Chapter Twenty-Four
“The constables approach through the main gate.” Morrison’s announcement carried the satisfaction of a man witnessing justice finally served. Through the library windows, Elizabeth could observe a small party of uniformed constables making their way up Pemberley’s drive with purposeful strides.
Her husband nodded with grim approval. “Summon Blythe to escort them to where Wickham waits. I should prefer this business concluded with all possible efficiency.”
The past hour had crawled by with agonising slowness as they awaited the arrival of proper legal authority.
Wickham remained under guard in one of the estate’s smaller chambers, his earlier bravado having dissolved into sullen silence once he grasped the hopelessness of his position.
Elizabeth had spent the time in restless pacing, unable to settle to any activity whilst their nemesis remained within Pemberley’s walls.
“Will there be a trial?” she asked. “Public proceedings that might expose our private affairs to further scrutiny?”
“His confession of bribery and document forgery should expedite matters considerably. With such evidence, I doubt he will risk a public trial that would only confirm his guilt before a wider audience.” Darcy moved to stand beside her at the window, his presence providing comfort despite the gravity of their situation.
“More likely he will accept transportation or imprisonment in exchange for a quiet resolution.”
The constables had reached the house now, their authoritative bearing marking them as men accustomed to dealing with criminals of various stations. Elizabeth watched with mingled relief and apprehension as Morrison directed them toward the rear of the building where their prisoner awaited.
Within minutes, raised voices echoed through the corridors. Wickham’s protests grew increasingly shrill as he was formally charged with his crimes. His words carried clearly despite the distance, a litany of innocence and injured dignity that fooled no one present.
“This is preposterous! I am being persecuted by a man who bears me personal grudges! The child was never harmed in my care—this is all malicious exaggeration designed to ruin my character!”
“Your character required no assistance from others in achieving ruin,” came the dry reply from one of the constables. “Your own actions have provided quite sufficient evidence of your unfitness for civilised society.”
The sounds of struggle followed—furniture scraping against floors, heavy footsteps, and Wickham’s increasingly desperate attempts to talk his way free of consequences. Elizabeth pressed closer to the window, watching as the small procession emerged from the house with their prisoner between them.
Wickham’s appearance had deteriorated further during his brief captivity. His uniform hung askew, his hair dishevelled from whatever physical resistance he had attempted. Yet even in defeat, his eyes blazed with the resentment of a man who considered himself wronged rather than justly punished.
“You cannot transport a man for such trifling matters!” he called back toward the house, though whether addressing them or any listening servants remained unclear.
As the constables loaded Wickham into their waiting cart, Elizabeth felt a weight lift from her shoulders that she had not fully realised she carried.
For months, this man had haunted their lives—first as a threat to Ambrose’s security, then as the architect of their temporary loss, and finally as a symbol of everything that could still go wrong in their carefully constructed world.
Now he was simply a criminal facing justice, reduced from the status of nemesis to that of a common lawbreaker whose schemes had finally collapsed under their own dishonest weight.
She watched as the cart began its journey away from Pemberley, carrying with it the source of so much anguish and uncertainty.
Darcy’s arms came around her from behind, solid and warm and reassuring in ways she was only beginning to understand.
The security of his embrace finally allowed the emotions she had been holding in check to break free.
She turned within his arms, pressing her face against his chest as relief, gratitude, and something deeper flooded through her.
“I was so frightened,” she confessed against the fine wool of his coat. “Not just of losing Ambrose again, but of watching you destroyed by a man whose hatred seemed to know no bounds. I could not have borne seeing you broken by his malice.”
“Nor could I have endured watching him harm you or our son further.” His voice carried a roughness that spoke of his own suppressed fears. “These past months have taught me things about myself I never expected to learn—that my capacity to act in defence of those I love knows no limits.”
She lifted her head to study his face, noting the tenderness that softened his usually austere features.
“When I saw you stand in the court and advocate for Ambrose so passionately, when I watched you travel to consult solicitors and gather evidence to expose Wickham’s crimes regardless of the personal cost—I realised something that perhaps I should have understood long before. ”
“And what was that, my dear?”
