“Darcy,” the colonel said, his voice grieved with the remembered agony of his cousin, “was beyond himself. He was terrified for her safety in the hands of a man he knew to be a consummate liar, a reckless gambler, a fortune hunter, and predator of young women.”
“He must have pursued them with all haste.”
“He did,” the colonel confirmed grimly, “but unfortunately he was not at Pemberley when word finally reached him about the elopement. He was deep in London, entangled in some urgent task for the Arcane Office. Georgiana and Wickham had already been on the road for a full day and a half before he even heard of her disappearance. He rode then day and night, pushing himself beyond exhaustion. But by the time he caught up with them, just north of the border, they had been joined mere hours earlier over the anvil.”
“No,” Elizabeth whispered.
“Darcy, in his desperation, offered Wickham a vast sum of money to disappear and relinquish all claim on Georgiana, but she, poor, deluded Georgiana, refused to leave him. She clung to Wickham, weeping, declaring her undying love, and accusing Darcy of trying to destroy her happiness.”
Elizabeth stared at him, horrified, a cold, sick feeling spreading through her. This was worse, far worse, than she had imagined.
“And Mr Darcy?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “What did he do?”
The colonel sighed, a sound of sadness and resignation. “What could he do, Elizabeth? He could not physically drag her away. He could not force her to leave, not without causing an even greater scandal. Wickham, for all his villainy, had, by some twisted Scottish law and Georgiana’s own misguided consent, a husband’s claim. Darcy was forced to leave them there. He refused her dowry to Wickham and severed all further support from Pemberley.”
“Mr Darcy left her?” Elizabeth said, aghast. “He left his sister with a man he believed to be a villain of the worst kind? With that liar, that gambler, that predator? And he abandoned her to such a fate without any means to protect herself, without even a coin for food?”
“Elizabeth!” the colonel cried, sounding appalled, “Have you heard a word of what I have said about Wickham’s character? And shechosehim, shechoseto stay with him.”
“I have heard every word,” she said, a sudden, fierce energy propelling her to her feet. But she was not thinking about Mr Wickham. She was thinking of that young innocent girl in the portrait she had seen. She was thinking of her own younger sisters, of Lydia’s heedless folly, of Kitty’s easily swayed affections. They too, in their innocence, in their desperate yearning for romance, could so easily have made such a catastrophic, life-altering mistake.
The colonel had sprung to his feet as well, perhaps more out of courteous habit than any shared agitation, though he ran a hand through his hair, clearly aggravated at her unexpected, and in his view, entirely misplaced, reaction. But when he spoke again, his voice was calm. “Upon my word, Elizabeth, I cannot say I could have imagined your sympathies would lie with that blackguard.”
“My sympathies most certainly do not lie with Mr Wickham!” Elizabeth declared, her voice trembling with a passion thatsurprised even herself. “I am thinking only of Georgiana! Of a young, vulnerable girl who was under his charge, and indeed, underyourcharge!”
“And would you have preferred if Darcy had set Wickham ablaze and then dragged a hysterical Georgiana back to Pemberley in ruin, only to then face murder charges? Believe you me, I was highly in favour of that!”
“I…I…“ Elizabeth sat back down, still breathing harshly. She felt anger, but mixed with a confusing, unwilling pity.
Darcy. The man who had stood beside her at the reawakened stone circle, his face illuminated with boyish joy, was also capable of such coldness? To abandon completely his own sister, however foolish her choices, however disastrous her elopement? To cut her off, to refuse her any aid, to leave her to the mercy of a known scoundrel, in some unknown, godforsaken corner of the world?
It was a level of harsh judgement that chilled her to the bone.
“He believes her lost to him forever?” she asked.
“As good as. She made her choice, and Darcy refused to demean himself further by publicly pursing a sister who had so thoroughly rejected him and everything he stood for,” said the colonel. “Elizabeth, you must understand. To Darcy, Wickham is the embodiment of everything dishonourable, everything corrupt. And for Georgiana to choosehim…it was the ultimate betrayal.”
But any charitable feelings, any sympathy, Elizabeth had begun to feel for Mr Darcy — it was all withered, dead, gone in that instant. This was not a man wounded by grief. It was a man who, in his pride and his pain, had abandoned the sister he had been sworn to protect. He had chosen a rigid adherence to his own code over compassion.
“I do understand,” she said, without emotion. Her initial censure of his character was, it seemed, entirely justified.
The colonel gave her a long look, but thankfully said no more on the topic. As they resumed their walk, what little conversation followed was stilted.
When they returned to the house, the shadows were lengthening, and the oppressive gloom of Pemberley seemed to have reasserted its dominion. Elizabeth’s mind was still reeling from the colonel’s revelations. The image of Georgiana, abandoned and alone, was foremost in her thoughts, and it cast a dark pall over the evening ahead.
Dinner that evening was a strained, uncomfortable affair. Darcy seemed more withdrawn than usual. He was civil, but his interactions were minimal. Even his gaze, usually so often fixed upon her, seemed like a rarity of chance, as if he could not even bear to look at her.
She watched him across the table, and the lighthearted banter they had exchanged in the carriage just hours before now seemed like a distant, fraudulent memory.
He was a man of infuriating contradictions, capable of great power and deep feeling, yet also, it seemed, of a chilling, unforgiving severity.
The study was silent, a sanctuary of shadow and order that offered no peace. Darcy stood before the hearth, the fine crystal of the brandy glass cold against his fingers. He had poured a second measure, a concession he rarely allowed, and then had forced himself to set the decanter down. His hand shook as he did so. An extra irritation.
Damnation.
He took a sharp swallow of the spirit, the burn in his throat a welcome, grounding distraction from his thoughts. This was not how any of this was meant to be. For years, he had navigated the treacherous waters of the Ton with a practiced, almost contemptuous ease. It was second nature now to sidestep the ambitions of others.
Then the Office had forced his hand. The marriage was to be an unfortunate but necessary duty. Her family was deplorable, her connections non-existent. An alliance endured for the sake of England. Simple.
