting you.”
“Of course she is,” Darcy murmured, stepping across the threshold into Netherfield’s warmth.
***
“You sent word last evening that you were unable to locate Mr Wickham,” Lady Hartford said without preamble as Darcy was shown into Netherfield’s morning room. Her voice carried the chill of winter frost, and she did not invite him to sit. “A great disappointment, Mr Darcy. A very great disappointment indeed.”
Darcy remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. Through the tall windows, he could see servants going about their morning duties, unaware of the crisis unfolding within these walls. “I searched thoroughly, my lady. There was no trace of him.”
“No trace.” Lady Hartford’s laugh held no humour. “How convenient for him. How inconvenient for us.” She moved to the window, her silk morning dress rustling with agitation. “Do you have any notion of what is being said in the neighbourhood this morning, Mr Darcy?”
“I confess I do not.”
“Then allow me to enlighten you.” She turned to face him, her colour high with indignation. “The entire county is abuzz with speculation about what transpired between you and my daughter last evening. I cannot show my face anywhere without enduring whispered conversations and meaningful looks.”
Darcy felt heat creep up his neck. “My lady, I acted only to protect Lady Elizabeth from harm.”
“So you claim. Yet the fact remains that she was discovered in your arms, distressed, whilst her supposed attacker had vanished into thin air.” Lady Hartford’s voice rose with each word. “What are people to think of such circumstances?”
Before Darcy could formulate a response, Lord Hartford appeared in the doorway. “Mr Darcy. Come, we must speak privately.” His tone brooked no argument. “Elizabeth is waiting in my study.”
The study felt smaller than usual with four occupants. Lady Elizabeth sat rigidly in the chair before her father’s desk, her morning dress of blue muslin perfectly arranged but her face pale with strain. She did not look at Darcy as he entered, though he felt the tension radiating from her like heat from a fire.