“That I love you.” The words emerged with startling clarity, as though saying them aloud had made a truth she had been avoiding suddenly undeniable.
“Not with gratitude for your protection or admiration for your honour, though both remain strong. But with the deep, abiding affection of a woman for the man who has become essential to her happiness.”
The transformation in his expression was remarkable—surprise, joy, and something approaching wonder all warring for dominance in his eyes. “Elizabeth…”
“I know our marriage began as a matter of convenience and mutual benefit,” she continued with growing confidence.
“But somewhere in the midst of facing these trials together, it became something far more precious to me. You have become precious to me, beyond any practical considerations or external circumstances.”
Instead of replying with words, he cupped her face in his hands with infinite gentleness, his thumbs brushing away tears she had not realised were falling. “My beloved woman,” he murmured, “I have been waiting so long to hear those words from your lips.”
“Have you?” The possibility that her feelings might be returned with equal intensity made her pulse race with anticipation.
“I fell in love with you long before we spoke our vows,” he confessed with the honesty that had marked their relationship from its earliest days.
“Perhaps as early as that first morning at Netherfield when I watched you care for Ambrose with such natural maternal devotion. Certainly by the time I proposed, my motives were no longer purely practical.”
“Then why did you not tell me? Why allow me to believe our union was merely one of mutual convenience?”
His smile held self-deprecating humour. “Because I feared you would refuse me if you suspected my deeper feelings. You were already reluctant about my proposal based on what you perceived as my arrogant presumption. I dared not risk a strong refusal by revealing the extent of my attachment.”
“And I was so determined to maintain emotional distance that I nearly missed recognising my own heart,” she replied with a rueful look. “We are a pair of remarkable fools, are we not?”
“Perhaps. But we are fools who have somehow managed to build something beautiful from the most unpromising beginnings.” He drew her closer, until they stood pressed together in a way that was deserving of a husband and wife discovering the truth of their feelings.
“I love you, Elizabeth Darcy, with every fibre of my being. You are not merely my wife but my dearest companion, my fiercest ally, and the woman who has taught me that marriage can have duty and joy in equal measure.”
When his lips met hers this time, it was not with the tentative exploration of their picnic kiss but with the passion of a man claiming his beloved at last. Elizabeth responded with equal fervour, her arms tightening around his neck as she gave herself up to the intoxicating realisation that she was loved as deeply as she loved in return.
The kiss deepened, carrying them beyond the usual restraint that had characterised their relationship thus far, into territory that was both thrilling and terrifying in its intensity.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing unsteadily, their eyes holding promises of discoveries yet to be made.
“Papa! Mama!” Ambrose’s voice carried through the corridors, accompanied by the rapid patter of small feet racing toward the library. “Miss Francesca says the bad man has gone away forever! Is it true?”
They separated reluctantly, though Darcy’s hand lingered on Elizabeth’s waist as their son burst through the door with barely contained excitement.
The sight of his bright eyes and rosy cheeks—such a contrast to the pale, frightened child who had returned to them—provided the perfect reminder of what they had fought to preserve.
“It is quite true, my darling boy,” Elizabeth said, scooping him into her arms with fierce maternal joy. “The bad man will never trouble our family again.”
“Does that mean we can always stay together now?” Ambrose asked again with a directness that made adult evasions impossible. “No one will take me away again?”
“No one,” Darcy confirmed with quiet authority, his other hand coming to rest on his son with protective tenderness. “We are a family, Ambrose, bound together by love that no court or criminal can sever. Nothing will ever separate us again.”
As Elizabeth held their child whilst surrounded by her husband’s embrace, she felt the last shadows of uncertainty lift from her heart.
They had begun as strangers brought together by necessity, but they had emerged from their trials as something infinitely more precious—a true family, united not by law or convenience, but by bonds of affection that had been tested by fire and emerged stronger than ever.
The future stretched before them bright with promise, and she could hardly wait to discover what other happiness awaited them in the years to come.