“This is not idle gossip,” Darcy interrupted, shaking coins from his jingling bag. “I was injured shortly after leaving here. My memories of that night are incomplete. I need to recover what was lost.”
The innkeeper’s expression softened at either his tone or the coins. He poured brandy into both glasses, offering one to Darcy before beginning his account.
“You arrived late, sir, during the worst of the storm. The young lady was already here, having been refused accommodation due to her solitary state. She was soaked through, half-frozen, her trunk discarded by the hired coach.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly, the image of Elizabeth standing alone in the rain searing itself across his consciousness.
“You intervened,” the innkeeper continued. “Claimed acquaintance with the lady, offered her your chamber. There was something in your manner that brooked no refusal. Very much the gentleman, you were—insisted on sleeping by the fire rather than… well.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “By morning, matters had evidently… progressed. You sent for Reverend Michaels, who was staying here while traveling to his brother’s for Christmas.”
“Michaels,” Darcy repeated, the name triggering another flicker of recognition—a thin balding man.
“Indeed, sir. A special license was produced. He was… accommodating in making the modifications. The ceremony took place here, in this room. My wife and I stood witness. All very proper.”
Darcy’s hand tightened around his glass. “And the marriage license?”
“Signed by all parties, sir. The lady wrote her name with a steady hand, I recall—no bride’s nerves about her. Quite remarkable, considering.”
Another fragment surfaced—Elizabeth’s fingers, slender and sure, forming the words “Elizabeth Rose Bennet.” The pride he had felt watching her poise, the fierce protectiveness that had surged through him.
“Where is this Reverend Michaels now?”
“He is not in residence, although he holds several livings in remote parishes and travels his circuit regularly.”
Darcy’s pen poised over his notes. “Name them. I intend to seek him out.”
“It might be better to ask his curate, a Mr. Collins, hired about a year ago to cover his pulpit.”
The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. “What happened after the ceremony?”
“You departed, sir, to secure proper transport for your new bride. You left her here, well-provided for. But you did not return.” The innkeeper’s expression grew troubled. “Instead, another gentlemanarrived—claimed to be from your estate. Said you had sent him to escort the lady to London.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. “Describe this man.”
“Handsome fellow, with light hair and easy manners. Very convincing he was—knew your name, spoke as if familiar with your affairs. Called himself your steward, I believe.”
“Wickham,” Darcy said, the name bitter on his tongue.
“That was it,” the innkeeper confirmed. “The lady seemed suspicious from the first. My wife overheard him telling her you had urgent business that took you to London without delay. When she questioned him further, he implied she might be… unwell in her thinking. Suggested she had imagined certain aspects of your acquaintance.”
Fury rose in Darcy’s chest, white-hot and consuming. To attempt such manipulation, to deliberately undermine Elizabeth’s confidence in her own experience—the calculated cruelty of it was breathtaking.
“She did not believe him,” Darcy stated with certainty.
“No, sir, she did not. Clever lady, your wife. She appeared to agree, asked for time to gather her belongings, then slipped out with the Honywoods, an elderly couple traveling to London. My wife arranged for her escape, telling Mr. Wickham that the young lady had decided to return to her home in Hertfordshire. Mr. Wickham was most displeased when he discovered her absence but he took the bait.”
“I imagine he was,” Darcy said grimly. “What became of the marriage documents?”
The innkeeper shook his head. “I cannot say with certainty, sir. Reverend Michaels took the signed license with him to enter into the registry, as was proper. I do not believe there was time to issue certificates.” He hesitated. “I recall Mr. Wickham inquiring about such papers after her departure. Seemed most interested in any documents that might have been left behind.”
“One last question,” Darcy said, his voice low with controlled rage. “This man, Wickham—has he returned here since that day?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir. Though there have been rumors of his presence in the area. Nothing I could swear to.”
“If he should return, or if you learn of his whereabouts, I would consider it a personal favor if you would send word to me at once.” Darcy withdrew a card from his pocket, adding a second address beneath his own. “Or to Mr. Pullen at this direction.”
The innkeeper accepted the card with a short bow. “Of course, sir. If I might ask… the young lady? Is she well?”
A question that struck at Darcy’s heart—was Elizabeth well? Safe, yes. Provided for, certainly. But truly well, after all she had endured through his failure to return to her?
