Chapter 14 #2
"Her mother is Miss Catherine Dobson. She was the daughter of one of our housekeepers at Pemberley." His voice remained low, meant only for her ears. "Wickham seduced her when she was barely seventeen. Promised her marriage. Then abandoned her the moment she told him she was with child."
Elizabeth felt the world tilt beneath her.
"Of course, Wickham denied it totally, but I knew she wasn’t lying.
However, the shame was too much for her family to bear in Derbyshire.
Everyone knew who she was, knew her family.
The whispers would have destroyed what remained of her life.
" His jaw clenched. "I helped her leave. Arranged lodgings here in Bath where she could claim to be a widow. Most believe it. I provide for them because it is the least I can do. I didn’t do it for Wickham, but for his father who served mine faithfully for years, and because that child deserves to eat and be clothed regardless of how she came into this world. "
"But she called you Papa," Elizabeth whispered.
"Because I am the only male figure in her life who has shown her kindness.
She is five years old, Miss Elizabeth. Too young to understand the complexities of her situation.
" His voice softened. "If it brings her comfort to think of me as a father, I will not deny her that small solace.
When she is older, Catherine will explain.
But for now, I will not take even that from her. "
Elizabeth pressed her hand to her mouth, unable to speak.
Ahead, Mr. Bingley was calling to them, saying they should continue on before the afternoon grew too late.
Mr. Darcy offered Elizabeth his arm—proper, distant. She took it because to refuse would draw attention.
They walked on, maintaining appropriate appearances while Elizabeth's mind reeled.
After a few moments, when Jane and Mr. Bingley had pulled ahead once more, Elizabeth found her voice.
"Why did you not tell me this before?" she managed. "At your dinner yesterday, when I—why did you say nothing?"
"How was I to know you had met them?" His voice was carefully controlled.
"That you had drawn such conclusions? This is hardly a story one shares in casual conversation, Miss Elizabeth.
It involves the ruin of an innocent girl and the depravity of a man you have been led to believe is the victim of my cruelty. "
"Wickham," she breathed.
“Yes. All of this—everything concerning his true character, what he did to Catherine, what he attempted with my own sister…” Darcy’s voice trailed off, as though he could not bring himself to speak further.
“It is all contained in the letter I tried to give you in Kent.” His eyes met hers briefly before he looked away.
“The letter you refused to accept—or to read.”
Shame washed over Elizabeth in waves. "Your sister?"
"He attempted to seduce Georgiana last summer. She was fifteen years old." His voice was tight. "He nearly convinced her to elope with him—not for affection, but for her dowry of thirty thousand pounds."
Elizabeth stumbled slightly. Mr. Darcy's grip on her arm tightened, steadying her.
"I did not know," she whispered. "He told me you denied him a living. That you treated him with jealousy and spite."
"He was given three thousand pounds when my father died, in lieu of the living he claimed to want. He gambled it away within three years, then returned demanding more after running into debt. When I refused him, he swore he would see me ruined by any means within his power.” Mr. Darcy’s voice remained carefully composed, though a tightness lingered beneath it.
“I ought to have acted sooner. Ought to have exposed him and the falsehoods he continues to spread. Instead, I persisted in offering him grace.”
He held her gaze steadily. “Now it would seem he has succeeded—at least in your estimation.”
"I am so sorry." Elizabeth's voice broke. "I have been such a fool. I believed him so readily without—"
"You had no reason to trust me over him. I had given you every cause to think ill of me."
"That is no excuse for condemning you without hearing your defense." She looked up at him. "Can you ever forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive," he said quietly.
They walked a few more steps in silence. Then Mr. Darcy spoke again, his voice low.
"I have something for you. A book. When we reach your door, I will give it to you."
Elizabeth glanced at him questioningly.
"After you left that morning in Kent, I returned to retrieve the letter.
I could not bear to leave it there for anyone else to find.
" He paused. "I have tried many times to discard it.
Told myself it served no purpose, that you had made your feelings clear by refusing to read it.
But I found I could not. I have carried it with me ever since. "
"You have been carrying it all this time?" Elizabeth's voice was barely above a whisper.
“Yes. I thought—I intended to give it to you today, in fact. When you seemed distant at dinner last night, I feared you had not yet forgiven me, or that my former offences had returned to your mind. I realised that Wickham was a subject I had yet to make clear between us, and I believed enough time had passed that you might be willing to hear what I had written.” A faint, rueful smile touched his lips.
“I did not anticipate that events would overtake my careful plans.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a small, uneven flutter. The quiet sincerity of his words unsettled her; regret and confusion pressed against one another, leaving her uncertain what to feel than her stupidity.
"But you will still give it to me?" she managed to say when she caught herself.
“It is yours, Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “It has always been so. You may read it—or not—as you see fit. The letter is within the book.”
He hesitated, his expression turning grave. “With regard to what Wickham attempted with my sister, I must entreat your discretion. I would beg the favour of your silence on that particular subject.”
Elizabeth felt the weight of his request, and the trust implicit within it.
“You have it,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tumult in her heart. “I would not willingly expose your sister to further pain. What you have confided shall remain in confidence.”