Page 94 of Bitterness of Spirit & The Painting

“You must realise that everything that happened must be kept secret. The situation is delicate and dangerous. We must protect the family. Your aunt and cousins must never learn of this situation. I am counting on your honour and wisdom, Darcy. May I?”

Darcy glared at him. “It is not my secrecy that should concern you.”

“Yes, I know. We must do something about Wilson.”

“Why not hire someone to kill him?” Darcy offered in jest.

“Such humour is not appropriate,” the earl scolded him. “We are in danger of having our name and reputation completely ruined.”

His Aunt had many questions. “I wonder how much the others know? Would Wilson say anything to his sister or his brother-in-law? What about the Bennet girls? Or Bingley? Elizabeth Bennet seemed on friendly terms with everybody, including Darcy and Richard and even Anne. Could she be aware of the revenge? Did she help him trap us? And how did it happen that he hosted a ball precisely when Anne and I were in Town? And when did he meet Anne? All this is too much of a coincidence. It must have been a plan with many involved in it. What should we do? What can be done against this cursed man?”

Each of his aunt’s questions shattered Darcy. He did not believe that Wilson would share such a story with his family, but regarding Elizabeth, his breath caught in his throat.

He was certain she was ignorant about the story itself. She had been surprised, shocked, and pained as she listened along with him. Her hands trembling in his palms, her pallor, and her grip on his arm as she searched for support were no doubt honest.

But what if Wilson had pleaded with her to build a strong relationship with Richard and him? What if, when he heard about Darcy’s failed proposal and love for Elizabeth, he decided to use her as a pawn in his chess game? What if Elizabeth’s sudden change of opinion, friendliness, and apparent partiality for him were more than she really felt?

That she did not hate or despise him any longer, he could believe, and she openly declared as much earlier that day.

But what if her feelings were less than she led him to believe? What if the affection he thought he recognized in her behaviour was, once again, merely the fruit of his wishful thoughts?

“I must leave you. I need some time alone,” Darcy suddenly declared and left the room without awaiting a reply, his relatives’ dumbfounded gazes following him.

∞∞∞

The entire day, he rode in his carriage throughout London.

The discovery of his aunt’s misconduct—her wantonness in cheating her betrothed, her trifling with a young boy from a modest family and then dismissing him like a useless toy—made him nauseous.

Had his aunt been in love with the young man while being forced by her family to marry another, it would have been a heart-warming tale. But this was not romantic, genuine, or kind. She was only motivated by malice, arrogance, disdain, and deception. Moreover, wickedness caused her to convince her brother she was in danger and induce him to murder an innocent man.

How could he ever face her again? How could he allow her in Anne’s presence, even if she was her mother? Had her character improved with age? Unlikely. Was Anne truly Wilson’s daughter? He might never know that, but the mere suspicion was mortifying.

And Lord Matlock—there were many disclosures about him too. That he kept mistresses in Town, as appalling and repugnant as it was to him, did not surprise Darcy. It happened with most men of their class, and they had argued about the matter many times in the past. But the conspiracy, his aggression, the threats against Wilson’s family, deceiving his brother-in-law George Darcy, and so many other faults overturned everything he had known and cherished since he was a child. He knew he would never be able to trust them nor look at them again with respect and regard.

How ridiculous he felt for criticising the Bennets’ poor manners or disrespecting the people of Meryton for their lack of decorum. Nobody was worse than his own family, and he had been a pompous fool to refuse to see the truth in their polished, polite behaviour.

His life—and theirs—would be changed from that day forward, even if Wilson carried his revenge no further.

Darcy stopped for a drink at his club but left before he had time to meet any of his acquaintance, resuming his purposeless riding.

He looked through the carriage window absent-mindedly, not brave enough to allow his mind to concentrate on the serious matters that tormented him.

The memories of his time with Elizabeth in the last days were too vivid to allow them to fade or to be polluted by dark thoughts, fears, or doubts. Their relationship, which he believed to be deep, strong, and open, must stay the same for a while. He must hold onto the conviction that Elizabeth shared his affection—at least for a little longer.

If she was involved in Wilson’s scheme—even unwillingly—all the last weeks might be thrown away like a dream from which he had awakened. He had to fight that notion and dream a little longer until he had no choice but to confront reality.

When he returned home, it was late evening. He refused any dinner and went directly to his bedchamber where he thought only of Elizabeth. He did not even know what happened after he left Wilson’s house. Did she reveal her presence? What if Wilson knew they were there from the beginning? What if he had asked Elizabeth to meet him, take him to the library, and then hide with him so he could hear all his uncle’s despicable confessions?

He dismissed the notion, calling himself irrational. How could Elizabeth know when or whether he would call on Wilson? And how could anyone know that his uncle and aunt would arrive at the exact time the rest of the family slept?

Such a conspiracy was ridiculous, and he dismissed it angrily. But turmoil overwhelmed his reason, and he could not master his spinning mind.

He knew the best way to end the tumult was to speak to Elizabeth—just as he did before the ball. But he lacked the courage to do so. He walked past Wilson’s house several times later that night; the lights were on, but he never considered entering.

He could not bear to see Wilson—even less to speak to him. He was still hurt and disappointed although he could easily empathise with the man’s long-lasting sorrow. He did not blame Wilson for anything except deceiving him. He briefly wondered what he would have done if Wilson had disclosed his secret and his revenge plans to him earlier. But it was too soon to consider that thoroughly.

As for seeing Elizabeth, there was nothing Darcy wanted more.