“Look, George. I have another proposal for you: fifty pounds,” Darcy said, his tone quiet but iron-clad. “In exchange for a signed agreement that you leave the county at once, and do not come near the Bennet family—or any person under my protection—again.”
Wickham’s lip curled. “You mean to buy my silence and my absence.”
“No,” said Darcy. “I offer you a modest, but decent, beginning. If you prefer otherwise, I will provide you with a ticket to Holyhead, along with twenty pounds. If you manage to reinvent yourself in Ireland, I shall not look for you. But do not return.”
Wickham’s gaze sharpened. “So I am to be exiled—elegantly. You offer money and passage, that you may appear noble, generous... and rich.”
“I do not do it for you,” said Darcy. “I do it for those you have injured. Do not be mistaken—my mercy is not a gift. It is a prison without walls. I want to purchase your absence. Do not make me convert it into something else.”
Wickham swallowed hard. His pride was crushed, but his mouth remained insolent—perhaps the last shield of a man entirely unarmed.
“You are more generous than I deserve,” he said bitterly. “And crueler than I imagined.”
Darcy did not flinch. “My father paid for your education. He believed in your promise. You are more intelligent than you have chosen to act. So here is my final offer.”
He withdrew a sealed envelope from his coat.
“This contains two hundred pounds. Enough to live modestly and decently for a time. You will not come near Derbyshire. If I hear of you approaching the Bennets, or returning to Meryton, you will answer to me directly.”
He held the envelope out without ceremony.
“Once you have settled in Ireland, send word. I will send one final sum—another two hundred pounds. After that, you will see no more of my money. Not out of pity, but in memory of your father, who was a good man, and of mine, who valued you far beyond your worth.”
Wickham took the envelope without a word. The fingers that accepted it trembled.
Darcy returned to the carriage.
As they climbed inside, Bingley turned to him, troubled.
“Why did you help him, Darcy? After all he’s done to you?”
Darcy looked out the window as the carriage began to move. His voice was calm, without bitterness.
“Because the cruelest revenge is not punishment—it is the truth. To force your enemy to admit, even in silence, that you were good... and he, despicable.”
He exhaled.
“That is a burden no man can carry easily.”
Eleven
The late afternoon light spread like honey over the quiet lawns of Netherfield, spilling into the gravel paths and slipping between the last leaves that clung stubbornly to the hedges and boughs. The world was hushed, suspended, as if nature itself had paused to witness what would soon unfold. There was no wind, no birdsong—only the soft crackle of leaves underfoot and the slow, rhythmic purring of the cat nestled in Elizabeth Bennet’s lap.
She sat on a worn stone bench near the herb garden, shawl drawn loosely over her shoulders, her posture relaxed but her thoughts bright and busy beneath the stillness. In her lap, Sophocles—fierce guardian of the household—was transformed into a fluffy, purring creature of devotion. Her fingers moved absently through his fur, though her mind was not on him.
Standing nearby, Fitzwilliam Darcy had never looked more at ease, nor more deeply stirred. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back as he studied the scene before him: the woman he loved, framed in late sunlight, one brow slightly raised in thought, a curl escaping near her temple, the shadow of a smile tugging at her lips. She was still, yet the very sight of her stirred something in him that refused stillness—something deep and tender and intense.
“I believe your guardian approves of me,” he said at last, nodding toward the cat with a quiet smile.
Elizabeth looked down at Sophocles, whose eyes were closed in perfect satisfaction. “It would seem so,” she replied. “Though I confess he is not easily impressed.”
“Then I am doubly honoured.” He came closer, his voice lower, more intimate. “But if he had not approved, I would still have risked everything to stand here beside you.”
Her smile faltered—not from displeasure, but from the sudden seriousness in his tone. She looked up at him fully now, her expression softening. The light caught her eyes and made them gleam like morning dew.
“I hoped we might speak,” he said, “before the house fills again, before the ball, before the world comes rushing back in with all its noise and expectation. I wished for a quiet hour with you—not to persuade, not to explain, but to… share something I have carried with me for a long while. And your father was so generous to allow it.”
She nodded once, barely breathing.
