“Your father placed too much importance on a man’s outward form. My uncle valued character, yes, but believed it was a man’s bearing that commanded respect. That belief did not serve him well as a father.”
“Yet he was great friends with yours.” The words came out laced with bitterness, but he did not care. He quickly urged his horse into a canter. Richard followed.
After catching up with Darcy, the colonel said, “Their history is complicated, or so Lord Matlock has said. By the time Uncle Darcy offered for your mother, I believe he no longer noticed my father’s affliction. Still, his expectations for a son were far more exacting than that of a brother-in-law. He was hard on you—no one disputes that. He judged you with greater severity than he ever did my father. You must not let it color your perspective of him entirely.”
Darcy did not respond. In the past month, old wounds had reopened, and long buried feelings had stirred. Insecurities he thought conquered had resurfaced and had crowded his hard-won, quiet confidence. He longed to speak with Elizabeth—toassure himself she was real, that the admiration he thought he had glimpsed had not faded.
They arrived at Netherfield Park, careworn and weary. Richard quickly ingratiated himself with Bingley and his sisters. To Darcy’s surprise, Miss Bingley ignored him entirely, content to speak with his cousin instead. Before retiring, Richard joked about offering Miss Bingley his hand in marriage.
“She would accept, you know,” Darcy warned. “Miss Bingley would like nothing better than to become the daughter of an earl. My connection pales in comparison.”
“I had best tread carefully, then. Mother would be seriously displeased if I foiled her plans.”
With that, Richard bid him goodnight, and Darcy retired. He lay awake long into the night, staring up into the dark canopy above his bed. Sleep eluded him until the clock struck twelve. When it came, it brought dreams that taunted him—memories of Eton, of university, of failures and doubts. Yet despite his restless night, he rose early, determined to ride to Oakham Mount. Elizabeth would be there. Of that, he felt certain. Darcy knew her well enough to predict that.
The morning air was cold, and the scent of rain still lingered. He mounted his horse and set off at a brisk trot, his breath rising in pale clouds. He was grateful for his warm greatcoat. Richard had already gone, leaving behind a brief note stating his intention to depart at first light. Darcy did not blame him. Every moment Wickham remained free was another moment he might yet escape.
The hill loomed ahead, and he soon discerned a figure standing at its summit.Elizabeth.Urging his horse forward, he dismounted a short distance from her and secured the reins to a low-hanging branch.
“Good morning,” he said.
She dipped her head in greeting, then tilted it slightly as she studied him. “Was there a fire at Netherfield?” she asked, lifting an arched brow. “Or a flood?” She did not sound angry—merely curious. “Mr. Bingley did not ride off, so I can only assume you forgot something.”
“I shall tell you all if you wish,” he replied, helping Elizabeth take a seat on their familiar log. “I fully intended to explain myself.”
He joined her. Elizabeth's expression was one of open expectancy. “I confess to great curiosity,” she admitted. “You left so suddenly. And that gentleman—Mr. Wickham—he looked frightened.”
“He was.” Darcy’s reply was low and rough. He drew a breath to steady himself and continued. “Our meeting was as unexpected for me as it was for him. You see, Wickham and I share a long and disagreeable history—one that has, at last, reached its end.”
He fell silent, and when Elizabeth prompted him to continue after a few moments, he pressed on.
“Mr. Wickham is the son of a respectable man—Pemberley’s former steward. Years ago, he saved my father’s life, and, in gratitude, my father became his child’s godfather. Young Wickham used that connection to his advantage, securing a place at Harrow, and later at Cambridge. All the while, he maintained a studied charm and cultivated my father’s favor. He came to believe he was entitled to the privileges of a second son.”
“When my father died, he left his godson a bequest of one thousand pounds and the promise of a valuable family living, if he chose to take orders. Wickham declined, instead accepting a sum of three thousand pounds in lieu. I saw no more of him until the living fell vacant, at which point he demanded it of me regardless. When I refused, he flew into a rage and swore vengeance.”
He looked away, jaw tight. “Last summer, he nearly succeeded. He attempted to elope with my sister. We thwarted him, but Georgie was devastated and has never been the same.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “So yesterday was the first time you had seen him since—?” She trailed off, and her sympathetic expression nearly broke him. Lord, he did not want her sympathy. He wanted herlove.
“Yes. I rode back to Netherfield and sent an express to my cousin, Richard—Colonel Fitzwilliam. Together, we gathered evidence of his debts, sufficient to see him imprisoned. Richard took him away this morning.”
“I recall he inquired as to when the next coach to London would depart,” Elizabeth murmured. “Are you so fearsome that he would flee rather than remain in your presence?”
Darcy sighed. “Wickham has tormented me for years,” he admitted. “During our confrontation last summer—well, he saw a side of me he never had before.” He reached up and traced the scar, the memory of the incident still fresh in his mind. “I believe he truly feared I would kill him at our next meeting.”
He kicked at the earth beneath his boots. “Never have I felt so powerless,” he said tightly. “Georgiana wept after Wickham’s parting words, which sought to degrade and humiliate her before he fled and disappeared. He left me bleeding, and she believed she had caused my demise.”
“And Miss Darcy—how does she fare now? Has she recovered?”
“My sister does better than when I left London. My presence became a reminder of all she wished to forget.” He plucked at a tuft of dry grass at the base of the log, his gaze distant.
“Is there more?” Elizabeth’s perception startled him. “You mentioned a long history. Has this Mr. Wickham always sought to usurp your place? Is that the foundation of your mutual dislike?”
“He was my childhood tormentor,” Darcy admitted quietly. “Wickham filled my thoughts with every unkind notion, and it is his voice that echoes those doubts still. I have labored to overcome it all, and yet when I stand before him, I can feel as powerless as I did as a child.” He hesitated, inwardly wincing.Oh, what must she think of me, laying bare such weakness? Surely, she will be disgusted.
“My father always counseled me to dwell on the past only so far as its recollection brings us pleasure. Yet I would amend his wisdom with a conviction of my own.” Her tone was soft but sure. “Let us reflect upon the past only insofar as its memories grant us clarity and fortitude. To ignore discomfort or pain that we have endured is no remedy. ’Tis only in acknowledging our trials that we may lay them to rest. As for the specter that troubles you,” she added, placing her hand gently on his arm, “I see no sign of it.”
Darcy turned and met her gaze. It brimmed with admiration and respect—no trace of the revulsion he feared would be present. Overcome, he took her hand in his and pressed a reverent kiss to her fingers. “Thank you,” he whispered, her hand still near his lips. “You cannot imagine how your words touch my heart.” He lowered her hand but did not release it—the connection—to have her hand in his felt natural and right.
