“But it did not,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“No,” Darcy agreed. “He gambled away the money within three years and returned to demand the living after all, claiming I had promised it to him regardless of his decision. When I refused, having already given the living to another deserving man, Wickham threatened to make trouble. I ignored the threats, believing his slander could not touch me. He decided to take his revenge in another way.”
He finally looked at her then, his eyes showing pain. “Last summer, Wickham went to Ramsgate, where I had sent my sister Georgiana with her companion for a holiday by the sea. He convinced Georgiana that he loved her, that they should elope together. She was fifteen years old, Elizabeth. Fifteen. He cared nothing for her feelings or her innocence. He wanted only her dowry of thirty thousand pounds.”
The words struck Elizabeth like physical blows, shock spreading through her. Georgiana. Sweet, shy Georgiana Darcy, who could barely meet a stranger’s eyes without blushing.Wickham had targeted her deliberately, had planned to ruin her for money, and perhaps to revenge himself on her brother.
“I arrived in Ramsgate the day before they planned to leave,” Darcy continued, his voice rough. “Georgiana confessed everything to me. She had convinced herself his feelings were genuine. Her heartbreak once I exposed him was the most terrible thing I have ever witnessed.”
Elizabeth’s hands flew to her mouth, horror and shame warring in her chest. She thought of all the times she had defended Wickham in her mind, had taken his side against Darcy. Thought of how she had judged Darcy for his treatment of his supposed childhood friend, never considering that there might be excellent reasons for such enmity.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I am so terribly sorry. I believed him, Mr. Darcy. I believed every word he said about you. He told me you had cheated him of his inheritance, that you had acted out of jealousy and spite. And I accepted his account without question because it confirmed what I already believed about your character.”
She looked down at her hands, seeing them trembling. “I was so ready to think the worst of you. So eager to find fault and assign blame. You wounded my pride at the assembly in Meryton, and I could not forgive that slight. So when Wickham offered me evidence of your supposed cruelty, I seized upon it gratefully. It justified my dislike, made it seem reasonable rather than petty.”
Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “I prided myself on my discernment, on my ability to read character accurately. But I allowed my prejudice to blind me completely. I saw only what I wanted to see, believed only what confirmed my existing opinions. And in doing so, I misjudged you terribly.”
Darcy leaned forwards, his expression softening. “You could not have known, Elizabeth. Wickham is skilled at deception. Hehas fooled people far more worldly and experienced than you. And I gave you ample reason to think ill of me through my own proud behaviour and thoughtless words.”
“That does not excuse my willingness to believe the worst without evidence,” Elizabeth replied, finally meeting his gaze again. Tears gathered in her eyes, spilling over. “I should have questioned his account. Should have wondered why he was so ready to share such personal information with a stranger. But I was too caught up in my own certainty to see any of it.”
She reached for his hand before she could stop herself, her fingers finding his with desperate need to convey the sincerity of her remorse. “I am truly sorry for the injustice I did you in my thoughts. For the assumptions I made about your character based on insufficient evidence and personal pique. You deserved better from me, and I failed you utterly.”
Darcy’s hand closed around hers, his grip firm and warm. “You have nothing to apologise for, Elizabeth. The fault lies with Wickham, not with those he deceived. And I should have been more forthcoming about his character from the beginning. Let me assure you, though, that I have dealt with him. I saw him in Meryton when I went to Longbourn, speaking with your youngest sister Lydia, and realised I could not leave him free to prey on your sisters. Once news of our engagement spread, they would have been his prime targets. I went to Colonel Forster, asked him to look into Wickham’s actions, and received a letter from the good colonel yesterday. Wickham has been dismissed from the militia for falsified references, and taken up for debt. He’ll be in debtor’s prison for a long, long time.”
He had done that for her sake, Elizabeth recognised at once. Because her sisters were nowhissisters, and he had accepted responsibility for their welfare even before the wedding took place. He had lowered his pride to go to Colonel Forster and ensure that Wickham could cause no more harm.
Their eyes met and held, something passing between them that felt like the beginning of real understanding. Not love, perhaps, not yet, or not from her at any rate. But the foundation upon which love might eventually be built. Honesty and forgiveness and the willingness to admit fault on both sides.
“I will never reproach you for thinking ill of me,” he said gently. “I deserved it, if not for the reasons that you then believed. And you have paid a terrible price for my failures. If I had only unbent my pride while still in Hertfordshire...”
“Anne would have targeted me all the sooner, perhaps,” Elizabeth said. “Or waited until after the wedding to steal my form, and then gone with you to Pemberley beyond my reach, leaving me trapped at Rosings with Lady Catherine.”
Darcy shook his head, his thumb brushing across her knuckles, the gesture tentative. Elizabeth found herself leaning slightly towards him, drawn by something she could not quite name. His free hand lifted towards her face, hovering near her cheek, waiting for permission to touch.
A knock on the door interrupted whatever moment had been building between them. Darcy leaned back and called out for whoever was there to enter.
Jane came in with Colonel Fitzwilliam close behind, both of them showing expressions that suggested the interruption was not entirely accidental. Jane’s gaze moved between Elizabeth and Darcy with knowing assessment, taking in their joined hands and proximity with a small smile that suggested approval.
Elizabeth blushed, but she did not withdraw her hand from Darcy’s. Because despite everything that had happened, despite everything that was yet to be settled… somehow, holding his hand felt exactly right.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Janemovedfurtherintothe room with steps that suggested exhaustion barely held at bay, her face showing the strain of hours spent brewing impossible potions and watching her sister marry the wrong man. Behind her, Colonel Fitzwilliam remained in the doorway, his expression carrying gravity that made Darcy’s chest tighten with renewed concern.
“Anne has awakened,” Jane said, her voice carrying weariness that went beyond mere physical fatigue. “In her own body, we are certain of it. But she is very weak, Lizzy. Weaker than when you inhabited her form, I think. The potion’s effects, perhaps, or the shock of finding herself returned to a body she had tried so desperately to escape.”
Elizabeth’s hand tensed in Darcy’s. He squeezed it gently, offering what comfort he could while his mind raced through implications he was only beginning to comprehend.
“She is raving,” Jane continued, her gaze fixed on Elizabeth rather than Darcy. “Speaking of poisons and theft, of stolen lives and rightful claims. Lady Catherine thinks it fever, the result of her collapse. She has sent for a physician to examine her, though I suspect no doctor will find anything physically wrong beyond Anne’s usual frailty.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam shifted in the doorway, drawing Darcy’s attention with the movement. His cousin’s face showed conflict between family loyalty and something else, something that looked uncomfortably like disgust mixed with pity.
“I overheard some of Anne’s ravings,” the Colonel said, his voice carefully neutral. “Enough that I questioned Miss Bennet about what had truly occurred. She showed me a book. A grimoire, I believe it is called, that Sir Lewis de Bourgh gave to his daughter.”
“I had to tell him,” Jane said, her words directed at Elizabeth with quiet apology. “He heard Anne speaking about body swaps and stolen flesh, about potions brewed from rare ingredients. He demanded an explanation, and I could not think of a convincing lie, not when I had already asked him to help me get the bezoar. So I showed him the grimoire and told him everything.”
Darcy’s protective instincts flared, sharp and immediate. His cousin knowing the truth created complications he had not yet had time to consider. But Fitzwilliam’s expression showed no scepticism, no dismissive disbelief. Instead, he looked troubled in ways that suggested he had accepted the impossible with surprising readiness.
