If Darcy’s father was indeed the villain of this piece, what did Darcy know? Was this the reason he proposed marriage? To safeguard the inheritance he knew he would lose?
She hated to doubt him so, and indeed it pained her. But a young lady without connections and means had to live by her wits. As her mother liked to say, Darcy blood will tell!
CHAPTER THIRTY
MIDNIGHT IN THE LEDGERS
Elizabeth staredat the canopy above her bed, waiting for the clock to strike midnight. Mrs. Bingley’s words echoed in her mind. For twenty years, the Darcys had been paying Martha Wickham. For what, her silence? Her complicity? Or a reward for concealing the heiress of Pemberley?
Elizabeth sat up, abandoning all pretense of sleep. Darcy’s declaration of love—what was its purpose? Had he known all along who she was? Or was it only now that he’d begun suspecting? In either case, his proposal was no more sincere than George Wickham’s or Charles Bingley’s interest in her, a country nobody who became the heiress of the Darcy estate.
The thought of Darcy’s duplicity hurt Elizabeth more than she wanted to admit. His image had begun to occupy a particular corner of her mind that she had never intended to surrender. She recalled the warmth in his eyes when he had declared himself in the gazebo, the gentle strength of his hands as he’d lifted her onto his horse, the unexpected tenderness in his voice when he’d found her stranded on the roadside. A thousand small attentions—the books selected for her chamber, his defense against Wickham’s presumptions, even histortured expression when admitting his changed feelings—had slowly transformed her perception of the proud master of Pemberley.
Elizabeth pushed aside her coverlet. She could not lie here wondering, imagining, tormenting herself with possibilities. If payments had been made to Martha Wickham, they would be recorded. Such documentation would exist in only one place: Darcy’s study.
The impropriety of searching his private papers sent a flush of shame through her, but she had to know. Elizabeth Bennet was never one to shirk the truth, to hide in ignorance. She deserved to know whether Darcy was complicit or not before risking her heart on his professed love and devotion.
Elizabeth slipped from her bed and reached for her wrapper, tying it securely over her nightgown. She hesitated only briefly before retrieving the single candle from her bedside table and lighting it from the banked coals in the fireplace.
The corridor stretched before her, dark and silent. She knew her destination—Darcy’s study lay on the ground floor near the library, a location she had noted. The path there, however, would take her through the main gallery and down the grand staircase, exposed and vulnerable to discovery. Every creak of ancient floorboards beneath her feet sounded thunderous in the midnight quiet.
She paused at each turn, listening for any sign of movement. The servants would be abed, but Darcy himself might be wakeful—estate masters often worked late into the night, and she had noticed his tendency toward insomnia.
Elizabeth arrived at the study after descending the grand staircase and traversing a long corridor. The door was ajar. Silence greeted her, broken only by the distant ticking of clocks throughout the house. She slipped inside, closing the door behind her with a click.
The drawers yielded to her touch, revealing neat stacks of correspondence and documents. Elizabeth’s hands trembled as shesearched, conscious of violating Darcy’s privacy yet unable to turn back. The third drawer contained what she sought—a row of leather-bound ledgers, each stamped with the year in gold leaf on its spine.
She began with the most recent ledgers. The entries were recorded in a neat, masculine hand—Darcy’s own, she suspected, rather than his steward’s. Column after column of figures detailed the estate’s complex financial arrangements: tenant rents, crop sales, maintenance expenses, and charitable donations.
And there, on the quarterly disbursements page:M. Wickham - Rose Cottage provision - £50.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She flipped backward through the pages, searching for earlier entries. The payments appeared with clockwork regularity, quarter after quarter, year after year. Always the same amount, always listed under the euphemistic “provision” rather than rent or wages.
She reached for an older ledger. The handwriting changed in 1806—an older man’s script, less firm but equally precise. William Darcy’s records, she realized. The entries continued, unbroken, stretching back through the years.
1805. 1800. 1795.
Finally, she found the beginning: August 1791—the month of the Rose Cottage fire. The payments were to M. Wickham, Martha, and not R. Wickham, her husband. That had to mean something significant. After all, if the infant had died, there would have been no more need for a nursemaid.
The sound of a latch froze Elizabeth’s blood. The door swung open, and Darcy appeared on the threshold. He wore no coat or waistcoat, only shirtsleeves and breeches, his dark hair disheveled as though he, too, had been unable to sleep. His expression shifted from surprise to outrage as he registered her presence at his desk, his private ledgers open before her.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with betrayal—hers in invading his privacy, his in the secrets those ledgers revealed.
“Miss Bennet.” His voice was dispassionate. “Might I inquire what brings you to my study at such an hour? And in such… informal attire?”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, acutely aware of her nightgown and wrapper, her unbound hair falling about her shoulders. Any lady of breeding would be mortified to be discovered thus.
“I could not rest,” she said, refusing to dissemble despite her compromising position. “Not with questions that demanded answers.”
“And these answers could not wait for morning? Or perhaps they required my absence to be properly pursued?” Darcy stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. His gaze moved from her face to the open ledger, and she watched as understanding crystallized in his dark eyes.
“After this morning,” he said quietly, pain threading through each word. “After everything I shared with you… You chose investigation over trust?”
The accusation cut deeper than anger could have managed. Elizabeth saw her actions reflected in his wounded expression—the violation of his privacy, the implicit assumption of his guilt, the preference for solitary discovery over honest communication.
“Mrs. Bingley suggested that your family had been unusually generous to Mrs. Wickham over the years,” Elizabeth replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “She implied there might be evidence of such generosity in the estate ledgers.”
“And rather than ask me directly, you chose to search my private papers in the dead of night. Was my word so worthless to you?”
