“Both reactions would be understandable, sir,” Darcy acknowledged, recognizing the complexity of emotion beneath Mr. Bennet’s sardonic exterior. “Though I would suggest that your exclusion from these events is largely of your own making.”
A flash of something like respect crossed Mr. Bennet’s features. “I failed her,” he said abruptly, his voice losing its ironic edge. “When she refused Collins, I should have stood firm against my wife’s hysterics, against that pompous parson’s wounded pride. Instead, I retreated to my library and allowed her to be cast out like some biblical scapegoat, bearing the sins of our collective folly into the wilderness.”
“We all failed her in different ways,” Darcy acknowledged, though his tone remained cool. “I promised to return to her and did not. You permitted her exile rather than defending her choice. The challenge now lies in making amends for those failures, not in dwelling upon them.”
“Wise words for a young man,” Mr. Bennet observed, though the irony had returned to his tone. “And what amends do you propose, Mr. Darcy? Beyond this belated recognition of your marital obligations?”
“Justice,” Darcy replied without hesitation. “For Elizabeth, for William, and for all others who have suffered through Wickham’smachinations. I intend to recover the stolen documents, establish our marriage beyond question, and ensure that William’s position as my heir is secured against any future challenge.”
“A worthy goal,” Mr. Bennet agreed, though his expression remained skeptical. “And if these documents cannot be recovered? What then?”
“They must exist. Wickham would not destroy anything with monetary value,” Darcy replied. “I intend to buy up all his debts and present him with a choice. The paperwork or debtor’s prison.”
“And then what?” Mrs. Bennet asked. “When will you bring them home?” she demanded, her voice sharp with unexpected authority. “Lizzy and Mary and the child—when will they return to their family?”
The question caught Darcy off guard. In his focus on securing William’s inheritance and bringing Wickham to justice, he had given little thought to Elizabeth’s eventual wishes regarding reconciliation with her family.
“That,” he said coldly, “must be Elizabeth’s decision to make. I would not presume to dictate her relationship with parents who cast her out, however justified my legal authority might be.”
This response seemed to satisfy Mr. Bennet, who nodded slightly, but Mrs. Bennet’s expression crumpled into fresh distress. “She will not forgive us,” she predicted mournfully. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, but you must make her see?—”
Darcy offered no comfort to this self-pitying outburst. Instead, he turned the conversation to more practical matters, gathering what additional information the Bennets could provide regarding Wickham’s activities in the neighborhood. By the time they departed Longbourn, Darcy had a long list of people, any one of which would wish to see Wickham hang.
“To Meryton next?” Graham suggested as they settled into the carriage once more. “We should have time to speak with several of the merchants before nightfall.”
“Every debt purchased is legal leverage against him,” Darcy explained, watching the Longbourn estate recede behind them with no twinge of regret or nostalgia. “And a step toward justice for Elizabeth.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ROOM IN THE INN
Cold and drivingrain lashed against the carriage windows as Darcy approached the Red Lion Inn. Their visit to Meryton had taken longer than planned, with merchants, angry fathers, and even fellow militia members eager to ply Darcy’s ears with tales of woe regarding the former resident, George Wickham. Debts, gambling, young women compromised with child, curates bribed, and even association with unsavory criminals—those used to threaten and cajole with the aim of stopping anyone from bringing a suit to the magistrate.
Most valuable had been the testimony of Captain Denny, still with the militia, who had confirmed that Wickham had been discharged in absentia for desertion after failing to return from a supposed family emergency in January 1812. There had been suspicions of theft from fellow officers as well—small sums missing from locked drawers, valuables disappearing after card games in which Wickham had lost heavily.
“The militia was glad to be rid of him,” Denny had confided. “Though no one would say it openly. There were whispers he had connections to certain highway robberies near London—gentlemenrelieved of their valuables in a most selective manner. Nothing proven, of course.”
The carriage slowed through the crowded and sodden lane leading to the inn. It was another stormy evening with travelers seeking shelter. Muddy streets, carriages lined up, lightning flashing against the sheets of gray.
“This is the place.” Graham’s voice was tight. “Leaving a young lady here was unconscionable.”
“It had been deliberate,” Darcy concurred. “Miss Mary listened in to her parents’ conversations. Wickham was a frequent visitor, and no doubt heard either from her sisters or the loud, unshielded proclamations of Mrs. Bennet. He wasted little time in tracking her movements.”
“Perhaps he was a confederate with the footman and maid who stole her traveling money,” Graham said gravely. “I have no sympathy for Mrs. Darcy’s parents.”
A flash of lightning illuminated the inn’s entrance. Darcy gasped, pointing to the innkeeper collecting bags of coin at the door.
“That’s him. I can see her standing there pleading with him, soaking wet, her bonnet askew.” He pressed his nose to the window glass. “I did not know who she was, only a gentlewoman from her deportment. I intended to pay for her room, but the innkeeper said there were no more rooms.”
Graham sat silent, nodding as Darcy paused, unable to recollect what happened next.
“I must have brought her to my room.” He fumbled with the leather portfolio, stuffed full of notes and the debts he purchased. “I must have recognized her and made a decision. I knew the impropriety and the requirement of a gentleman. She must have argued with me. Must have tried to retain her independence, but a lady abandoned at a coaching inn had little choice. The sort of men in the taproom, the ruffians lurking in the courtyard…”
“We don’t need to stop here,” Graham said. “There are other inns.”
“This is the place,” Darcy stated. “We stay here tonight.”
The carriage lurched to a stop in the muddy yard. Rain drummed against the roof, an eerily familiar rhythm that sent tendrils of memory flickering through Darcy’s consciousness—rain on windows, a fire crackling, soft breathing beside him in the darkness. He closed his eyes briefly against the assault of sensation, then squared his shoulders and prepared to disembark.
