“I did. I thought—” He stopped, shook his head. “I thought it would be the end of it. That he would take the money, make his way in the world, and trouble my family no more.”
“But he returned.”
“He always returns.” The bitterness in Mr. Darcy's voice was barely contained. “The money was squandered within three years. He came back, demanding the living he had previously refused or compensation for being denied it. When I refused, he...” He stopped again, his expression hardening into something Elizabeth had never seen before.
“He what?”
Mr. Darcy was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“He found another way to hurt my family. I cannot speak the particulars. They are not mine alone to share—but I can tell you this: Wickham is not what he appears. His charm masks a nature capable of great cruelty. He targets those who trust him, exploits their faith, and discards them when they are no longer useful.”
Elizabeth felt something cold settle in her stomach.
She thought of Wickham's attentiveness to her. His pointed questions about Mr. Darcy. The way he had laughed when Lydia fell, too loud, too deliberate. The edge in his voice when she refused to condemn the man walking beside her now.
“I believed him,” she said quietly. “When he told me you had wronged him. I believed every word.”
“You had no reason not to. He is...” Mr. Darcy's mouth twisted. “He is very good at appearing wronged.”
“And you said nothing. You let me think—” She stopped, shame rising hot in her chest. “You let me think the worst of you, and you never defended yourself.”
“How could I? Without proof, my accusations would seem like nothing more than jealousy or spite. And to provide proof would mean exposing matters that must remain private.” He met her eyes, his gaze steady and sad. “I would rather be thought proud than betray those who depend on my discretion.”
Elizabeth stared at him.
She saw it now, all of it. The weight he carried. The secrets he guarded. The reason he stood so rigid and silent while Wickham spread poison through Meryton's drawing rooms.
He had sacrificed his own reputation to protect someone else.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice rough with emotion. “For trusting me with this.”
Mr. Darcy's eyes widened, startled. He had clearly expected doubt, or questions, or demands for the proof he could not provide.
He had not expected gratitude.
“You believe me?”
“I believe you.” Elizabeth held his gaze, letting him see her certainty. “I should have believed you sooner. I should have seen—” She stopped, shaking her head. “I was so determined to think ill of you that I accepted every lie Mr. Wickham told without question. I owe you an apology.”
“No.” The word came out fierce, almost sharp. “You owe me nothing. You judged me based on my behavior, which was—” He stopped, visibly struggling. “I was not kind, at the beginning. I was proud and dismissive and far too certain of my own superiority. Whatever faults you perceived in my character, I gave you ample cause to perceive them.”
“Perhaps. But I should have looked deeper. I should have questioned what I was told, instead of accepting the version of events that confirmed my prejudices.” She offered a small, rueful smile. “It seems we have both been humbled.”
Something softened in his expression. “It seems we have.”
They walked in silence for a moment, but the quality of the silence had changed. The tension that had characterized their earlier interactions—the wariness, the challenge—had melted into something warmer. Something lovely.
Elizabeth found herself wanting to prolong the moment. To ask him questions she had never dared ask before.
“Tell me about Pemberley,” she said. “You speak of it so rarely. Is it as grand as everyone claims?”
Mr. Darcy's expression shifted, surprise giving way to something almost shy. “It is... home. I confess I have difficulty seeing itobjectively. To me, it is simply the place where I grew up. The woods where I learned to ride, the streams where I fished as a boy, the library where my mother read to me when I was too young to read myself.”
“You loved your mother very much.”
“I did. She died when I was twelve. I still miss her.”
The admission was quiet, unguarded—a glimpse behind the careful mask he usually wore. Elizabeth felt something tighten in her chest.
