“And then what? Challenge him to a duel? Demand satisfaction like some character from a gothic novel?” Lady Eleanor’s voice carried the sharp edge of genuine alarm. “Fitzwilliam, the man is desperate and dangerous. He has already demonstrated his willingness to commit violence when cornered.”
“Then I shall ensure he understands the consequences of threatening my family.”
“Your family needs you alive and whole, not martyred to your sense of injured honor.” Lady Eleanor rose, moving to block his path to the door. “Elizabeth and William require your protection, not your corpse.”
“They require legitimacy and security, neither of which I can provide while Wickham possesses those documents.” Darcy’s voice carried the cold precision of calculation rather than hot fury. “I failed Elizabeth once by leaving her vulnerable to his machinations. I will not compound that failure through continued inaction.”
Lady Eleanor stepped aside with obvious reluctance. “If you are determined on this course, at least take Graham with you. And for heaven’s sake, arm yourself properly. Wickham will not hesitate to use whatever weapons come to hand.”
Darcy paused, touched despite himself by his aunt’s concern. “I have no death wish, Aunt. I merely intend to recover what was stolen and ensure that Wickham understands the inadvisability of further interference with my family’s affairs.”
“And what outcome do you truly seek, Fitzwilliam?” she asked, her gaze softening. “Beyond the recovery of documents and Wickham’s punishment. What do you hope to achieve through all this?”
The question caught him off guard, forcing him to look beyond his immediate purpose to the deeper motivation that drove him. “Most of all,” he admitted quietly, “I wish to be the man Elizabethmarried. The Fitzwilliam Darcy who held her through a storm-lashed night at the Red Lion, who saw her value and worth from the first, who accepted her as she was rather than attempting to mold her into what society deemed appropriate.”
“That man still exists within you,” Lady Eleanor said gently. “Perhaps not in your memories, but in your instincts—in the way you responded to William from your first meeting, in your unconscious attraction to Elizabeth despite your belief in her reduced circumstances.”
Darcy nodded slowly, a new resolve hardening within him. He would recover what Wickham had stolen—not just the documents that secured William’s inheritance, but the trust Elizabeth had once placed in him. He would become again the man she had married, or perhaps someone better—wiser for his failures and more humble for his mistakes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE LONG GOODBYE
Darcy rose earlyon the morning of his departure. It had been several days since his last conversation with Elizabeth. Even though she was reticent in her manner, her sister, Mary, provided the background he needed—about Hertfordshire, about Wickham’s dealings in Meryton, and mostly, about Elizabeth’s position within her family.
He rubbed his hands against the cold November chill. A heavy leaden dread weighed upon his heart concerning his disastrous proposal. He could not even claim that Elizabeth had misunderstood him. He could attribute his arrogant benevolence to nothing but his own presumptuous nature.
He groaned as he recalled how incensed he had been, believing that Mr. Collins, that pompous and self-righteous clergyman, had fathered William. How precipitously he had leapt to the conclusion. As for his insinuations about officers of the militia? Nay, Darcy would never believe that of Elizabeth, although she tarred him with the same brush.
He moved from the window and stared at his trunks. They were packed and ready by the door. The house remained wrapped in thehushed stillness of early morning, though he could hear Graham’s voice in the courtyard directing the final preparations for their departure.
Four days had passed since Elizabeth’s devastating revelation in the library—four days during which she had maintained a distance so complete that they might have been strangers sharing the same roof rather than husband and wife bound by sacred vows. She appeared at meals with perfect punctuality, spoke when addressed with flawless courtesy, and treated him with precisely the sort of polite indifference one might accord a houseguest whose welcome had expired but whose departure had not yet been arranged.
The exquisite torture of her proximity combined with her absolute emotional absence had taught Darcy more about the nature of hell than any sermon ever could.
London. The word itself carried a weight that extended beyond its mere syllables. London, where answers might be found. London, where Wickham had last been seen. And then to the Red Lion Inn. Barnet, where the crime had been committed. Where his memory had been stripped.
Where he’d encountered Elizabeth.
He closed his eyes, struggling to recapture even the faintest remnant of recollection. A hint of lavender perhaps? The rustle of skirts against rain-dampened fabric? Try as he might, his conscious mind refused to yield the memories he sought, offering instead fragmented sensations that tormented rather than satisfied.
In dreams, however, his body remembered what his mind could not. The softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. The weight of her head against his shoulder. The sound of her breath, quickened with emotion or exertion. He woke each morning damp with perspiration, ashamed of the intimacy his unconscious mind conjured with such vivid detail. These were not the idle fantasies of a besotted man, but memories—actual memories—of their wedding night, returning in the most mortifying fashion.
That his physical self should recall what his rational mind couldnot seemed the cruelest of ironies. To know that he had once held her, once claimed her as his wife in every sense, yet be unable to summon the complete recollection of those precious hours—it was enough to drive a man to madness.
And he was mad.
Darcy stood at the window, watching as the eastern sky lightened from black to deep indigo. The household would awaken soon. Graham Pullen would bring the carriage around. And he would have to face the prospect of leaving William—his son—without knowing when he might return.
Elizabeth was another matter entirely. He doubted she would deign to bid him farewell. The memory of her coldness stung, though he could not dispute its justice.
What could he possibly say to her? What words could begin to address the chasm that stretched between them—a gulf of his own making, widened by pride and reinforced by misunderstanding?
A soft knock at the door interrupted his brooding.
“Enter,” he called, turning from the window.
Graham Pullen stood on the threshold, already dressed for travel in a sturdy greatcoat and riding boots. “Good morning, sir. The carriage will be ready within the hour. I’ve had breakfast prepared in the small dining room.”
