Bingley was due to propose to Miss Bennet within the next few days, Darcy thought dully. Perhaps he had even already done so. They had discussed the matter at length over a glass of port, and he was certain that Bingley was eager to speak for the young lady.
He would have to stay away from Bingley and his new wife for a time, once they had wed. Elizabeth would surely visit them, and it would be far too painful to see her.
Too painful to know she did not love him, when he would never love another as he loved her.
Chapter 26
Elizabeth paused before the cracked door of her father’s study. She ought to simply knock. He had sent Hill to find her, after all. And if the door was open, there was no need to draw back from interrupting him. When her father was preserving and pinning insects to a board, or cataloguing plant species he had gathered and pressed from around the Longbourn property or wood, he sometimes resented any interruptions to his concentration. Yet such could not be the case when he had asked her to come.
But this was all foolishness, borne of her own dread over what he might say to her. Elizabeth sighed and knocked on the doorframe.
“Enter!” her father called from inside the study.
“You wanted to see me, Papa?” Elizabeth asked. She closed the door behind her when her father waved his hand in that direction. “Has something happened?”
She sat down across from him. Mr Bennet sat at his desk, which was another anomaly. He usually liked to read or even study his species boards, where he had pinned various flora or fauna, comfortably seated in his plush chair near the tall windows overlooking the garden.
“Yes, something has. Or at least, it will happen soon.” Her father wore a solemn expression — no, he looked almost haunted. Elizabeth’s heart began to hammer in her chest. Had something dreadful befallen Mr Darcy? Or Uncle Gardiner in London? Or even the Bingley family?
“Tell me quickly, Papa. I cannot bear the suspense,” Elizabeth said. Though they were no longer betrothed, she could not imagine the world without Mr Darcy, even if he would belong to another someday. “Is it Mr Darcy?”
Her father looked at her speculatively. Elizabeth did her best to meet his gaze with equanimity. “It is true he has written to me, but the contents of his letter do not concern himself.” He cleared his throat and began to read.
∞∞∞
Dear Mr Bennet,
I have been to the county prison where Mr Wickham is being held. While there, I met Colonel Forster, who was good enough to inform me of some news of a most serious nature. It appears Mr Wickham was engaged in spying on his superiors in the regiment. He is to be hanged as a traitor for selling secrets to the French. The only good news that has possibly come out of this is that the scandal will not have to be dragged into the public eye. He will not be able to hurt Miss Elizabeth again, and we may all return to life as usual before the compromise was carried out. Colonel Forster has assured me of his ability and intention to clear our names without causing greater scandal. I have given him my approbation and thanks; I hope that this course of action meets with your approval.
I remain dutifully yours,
Mr Darcy.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth had not realised she had been holding her breath until her father finished reading, refolded the letter, and set it aside. Feeling the weight of her father’s gaze, she looked away, studying her hands instead. Such relief, yet mingled with such horror — Elizabeth could not have imagined feeling such wildly disparate emotions. “My goodness! Hanged?” she breathed. “I confess, I had wished to see him imprisoned for what he has done. But hanged?” She shook her head. She could feel no joy in the fact that Mr Wickham’s end should be so gruesome.
And should she not feel ashamed that, upon being informed that a man was about to die in disgrace, she could not seem to stop wondering why Mr Darcy had not come to tell them in person?
“It is perfectly normal to be upset. Especially considering the cordiality you once felt for the man. Dare I even say affection?” her father asked gently.
Elizabeth stood and began to pace. “It is true that I thought very well of him at one time. But he showed his true colours some time ago. It has been weeks now since I have viewed Mr Wickham with distrust and dislike.” She bit the nail on her little finger. “But why did Mr Darcy not come himself to speak with us? Or indeed, why did he write to you instead of me?”
Her father rose slowly from his chair in testimony to his aging bones. He joined her on the other side of the desk, where the faint winter light trailed through the open curtains, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “It would have been inappropriate for him to write directly to you now, Lizzy, since there is no longer an understanding between the two of you.”
The reminder cut to the quick. Elizabeth turned away to collect herself before her tears could well up. “Yes, of course. That is true.” She breathed out slowly and evenly, doing her best to keep the emotions at bay. “Well, I thank you for telling me about Mr Wickham. May I be excused?”
She turned and saw the sadness seeping into her father’s eyes. “Of course, dear Lizzy.”
She gave a tight-lipped smile and hurried from the room. Elizabeth was about to turn up the stairwell and seek solace in her rooms, but when she heard excited chatter floating down to her from above, she reasoned her sisters were already above stairs. And the last thing she needed at that moment was to explain the pain and confusion they were sure to read on her face. She turned instead down the corridor, retrieved a shawl from the hook, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Elizabeth hurried out the back servant’s entrance and out across the fields. The wind howled around her, loosing her chestnut waves from the simple bun at the nape of her neck, and whipping it around her face.
She barely noticed. The pain emanating from her heart seemed to consume all her attention. Mr Darcy did not care for her — likely had never cared for her. He had only been playing his part, doing his duty to protect her, nothing more. How he must be relieved to be rid of her! Mr Wickham had been right. It had been out of character for Mr Darcy to stand by her — a young woman with no connections, and barely a dowry to speak of, at least compared to his vast estate. Why should he lower himself, if honour did not require it of him?
In light of his behaviour that afternoon, there was little doubt that he never wanted to see her again. And just when she knew she was in love with him. Her whole heart ached to be near him, to see his smile, which was only flawed in being much too rare. The right wife could correct that flaw, if he let her.
And how much might he have taught her! Elizabeth had come to rely on him in ways that she would never have imagined: his calm resolve, his gentleness, and the supposed longing she had thought matched hers whenever they looked at each other. They had made a good team throughout the whole crisis of the compromise, each complementing the other’s skills.
