The words settled heavily in the quiet, and he allowed himself a moment to examine them honestly. This was not the choice he would once havemade. He had been raised to prize order, transparency, and propriety above all things. Deception—however well-intentioned—had always struck him as a corrosive force, one that weakened families, reputations, and the very structures upon which society depended. His first instinct, when faced with uncertainty, was to uncover it, to expose what lay hidden and set matters right through clarity alone.
And yet Elizabeth had undone that certainty.
It was not that she was without fault, nor that the situation surrounding her family was anything but troubling. There were disguises here—carefully maintained silences, half-truths born of fear rather than malice—and they offended his instincts at every turn.
Darcy exhaled slowly. He had not abandoned his desire for truth. He still wished to understand what lay beneath the surface, to know the full shape of the matter before him. But love had reordered his priorities. Truth, he realised, was not an absolute good when wielded without mercy. It could illuminate—but it could also destroy. And if exposing this secret meant harming Elizabeth, dismantling the life she had built through courage and care, then his allegiance was clear.
He had chosen her not in ignorance of the disguise, but in defiance of it. He loved her discernment, her steadiness under pressure, her refusal to become hardened by circumstance. If deception existed here, it was not hers—and he would not allow his rigid sense of honour to make him complicit in her ruin.
For the first time, Darcy understood that integrity did not always demand revelation. Sometimes, it demanded protection.
Richard nodded once. “Then we had best uncover the rest before anyone beats us to it. We will face this together.”
Darcy nodded again, the weight of the mystery pressing heavily upon him—but no longer alone. He wondered if it would be best for everyoneinvolved if they let the matter rest. Almost immediately, he discounted it. He had to know the truth. Together, he and his cousin would chase it into the shadows. And once they had it, they would protect what mattered most.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wickham planned to send two additional notes to Longbourn after the first, but circumstances conspired against him. Colonel Forster, with all the severity of a man determined to reaffirm discipline after a night of indulgence, kept the militia drilling from sunrise to sundown in the soggy fields outside Meryton. Wickham, though he loathed the exertion and the muck clinging to his fine boots, bore it with a soldier’s façade and a scoundrel’s cunning. Every blister and ache was dulled by the sweet promise of what he would soon gain: wealth, power, and revenge.
Miss Elizabeth would not escape him—not completely. She might have warmed to Darcy’s attentions, but Wickham was determined she would pay dearly for her family’s deception.
The Monday after the Netherfield ball brought with it a rare reprieve. Rain clouds hung heavy in the sky, but no drills were called, and the officers were granted a full day of rest. Wickham intended to waste none of it. He strode towards the inn with his thoughts on ale, idle flirtation, and the long-awaited resumption of his scheme. But as he passed through Meryton, a familiar carriage rolled into view—Darcy’s. The dark-paneled vehicle with its distinctive crest was unmistakable, and atop it were trunks enough for a week’s journey. A horse trailed behind, tethered for long travel.
He narrowed his eyes. Were Darcy and Fitzwilliam departing? If so, where—and for how long?
He turned sharply on his heel and made his way into one of the local shops, knowing the shopkeeper was talkative and the customers often worse. As luck would have it, Sir William Lucas stood at the counter, puffed up and beaming as though he were the town crier.
"Ah, Mr Wickham!" Sir William said with enthusiasm. "Fine weather for ducks, eh?"
Wickham smiled politely. “Indeed, Sir William. I could not help but notice Mr Darcy’s carriage. Are the gentlemen returning to town?”
“Not at all! My daughter Charlotte had it from Miss Elizabeth herself—they are fetching another guest. A Miss Darcy, I believe. I daresay Netherfield will be all the brighter with her presence.”
“And how long are they to be away?”
Sir William tapped his chin thoughtfully. “A sen’night, perhaps more. These things are so difficult to predict, are they not?”
Perfect.
Wickham made a token purchase, exited with a tip of the hat, and altered course immediately. With the gentlemen absent and the ladies vulnerable, the time to strike had come. The wind stirred as he turned down the lane towards Longbourn.
By some divine stroke of luck—or devilish providence—he met Miss Elizabeth on the path to Oakham Mount. Her cloak was cinched tightly, her boots damp from the path. She startled as he nearly collided with her.
“Careful, Miss Elizabeth.” He placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her, letting his fingers linger just a moment too long. “It would not do for you to take a tumble.”
“Mr Wickham.” She nodded, polite but cool. “I was just on my way to Oakham Mount.”
“Then allow me to escort you. I have long admired the view.” He offered his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, she accepted, placing her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, the damp ground squelching beneath their feet. Finally, he broke the quiet.
“And how fares your cousin, Mr Collins? I confess I miss the clerical charm of his company.”
“He has returned to Hunsford,” she replied shortly. “Mary is saddened, but they intend to correspond until his return.”
Wickham tucked away that information with a mental nod. He did not need the parson present to go through with his plans; he needed him reachable when it came time to reveal all.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he said glibly. Then, rounding a bend in the path, he stopped, releasing her arm and taking both of her hands. His expression turned grave, his tone low and practised. “Miss Elizabeth, I cannot wait any longer. I must tell you—I admire you deeply. I daresay I love you. Please, do me the honour of becoming my wife.”
