Whatever came next, he had said what he must.
And for the first time in many restless nights, Fitzwilliam Darcy allowed himself to dream again.
***
Two days after sealing his letter to Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy received another—this time bearing the handwriting of Charles Bingley.
The morning at Pemberley began in quiet domestic order. At the pianoforte, Georgiana rehearsed a country dance she hoped to perform at the Netherfield ball.
Darcy, meanwhile, sat in the library, scanning estate reports with half his mind on Hertfordshire. When the footman brought the letter, he recognised the seal at once and broke it quickly. Bingley’s tone was familiar and sincere, but the contents made Darcy rise from his chair before he had reached the final lines.
Netherfield, Hertfordshire
November 12th, 1811
My dear Darcy,
I recall your warning this summer—your caution regarding an old acquaintance of yours, Mr. George Wickham. I did not think then that our paths might cross, but I write now to inform you: your Wickham is here, in Meryton, in the uniform of the militia.
I encountered him once already, though briefly—he dined at Longbourn on a night I visited Miss Bennet. I found his manner off-putting, if I may be frank. Too smooth by half. But there is worse: gossip in town suggests he is paying attention to Miss Mary King, a young lady recently come into a fortune of ten thousand pounds, inherited from her grandfather. She is an orphan, vulnerable, and I confess just mentioning this makes me uneasy.
I do not know the exact nature of your history with him, but your earnestness on the subject remains with me. So I consider this my duty fulfilled: I am writing you to inform you now. Whatever Wickham did to earn your caution, I trust your judgment—and something in this situation feels wrong.
The ball at Netherfield is set for the 29th, but I suggest you arrive sooner. You may wish to see this for yourself and close whatever matter you have with him. I have not mentioned a word to our acquaintances here.
Yours,
Charles Bingley”
Darcy stood motionless for a full minute, the letter still open in his hand. Then, with a coldness that surprised even him, he walked to the hearth and flung it into the fire. The flames leapt eagerly around the edges, curling the page until it blackened and fell apart.
He could not risk Georgiana reading it.
Not this one.
Not the name it mentioned.
Not again.
His mind reeled—not from surprise, but from the weight of memory. Ramsgate. That bright, cursed summer. His sister—barely fifteen—drawn into Wickham’s net with flattering words and feigned attentions, believing herself loved. She had been ready to elope, ready to follow him into ruin, disgrace, and despair.
And Wickham—smiling, deceitful—had vanished just before Darcy arrived.
No apology. No shame. Just a predator’s arrogance.
It had taken Georgiana months to recover. Her spirit, once open and full of music, had grown wary. Only recently had she begun to bloom again.
And now this—another girl, another inheritance, another lie dressed as affection.
Darcy was decided. He would not allow it.
Just yesterday they had shopped in Lambton for the ball. Georgiana had chosen a new gown of blue silk, smiling more than she had in weeks. But all of that must now be set aside.
He went to find her, composing his expression before stepping into the parlour.
She looked up, hopeful. “Did the post come, Fitzwilliam?”
“It did,” he said gently. “Mr. Bingley has written again. He requests I return to Netherfield sooner than planned. A matter has arisen—possibly one that may affect the ball itself.”
