Chapter Six
Less than an hour later, the knocker sounded. Mr. Darcy had arrived.
He entered the drawing room with his customary composure, though Elizabeth thought she detected relief in his expression when Mr. Gardiner informed him of Lydia’s decision.
“You have chosen wisely, Miss Lydia,” he said, addressing her directly. “I believe you shall not repent of it.”
Lydia could not meet his eyes, but she managed a small nod.
“Now,” Mr. Darcy said, turning to Mr. Bennet and Mr. Gardiner, “let us settle the necessary particulars.”
“May I be excused?” Lydia’s voice was small. “I find I am very tired.”
“Of course, my dear,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “Go rest.”
Lydia rose and left the room without looking at anyone, her shoulders hunched as though bearing a great weight.
When the door closed behind her, Mr. Darcy pulled several papers from his portfolio.
“I have drafted the necessary documents. Wickham shall sign an agreement relinquishing any claim to Miss Lydia or any child that may be born, foregoing any future contact with the Bennet family, and in exchange, acknowledging receipt of funds for passage and settlement in the Indies. I shall settle his debts with his creditors directly—they will be more amenable to dealing with me than with him.”
“How soon may this be done?” Mr. Bennet asked.
“I have already arranged for a meeting with Wickham tomorrow. He shall sign, or he shall find himself in the debtors’ prison before the week is out. The choice is his, but I do not think he will prove difficult once he understands there will be no better offer forthcoming.”
Mr. Gardiner nodded. “And his passage?”
“There is a ship sailing for the West Indies in ten days. I shall ensure he is aboard it.” Mr. Darcy’s manner left no room for doubt. “I shall also engage a man to watch him until the ship departs, lest he attempt to cause further mischief.”
They discussed the details—the exact sums, the timing, the story to be circulated about Lydia’s presence in London. Elizabeth listened, struck by the extent of Mr. Darcy’s foresight, the way he had anticipated every difficulty and prepared for it.
When the business matters were concluded, Mr. Darcy hesitated, then looked at Mrs. Gardiner.
“I wonder—when my sister comes to town, might I bring her to call upon you? She knows nothing of Miss Lydia’s situation, of course, but I believe she would benefit from the acquaintance of your family.
And Miss Elizabeth, if you remain in London? ”
“We would be honoured to receive Miss Darcy,” Mrs. Gardiner said warmly.
Mr. Darcy approached Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet?”
“I would be very glad to see her again,” Elizabeth said, trying to keep her voice steady, trying not to read too much into the request. Perhaps he simply wished Georgiana to have respectable female company. Perhaps it meant nothing beyond that.
But the way he looked at her suggested it might mean something more.
The next days unfolded with remarkable efficiency, though not without difficulty. On the third evening, Mr. Darcy called at Gracechurch Street to report on his meeting with Wickham.
They gathered in the drawing room—Mr. Bennet, the Gardiners, and Elizabeth. Elizabeth rose, suggesting the gentlemen would wish to speak privately, but Mr. Gardiner demurred.
“Elizabeth has as much right to know what transpired as any of us,” he said. “It concerns her sister, after all.”
Mr. Darcy hesitated, then nodded. He remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back.
“He was as I expected,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice tight with suppressed anger.
“He demanded twenty thousand pounds at first,” Mr. Darcy continued.
“When I refused, he affected great injury. Said I had always begrudged him his due, that my father would be ashamed of my parsimony. When that gained him nothing, he tried another tack—spoke of his great affection for Miss Lydia, how devoted he was to her, how cruel it would be to separate them.”
“The scoundrel,” Mr. Bennet muttered.
“I presented him with the writs,” Mr. Darcy said. “Laid them out one by one—every unpaid debt, every creditor ready to see him in Marshalsea. That silenced his protestations of affection rather quickly.”
There was a pause. Elizabeth could picture Mr. Darcy’s expression—cold, controlled fury.
“He called me a self-righteous prig,” Mr. Darcy said, his tone now almost detached.
“Said I had always hated him for being more charming, more beloved. That I was doing this out of spite, not charity. He said—” A longer pause.
“He said Miss Lydia was a foolish, silly girl not worth the trouble I was taking, and that I must have some other motive for interfering.”
Elizabeth’s hands clenched at her sides.
“I informed him,” Mr. Darcy continued, his voice harder now, “that he would sign the documents immediately or face the consequences. He attempted to bargain for better terms—asked for ten thousand, then eight, then five. When I would not yield, he grew abusive. Called her—” He stopped.
