He had dismounted some distance away, and now strode towards her with that same purposeful gait she knew so well—measured, confident, and somehow made more compelling by the uncertainty in his eyes when they met hers.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, a little breathless, pausing before her. His gloved hands were tucked behind his back, as though he feared what they might do of their own volition. “I thank you for agreeing to meet me.”
“I was curious,” she replied, her voice quiet but sure. “And I suspect you have long needed to speak your mind.”
He smiled faintly, a shadow of his usual reserved expression. “Indeed.”
They walked together for a few paces, the grass brushing their boots, the wind teasing Elizabeth’s curls from beneath her bonnet.
“I wanted to speak of Mr Wickham,” Darcy said at last. His tone was controlled, but not cold. “I believe you have had... interactions with him.”
Elizabeth gave a slight nod. “We have encountered each other previously, and then he approached me during the ball. I danced with him. He seemed determined to be noticed.”
Darcy frowned, but it quickly cleared. “I feared as much. I wish to tell you more of him. Now, if I may.”
“If there is some information that would prove beneficial, I am glad to hear it,” she murmured, looking up at him.
He stopped walking and turned to face her fully. “You deserve to know. And because I have never trusted another as I trust you.”
Elizabeth felt the words settle in her chest like a weight and a balm, both. She swallowed gently. “Then tell me.”
Darcy hesitated, only briefly, and then began. His voice was low, but steady.
“My father was a man of great kindness. He was also far too trusting. George Wickham was the son of our steward and my father’s godson. He was raised at Pemberley, educated at my father’s expense. It was once thought he might take his father’s place as steward, but Wickham always aspired higher. He fancied himself our equal—if not in birth, then certainly in merit.”
He looked down for a moment, gathering himself.
“My father, ever indulgent, left him a valuable family living—a comfortable income for life—expecting he would enter the church. But Wickham had no intention of doing so. He wished for an estate. When he learned he was not to inherit an estate—that the honor had gone to my cousin Richard instead, he was enraged. The living was a poor consolation to him.”
Elizabeth’s brows furrowed. “And what did he do?”
“He wasted his youth in dissipation and vice,” Darcy said bitterly. “Then, he approached me not a year after my father’s death, claiming he had no interest in the church and wished to exchange the living for a sum of money. He was persuasive... and desperate.”
“And you agreed?”
“I did, partially to protect the people of the Kympton parish. I gave him three thousand pounds in exchange for written renunciation of the living—more than generous. He left, and I hoped never to see him again. But nearly three years later, he returned. Insolent, angry—demanding the living, as if my agreement to his request had never occurred. I refused.”
Elizabeth watched his face, the pain and weariness carved into every line. “And then?”
Darcy’s eyes darkened. “He disappeared again—until last summer. He sought out my sister, Georgiana. She was fifteen. She trusted him, as we all once did. He nearly convinced her to elope with him.”
A jolt of cold passed through Elizabeth, and she reached out to place her hand gently on his arm. “Darcy…”
“I returned unexpectedly, sooner than was planned, and she confided the whole of the plan. Georgiana had second thoughts and confessed everything. I arrived in time to stop it—but only just. She was devastated. Ashamed. Wickham… vanished again.”
There was a heavy silence between them. Only the breeze stirred, rustling the surrounding leaves like whispers. Darcy continued. “Richard would have killed the blackguard in the summer had he the chance.”
“I see now why you are wary,” Elizabeth said softly. “He is dangerous. Manipulative.”
“Yes,” Darcy said, and there was quiet fire in his eyes. “And he is near your family. Near you. That terrifies me. I did not disguise my interest last night—surely he knows. He will use anything—or anyone—to hurt me.” Elizabeth’s hand was still on his arm, and now he turned his hand, covering hers. “You do not know,” he said, his voice hoarse, “how it has affected me to think of him watching you. Speaking with you. If I had known he was near, I would have warned you immediately. I only—”
“Darcy,” she interrupted, and he stopped. “I understand now. And I will be careful. I promise.”
He took a breath, and the world seemed to pause again.
“You are remarkable,” he said, so quietly it was nearly lost to the breeze. “Strong, clever, brave… and I find that I cannot stop thinking of you. Your laughter, your thoughts, the way you see the world.”
Elizabeth felt heat bloom in her chest.
