“Mr Wickham said Miss Darcy was—but was this before you denied him the living?” Elizabeth stammered every other word. “But he said—what really happened?”
Darcy strode to his greatcoat, wrenched out the letter he had written Friday morning, and threw it on the table, the envelope filling the air with a harsh snap.
“Read it, since you need to know my history with that man before you can trust me.” He gave her a hard look, and he was certain they both felt every other moment in the past two days where she had trusted him. “It defends every unjust accusation you threw at me.”
Darcy stormed out the door, his heart fractured and with a cold sweat across his body. He charged down the open gallery that overlooked the yard. Even after all they had been through together, Elizabeth still blindly trusted whatever Wickham had told her. He felt bursting with the need to move or do something. Possibly kick something.
He let out a curse of frustration. Whatever she thought of him before, he should no longer be a stranger to her now. Not after every meaningful conversation they had, after every profound look they had exchanged. After what happened in that bed. She should know him better by now.
Darcy took a few calming breaths as he paced the gallery. Losing his temper did neither of them any good. Elizabeth’s accusations about him were formed on mistaken premises, and Wickham was the one he ought to be angry at, not her. He hardly wanted to spend a moment thinking about the worst man he had the misfortune to know. But had he not already decided to defend himself and explain his history with that man?
It churned his stomach to think that Elizabeth might read his letter and still not believe him.
A sinking feeling now struck his heart as it finally began to slow. Their conversation played over in his mind. Had he misunderstood Elizabeth? He was so insecure in what she felt for him, still wounded from her acrimonious refusal, that he did not hear what she was truly asking him. Perhaps she did not think the worst of him; she only wanted to know his version of his history with Wickham.
He leant against the rail, staring blankly at the lone horse in the yard. When he had proposed, Elizabeth had accused him of inflicting harm on Wickham. But just now she had only asked to hear his account of the events.
Her opinion of him might not be as dreadful as he assumed, but with his mistaken assumptions and loss of temper, he might have just ruined any chance he had at redeeming himself in her eyes. Had he ruined everything, or could he apologise and make it right? They both needed to be calm if he had any chance of resolving this misunderstanding he had caused. He would pace the courtyard for a while before going back into that room that now had a mixture of many wonderful and painful memories.
When Darcy approached the end of the corridor, he saw Kirby hiding in the dark corner.
“What are you doing here?” he cried in surprise.
“I heard yelling from your room,” he muttered, keeping his head down, “so I thought to wait.”
Darcy blinked. “You knew what room to find us in?”
Kirby shrugged. “’Twasn’t hard. I said I had a message for the couple who arrived overnight with no trunks, and a porter sent me up.”
That they were so easily found was alarming. “Why were you looking for us?” Kirby stepped from the shadows, and he saw the boy sported a purple bruise around his eye. “Kirby,” he whispered, tilting up his chin to have a better look, “what happened?”
For a moment the boy looked vulnerable, but then he pulled away, frowning. “My uncle was not pleased that I could not explain what happened.” He crossed his arms. “He said I was stupid for not knowing something went wrong during the drive.”
His indignation at Wickham and his loss of temper with Elizabeth felt very different from the anger that now simmered in his chest. That Markle would abuse his nephew was unjustifiable. “Did you come back to report to Markle where we are?” It could only be expected. Kirby was just a child, a brutalised child.
“No,” he said, scowling. “I came to warn you. I heard them talking yesterday while you were all in the house. They always planned to kill you and Nan. Uncle talked to the toll collectors and thinks you must be here at the Bull and George and sent me ahead to find your room, and then I am to find Steamer. Someone near Dartford probably found him and called for a surgeon. I came to warn you they are a quarter of an hour behind me.”
His mind spun with possibilities. Fitzwilliam might come with a carriage and every able-bodied man from Rosings, but possibly not in time. Markle’s gang would find him and Elizabeth in the room, murder them both, and flee. Where could they go without being seen? If they left the Bull and George and were encountered on an empty street, two quick shots would gooff and Markle’s men would be gone before anyone pushed aside a window curtain to peek out.
What are we going to do?
Kirby shoved his arm. “Go, Mr Darcy! Hide in the stable, or in one of the post chaises. I will tell them I could find no one to question, so I left to ask the local doctor if anyone brought in Steamer.”
“Will your uncle believe you?” he asked, looking at the boy’s bruised eye.
He shrugged again. “He might, but he will still check the rooms for himself.”
“Someone is coming for us this morning. Join us?” he asked again. “I hate to leave you to such a violent man.”
Another look as though he was the most foolish adult Kirby had ever encountered. “If I disappear the same time you do, he will figure it out and never leave you alone! You need to hide. I found your room in two minutes; anyone could. My uncle does not care about the money. He only wants to hurt the lady who crossed him.”
Kirby gave him another shove down the gallery, and then he ran down the stairs without another word. Darcy felt his mind turn in a thousand directions as his heartbeat raced. The likelihood of harm or death that had hung over them for the past two days felt different from this immediate threat.
He had to explain himself to Elizabeth, but this new development meant there was no time for talking.
The tumultof Elizabeth’s mind was very great. How had asking for this one reasonable explanation led to such a quarrel?Her agitated reflections gave no answer, so Elizabeth read the letter that Darcy had thrown to the table.
The beginning was angry, and a quick perusal of the first paragraphs showed it reviewed what they had discussed about Bingley and Jane. But the last two pages and the back of the envelope laid bare the full history of Wickham’s acquaintance with Darcy.
