Darcywasrestless.Bingleywas otherwise engaged that morning, catching up on matters long neglected in his distraction with Miss Bennet. His solicitor had ridden from London and, before departing, would draw up the marriage articles for Mr. Bennet’s approval and signature.
Fortunate fool,Darcy thought, though without malice. He felt genuine happiness for his friend, but envy still pricked at him. His emotions ate at him; he longed to offer his heart, his hand, and every worldly possession to Elizabeth. Each day strengthened his confidence; she had grown more receptive, he felt certain of it. But he was already four days into his secret scheme, and he would not stop now.
As much ground as I have gained, I still have far to go before she may feel the same for me.
He would continue sending tokens of his regard, hoping she would not resent him for stepping beyond the dictates of propriety and risking her reputation. Secret admirers abounded in town. If matters reached their natural conclusion—the conclusion he longed for—all would be well in the end.
Unwilling to stay within doors another moment, Darcy ordered his horse saddled and readied. He reached for his coat and gloves, set his hat firmly upon his head, and strode across the lawn toward the stables. The grass lay damp where the morning frost had melted, and though the chill had yet to dry the ground, he kept to the graveled paths to avoid the worst of the mud. Even so, the ride would leave his boots and clothes spattered.
His horse waited, stamping impatiently. He gave a gentle cluck, murmuring reassurance, then mounted in one smooth motion. With a flick of the reins, he urged Beaudric forward, holding back until they cleared Netherfield's gatehouse. Then, leaning low, he pressed his heels into the horse’s sides and sent it into a full gallop.
The cold air bit his cheeks, though he scarcely felt it. From his earliest years, the freedom of riding had been unmatched by any other pleasure. The rush of the wind past his face, the exhilaration of clearing a high fence, the scenery blurring as he raced forward—no other experience compared. In the saddle, he felt as though he could conquer anything.
Darcy slowed Beau as they neared Oakham Mount, guiding him toward the summit. They climbed at a measured pace, and soon his thoughts drifted to the fourth gift he had left for Elizabeth. He pictured her with the opened parcel, her fingers brushing over the lengths of velvet ribbon, each shade chosen with care to echo the rare violet hue of her eyes.A careless remark made to Miss Bingley weeks past had inspired the offering for the fourth day of Christmas. He had, in an unguarded moment, admitted his admiration for Miss Elizabeth's fine eyes. Miss Bingley had taken great offense and, in response, had teased him mercilessly ever since. Though her barbs had tried his patience, he had met the lady's jibes with silence.
Elizabeth's eyes were, indeed, remarkable. Most often they held the rich depth of amethyst, but in certain lights, and when she wore particular colors, one could see hints of indigo or even silvery lavender within their depths. A delicate ring of paler violet surrounded the pupils, reflecting an uncommon luminosity. When she laughed, those eyes danced with light; when she delivered an arch comment, touched with saucy sweetness, they gleamed with dangerous brilliance. He could lose himself in their depths and never wish to be found.
A sharp whinny from his horse drew his attention, and he looked up. As though conjured by his thoughts, there stood Elizabeth. Her back was to him, but at the sound, she turned. Reining in his horse, Darcy dismounted with practiced ease and tethered Beau to a convenient tree.
"Good day, Miss Elizabeth," he greeted her, stepping to her side with a bow. Something in the way she curtsied, graceful but cool, put him on his guard. Those eyes, usually so beguiling, carried a flicker of warning, perhaps even ire. Which, he could not yet tell. “How do you do?” he finished, the words landing with an awkwardness he despised.
“I am well, sir,” she answered steadily, though a thread of tension belied her words. Elizabeth gestured toward the basket resting on a stump a little way distant. “I walked this way after visiting Meryton.”
“Did you find the village pleasant?” The moment the words left him, Darcy regretted them; any man with sense could see that something troubled her.
“No, in fact, I did not.” Then, as if weighing her words, she fell silent.
Darcy waited, patient but uneasy, until she angled to face him, her eyes—those striking violet depths—bright with restrained emotion. He watched as his love struggled for words for a moment before she began.
“I do not understand you, Mr. Darcy. You can be…amiable—kind, even. And yet…” She drew a steadying breath. “I have heard another account of you—a story—one that sketches you as a man of cold pride and deliberate cruelty. If that tale is true, then you are the reason an old friend of yours is now forced to marry where his heart does not lie. I wish to believe that cannot be so, but how am I to reconcile the portrait he painted of you with the image I have lately begun to sketch in my own mind?”
A muscle tightened in his jaw, and he clenched until his teeth ached.Of course, she still defends Wickham,he thought bitterly, all the pleasant thoughts from his ride vanishing and leaving an uneasy weight in his stomach. His feelings, his past with the blackguard, were his own. Why must he explain himself?Because she does not deserve to be misled.
For a moment, silence stretched between them. He had sworn never to speak of it—well…at least not most of it—not to anyone. His cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam knew some of the particulars, but Darcy could trust him not to reveal his darkest secrets. He forced himself to answer with calm.
“There are two sides to every story, Miss Elizabeth,” he said woodenly.
“Are there? Then pray, allow me to hear yours. I know I have no right to ask, yet I would rather judge with the whole of thetruth than half of it.” She still stood facing him, arms akimbo, but her stare was no longer hostile.
“I tried to warn you at the ball, madam. That man is a reprobate. A swindler.”
“But what proof have you to offer?”
“And what proof did he offer you?”
She flushed, no longer able to meet his gaze. “None. When he related his tale of you, he offered no proof either.” She sighed. “You must know, sir, that to me you have been…perplexing. At times proud, at times—lately—something else entirely. He, at least, has seemed constant in his civility.”
Color flared along his cheekbones. “He tried to elope with my sister.” The words came out raw, stripped of restraint.
Elizabeth stared, stunned. “Surely not,” she breathed, hushed and uncertain.
He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair before sinking onto a fallen log. “Allow me to tell you everything, and then you may judge me as you think proper.”
She nodded, her features unreadable, and he began.
“George Wickham is the son of my father’s former steward, a good and loyal man. He and my father had been friends long before he and his small family came to Pemberley when I was but two years old. Old Wickham was dedicated to his work and willing to entertain a young, curious boy such as I. He and his wife had one child, a babe in arms when they arrived. He shared a name with my father—an odd coincidence—and the steward asked my father to stand as godfather. George and I grew up together. With no brothers or sisters and few companions but my cousin, Richard, I looked upon him almost as a brother. My father, in particular, cared deeply for him.”
Darcy paused in reflection and continued. “Mrs. Wickham was an elegant woman—the daughter of a gentleman who had been forced to marry beneath her after her father squanderedher dowry. Accustomed to the comforts of a more prosperous life, she chafed under the constraints of a steward’s income. Rather than embracing economy, she spent frivolously and with little thought to consequence. More than once, George and I sat beneath the parlor window of the steward’s cottage, listening to her rail against the unfairness of her situation—how she had been reduced to living in the shadow of Pemberley, when, as she claimed, her true place was within its walls.”