“Spoke of Miss Lydia in terms I will not repeat.”
“That blackguard,” Mr. Gardiner said quietly.
“In the end, he signed,” Mr. Darcy said. “With the worst grace imaginable, but he signed. He asked whether I was satisfied—whether ruining him gave me pleasure. I told him the pleasure would come when his ship sailed and England was rid of him.”
Another silence.
“He is now lodged in rooms I have arranged,” Mr. Darcy added. “A man watches the door day and night. His meals are plain, his movements restricted. He will remain there until he boards the ship for the West Indies, which sails in seven days.”
“You have my gratitude, sir,” Mr. Bennet said heavily. “I could not have managed him as you did.”
“He is a coward,” Mr. Darcy said flatly. “Like all bullies, he crumbles when faced with real consequences.”
Elizabeth had known Wickham was vile, but to hear the depths of his cruelty so plainly stated—and to know that Mr. Darcy had endured such abuse on her family’s behalf—left her shaken and grateful in equal measure.
Elizabeth could breathe more easily knowing he would soon be gone forever. After Mr. Darcy finished his account, there were a few more practical matters to discuss—the timing of Wickham’s departure, the arrangements for Lydia’s continued stay. When these were settled, he rose to take his leave.
“Before you go, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Gardiner said, “will you join Bennet and me for a glass of brandy in my study? I think we could all use it after such a conversation.”
Mr. Bennet stood with a grunt of agreement. “I’ll not refuse that offer.”
Mrs. Gardiner rose as well. “I should look in on the children,” she said. “Little Thomas was fretful at supper.”
The three men departed for the study, and Mrs. Gardiner followed them out, leaving Elizabeth alone in the drawing room. She heard their footsteps recede down the hall, then the sound of the study door closing.
The fire had burned low in the grate, and the room felt suddenly intimate in the quiet. Elizabeth stood watching the flames catch and grow.
It was perhaps a quarter of an hour before she heard footsteps returning. The study door opened, then closed again. More footsteps—but only one set, she realised. Coming toward the drawing room.
Mr. Darcy appeared in the doorway alone.
“Your father and Mr. Gardiner are enjoying their brandy,” he said quietly. “They insisted I need not linger on their account—but I find I am in no hurry to leave.”
They were alone, properly chaperoned by the open door and the knowledge that the others were just down the hall, but alone, nonetheless.
“I am glad,” she said, surprising herself with her boldness. “I wished—that is, I wanted to speak with you. After what you told us this evening.”
He stepped further into the room, though he maintained a proper distance. The firelight cast shadows across his face.
“I hope I did not distress you,” he said. “Speaking so plainly of Wickham’s—of what he said. I would have spared you the particulars if I could.”
“No,” Elizabeth said firmly, taking a step toward him. “I am glad I heard it. I would rather know the truth, however painful, than be kept in ignorance.” She paused. “You have borne so much on our behalf. The things he said to you—”
“Were the ravings of a desperate man,” Mr. Darcy said. “I have learned not to credit Wickham’s opinion of me.”
“But still.” She was closer now, close enough to see the weariness in his face, the tension he still carried in his shoulders. “You endured his abuse, his insults, all to protect my sister. To protect my family. I do not know how to express—”
“You need not thank me,” he said, his voice rougher now, quieter. “I would endure far worse than Wickham’s insults for—” He stopped abruptly.
Elizabeth was acutely aware of the quiet house around them, the soft hiss and pop of the fire, the way the shadows moved across his face.
“For?” she prompted, barely above a whisper.
He looked at her for a long moment. She saw recognition in his eyes. Understanding.
“For you,” he said finally.
The words settled between them, quiet and certain.
Elizabeth felt warmth spread through her chest. She wanted to tell him that she understood now what she had rejected at Hunsford, what she had been too blind and too proud to see.
They stood only a few feet apart now, close enough that she could see the slight quickening of his breath, the way his hands had tightened at his sides as though he wanted to reach for her but dared not.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Not just for what you have done, but for—for who you are.”
“Elizabeth,” he said, and his voice was almost reverent. “I—”
The sound of the study door opening down the hall made them both step back. Mr. Bennet’s voice carried toward them, saying the hour was growing late.
By the time her father and uncle appeared in the doorway, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy stood at a perfectly proper distance from one another.